Free B005GEZ23A EBOK by Witold Gombrowicz Page A

will take care of itself. … Breaking the ice? But in what sense? And what was that “rest”? I knew, or rather, I suspected, that this was an attempt on the part of his boyishness to make contact with my maturity, and I knew from other sources that he was not averse to this, and that his hunger, his desire, made him approachable. … I went numb, sensing his hidden intention of drawing closer to me … as if his whole domain were to assault me. I don’t know if I’m making myself clear. The association of a man with a boy is generally based on technical matters, protection, cooperation, but, when it becomes more direct, its drastic aspect turns out to be very noticeable indeed. I sensed that this human being wanted to conquer me with his youth, and this was as if I, an adult, were to succumb to irrevocable discredit.
    But the word “youth” was not permissible to him—it was not proper for him to use it.
    We had climbed a hill, and an unchanging view of the land appeared, rounded off by hills and swollen with its own immobile undulation in the slanting light that swirled here and there under the clouds.
    “You’d better stay put here, with your parents. …” This sounded uncompromising because I spoke as his elder—and it actually allowed me to ask in the simplest way and as if continuing our dialogue: “Do you like Henia?”
    This most difficult question fell so easily, and he too replied without difficulty.
    “Of course I like her.”
    He said, pointing with his whip: “Do you see those bushes? They aren’t bushes, they’re the tops of trees in the ravine, in Lisiny, that connects with the Bodzechów forest. Sometimes there are gangs in there. …” He squinted at me, suggesting we were in collusion as to the meaning, and we continued on, passed a figurine of Christ, while I returned to the subject as if I had never left it. … A sudden calm, the cause of which I was not aware, allowed me to disregard the time that had elapsed.
    “But you’re not in love with her?”
    This was a much more risky question—it was reaching to the heart of the matter—it could, in its obstinacy, betray my dark exultation, mine and Fryderyk’s, which had began at their feet, at their feet, at their feet. … I felt as if I were touching a sleeping tiger. A groundless fear. “Naw … after all we’ve known each other since childhood! …” And this was said without a shadow of an arrière-pensee. … One might expect, however, that the recent event in front of the carriage house in which we had all been secret partners would make it somewhat difficult for him to answer.
    Not in the least! Apparently the other was for him something in the background—and so now, with me, he was disconnected from the other—and his “naw,” so drawn out, had the flavor of caprice and irresponsibility, even of roguery. He spat. By spitting he cast himself even more as a rogue, and all at once he laughed, his laughter was overpowering, as if itdeprived him of the possibility of a different reaction, and he squinted at me, with humor:
    “I’d rather make it with Madame Maria.”
    No! This could not be true! Madame Maria with her teary skinniness! So why did he say it? Was it because he had lifted the old hag’s skirt? But why did he lift her skirt? … what absurdity, what a tiresome riddle. Yet I knew (and this was one of the canons of my knowledge of people gained from reading literature), that there are human actions, apparently nonsensical, that a man finds necessary because in some manner they define him—to give a simple example, someone may be ready to commit a useless act of folly simply not to feel like a coward. And who, more than the young, need to define themselves? … I was therefore more than certain that most of the actions or pronouncements of this green youth who sat next to me, with reins and whip, were just such actions “committed on himself—one could even suppose that our, mine and Fryderyk’s, hidden yet