Free Ferdydurke by Witold Gombrowicz Page A

principles, nor to betray myself."
    And he sat down.
    "Tut, tut," mumbled the teacher, "these are honorable sentiments, Pylaszczkiewicz, and much to your credit. And don't take all this to heart, I was just making a private joke of it. Yes, of course, one should always remain incorruptible, so, what do we have for today?" he said sternly and checked his worksheet. "Ah, yes! Elucidate and explain to the students why Slowacki inspires our love and admiration? Well then, gentlemen, I'll recite for you my lesson, and then in your turn you'll recite yours. Quiet!" he yelled, and they all sprawled themselves on their desk tops, resting their heads on their arms, while Ashface inconspicuously opened the appropriate textbook, tightened his lips, sighed, stifled something within himself, and began his recitation:
    "Hmm... hmm ... Well then, why does Slowacki inspire our love and admiration? Why do we weep with the poet when we hear the Aeolian strings of his poem In Switzerland? Or, why are we swept away when we hear the heroic and stalwart verses of the Spirit King? And why can't we tear ourselves from the wonders and magic of Balladyna, why do the wails of Lilla Weneda tearour hearts to pieces? And why are we so willing to rush and speed to the rescue of the hapless king? Hmm . . . why? Because, gentlemen, Siowacki—oh, what a great poet he was! Walkiewicz! Why? Repeat why, Walkiewicz. Why the admiration and love, why do we cry, why the rapture, why the heartbreak, why do we rush and speed? Why, Walkiewicz, why?"
    It seemed to me I heard Pimko all over again, but a Pimko on a more modest salary and lacking the wider horizons.
    "Because Slowacki—oh, what a great poet he was!" Walkiewicz repeated, while other students carved their desk tops with pocket knives or made tiny paper balls, the tiniest they could make, and pitched them into their inkwells. They pretended these were fish in make-believe ponds, and, using their hair as fishing lines, they tried to catch the fish but, alas, the paper would not bite. So instead they tickled their noses with the hair, and they signed their names in their notebooks over and over again, with or without curlicues, while one of them practiced his penmanship all over the page: "Why, w-h-y, w-h-y, Slo-wac-ki, Slo-wac-ki, Slo-wac-ki, wac-ki, wac-ki, Wa-cek, Wa-cek-Slo-wac-ki and a f-l-y and a f-l-e-a." They all looked miserable. What happened to the fervor, to the disputes and discussions of just a few moments ago? Only a few fortunate ones seemed to have forgotten the world around them as they immersed themselves in E. Wallace's writings. Even Syphon had to exert all the strength of his character to keep his principles of self-discipline and self-amelioration intact, but he could do it only because, for him, distress was a source of bliss and a measure of the strength of his character. Whereas the others cupped their hands into hollows and hillocks and blew air through them, Russian-style: hey, hey, hillocks and hollows, hillocks and hollows . . . The teacher sighed, stifled something within himself, looked at his watch, and continued:
    "A great poet! Remember that, it's important! And why do we love him? Because he was a great poet. A great poet he was indeed! You laggards, you ignoramuses, I'm trying to be calm and collected as I tell you this, get it into your thick heads—so, I repeat once more, gentlemen: a great poet, Juliusz Slowacki, a great poet, we love Juliusz Slowacki and admire his poetry because he was a great poet. Please make note of the following homework assignment: 'What is the immortal beauty which abides in the poetry of Juliusz Slowacki and evokes our admiration?' "
    At this point one of the students fidgeted and groaned:
    "But I don't admire it at all! Not at all! It doesn't interest me in the least! I read two verses—and I'm already bored. God help me, how am I supposed to admire it when I don't admire it?" His eyes popped, and he sat down, thus sinking into a bottomless