Free Ferdydurke by Witold Gombrowicz

strength. Everyone yelled except for Syphon, who, with an air of self-assurance, pulled out his notes and books. The teacher looked at the class, straightened one of his cuffs, pursed his lips, then opened and closed them again. The students screamed. The teacher knit his brow and winced, checked his cuffs, drummed with his fingers, pondered something far away—pulled out his watch and placed it on his desk, sighed, again stifled something, or gulped, or maybe yawned and, having finally worked up enough energy, banged the attendance book on the desk and exploded:
    "That's enough! Calm down, will you! The lesson is about to begin."
    Whereupon the whole class, as one man (except for Syphon and his cohorts), voiced an urgent need to go to the bathroom.
    The teacher, popularly known as Ashface for his sickly and ashen complexion, smiled sourly.
    "That's enough!" he exclaimed mechanically. "So you want to be excused, do you? The soul hankers after paradise, eh? And why is it that nobody excuses me? Why do I have to stay put? Sit down, all of you, no one is excused, and I'm writing Kneadalski and Bobkowski into the class log, and if I hear so much as a peep from anyone, I'll call him to the blackboard!" Whereupon no fewer than seven students presented notes which said that, due to such and such an illness, they had not been able to do their homework. Four others claimed migraine headaches, one broke out in a rash, another threw himself into jerks and convulsions. "I see," said Ashface, "and why is it that no one writes a note for me saying that, for reasons beyond my control, I could not prepare the lesson? Why is it that I can't have convulsions? Why, I ask you, instead of having convulsions, do I have to sit here, day in and day out, Sundays excluded? Off with you, your notes are fake, your illnesses are fake, sit down, I know what you're up to!" But three of the most brazen and eloquent students approached the teacher's desk and proceeded to tell a funny story about the Jews and the birds. Ashface blocked his ears. "No, no," he moaned, "I can't stand this, have pity on me, stop tempting me, this is supposed to be a class, what would happen if the principal walked in on us."
    He trembled at the thought and, pale with fear, looked uneasily at the door.
    "And what if the school inspector should catch us? Gentlemen, I warn you, the inspector is visiting the school! That's right!... I warn you, gentlemen ... This is no time for foolishness!" he groaned with fear. "In the face of this higher authority, let's pull ourselves together.
    Well . . . hmm . . . which one of you has mastered the subject for today? Cut out this nonsense, this is no time for joking around! Come on, speak up. What?! Nobody knows anything? You'll be the ruin of me! Come on, maybe at least one of you, come on, my friends, come forward, don't hesitate ... Ahh, boys—Syphon Pylaszczkiewicz, you say? God bless you, Pylaszczkiewicz, I've always thought you an admirable fellow. Well, Pylaszczkiewicz, and what have you mastered? Konrad Wallenrod? Or Forefathers' Eve? Or maybe the general characteristics of romanticism? Tell me, Pylaszczkiewicz."
    But Syphon, the "lad" now well entrenched in him, stood up and answered:
    "I'm sorry, Professor, but I cannot. If you call on me when the school inspector is here, I'll answer to the best of my knowledge—but in the meantime I can't reveal what I have mastered, because by revealing it I would not be true to myself."
    "Syphon, you'll be our ruin," said the others, terror-stricken, "c'mon, speak up!"
    "Well, well, Pylaszczkiewicz," Ashface said in a conciliatory tone, "why don't you come out in the open, Pylaszczkiewicz? We're among friends, aren't we? Tell me the truth, Syphon Pylaszczkiewicz. Surely you don't mean to ruin the two of us, do you? If you don't want to speak openly, let me know somehow..."
    "Sorry, sir," replied Syphon, "but I can't do it because I'm above wheeling and dealing, and I am not about to betray my