“I’ll accost one day! God willing, I shall!”
“For the moment they’re impregnated!” laughed Anti-Philidor. Flora Gente, who was sitting nearby, burst into laughter; the cosmic doctor of the two analyses cast her an sensuous look and left. Flora Gente, however, remained. She was sitting on a high stool and gazing at us with the creeping eyes of an utterly analyzed parrot and cow. Right away, at 8:40, we—Professor Philidor, the two medics, Associate Professor Lopatkin and I—began a conference together. As usual, Associate Professor Lopatkin held the pen. The conference took the following course.
ALL THREE DOCTORS OF LAW
In light of the preceding, we see no possibility of resolving the dispute by an affair of honor and we advise the Esteemed Professor to ignore the insult as coming from a person incapable of satisfying his honor.
PROF. PHILIDOR
Even if I ignore it, my wife is dying over there.
ASSOC. PROF. S. LOPATKIN
Your wife cannot be saved.
DR. PHILIDOR
Don’t say that, don’t say that! Yes, a slap on the cheek is the only medicine. But there is no cheek. There are no cheeks. There is no means for divine synthesis. There is no honor! There is no God! Yes, but there are cheeks! There is the cheek! God! Honor! Synthesis!
1.
I see that logical thinking fails you, Professor. Either cheeks exist or they do not.
PHILIDOR
You are forgetting, gentlemen, that there remain my two cheeks. His cheeks do not exist, but mine still do. We can still stake my two untouched cheeks. Gentlemen, if you care to grasp my idea—I cannot give him a slap on the cheek, but he can give me one—and whether I slap him or he slaps me, it makes no difference —there will still be a Cheek and there will be Synthesis!
“Of course! But how on earth can he be made to—to slap you on the cheek, Professor?! How can he be made to slap you on the cheek?! How can he be made to slap you on the cheek?!!”
“Gentlemen,” replied the brilliant thinker intently, “he has cheeks, but I have cheeks too. The principle here is a certain analogy and for that reason I will act less logically than analogically. Per analogiam is much more certain, for nature is governed by a certain analogy. If he is the king of Analysis, then I am the king of Synthesis, am I not? If he has cheeks, then I too have cheeks. If I have a wife, then he has a lover. If he has analyzed my wife, then I shall synthesize his lover, and in this manner I’ll force him to administer the slap on the cheek that he recoils from administering. In this way I will force him and provoke him into slapping me on the cheek—since I cannot slap him on the cheek.”—And without further ado he beckoned to Flora Gente.
We fell silent. She came up, moving every part of her body: with one eye she squinted at me, with the other at the Professor; she bared her teeth at Stefan Lopatkin, thrust out her front toward Roklewski, while wiggling her rear in Poklewski’s direction. The impact was such that the associate professor said quietly:
“Professor, are you really going to apply your higher synthesis to these fifty separate parts? To this soulless, mercenary combination of cube roots (bs + sb) raised to some power?”
But the universal Synthetologist was such that he never lost hope. He invited her to sit down at his table, poured her a glass of Cinzano, and to begin with, to test the waters, he said synthetically:
“Soul, soul.”
She responded with something similar, but not the same; she responded with something that was a part.
“I myself,” said the Professor searchingly and insistently, trying to awake in her her ruined self. “I myself!”
She answered:
“Oh, you, all right, five zlotys.”
“Oneness!” cried Philidor vehemently. “Higher oneness! Oneness!”
“It’s all oneness to me,” she said indifferently, “old man or child.”
We gazed breathlessly at this infernal analyst of the night, whom Anti-Philidor had trained perfectly in his own way and may even have raised since childhood.
Nevertheless the Creator of Synthetic Studies persisted. There began a session of gruelling struggles and exertions. He read her the first two songs of King Spirit; for this she demanded ten zlotys. He had a long and inspired conversation with her about higher Love, the Love that gathers and unifies all, for which she took eleven zlotys. He read her two cliché-ridden novels by the best-known women writers on the topic of rebirth through Love, for which she charged a hundred and fifty zlotys and not a penny less. And when he tried to rouse a sense of dignity in her, she demanded no less than fifty-two zlotys.
“Eccentricities cost, my little gingerbread man,” she said. “For that there are no fixed rates.”
And, setting her blank owlish eyes in motion, she continued not to react as the prices rose and Anti-Philidor laughed up his sleeve about town at the hopelessness of these efforts and maneuvers ...
At a conference with Dr. Lopatkin and the three associate professors the eminent researcher reported his failure in the following words:
“It’s cost me several hundred zlotys in all, and I really do not see any possibility of synthesis; in vain I ventured the highest Unities, such as Humanity; she turns everything into money and gives one back the change. Humanity valued at forty-two ceases to be a Unity. It’s truly hard to know what should be done. And meanwhile my wife is losing what remains of her inner cohesion. Her leg is already setting off on walks around the room, and during naps—my wife’s, of course, not her leg’s—she has to hold onto it with her hands; but her hands refuse too; it’s a terrible anarchy, a terrible unruliness.”
T. POKLEWSKI, MD.
Anti-Philidor is spreading rumors that you are a disagreeable maniac, Professor.
ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR LOPATKIN
Would it not be possible to get through to her precisely by means of money? If she changes everything into money, then perhaps she could be approached precisely from the point of view of money? I’m sorry, I don’t have a clear picture of what I mean, but there is something of this kind in nature—for instance, I had a patient who suffered from bashfulness; I couldn’t treat her with boldness because she could not absorb boldness, but I gave her such a dose of bashfulness that she couldn’t stand it, and because she couldn’t she had to be bold, and she immediately became as bold as anything. The best method is per se, to turn the sleeve inside out, that is, within itself. Within itself. She should be synthetized with money, though I confess I don’t see how ...
PHILIDOR
Money, money ... But money is always a figure, a sum; it has nothing in common with Unity. In fact, only a penny is indivisible, but a penny in turn doesn’t make any kind of an impression. Unless ... unless ... gentlemen, what if she were given such a huge sum that she were dumbfounded?—dumbfounded? Gentlemen... what if she were dumbfounded?
We fell silent; Philidor leaped up, and his black beard shook. He sank into one of those hypomaniacal states that geniuses enter every seven years. He liquidated two apartment buildings and a suburban villa, and converted the resulting 850,000 zlotys into one-zloty coins. Poklewski looked on in amazement; a shallow country doctor, he was never able to fully understand genius; he could never fully understand and for this reason he really did not understand at all. And in the meantime the philosopher, already sure of what he was doing, sent an ironic invitation to Anti-Philidor, who, answering irony with irony, appeared punctually at nine-thirty in a private room at the Alkazar restaurant, where the deciding experiment was to take place. The scholars did not shake hands; the master of Analysis merely laughed drily and maliciously:
“Do your worst, sir, do your worst! My girl isn’t as eager to be put together as your wife was to be taken apart; in this regard I have no worries.”
And he too sank gradually into a hypomaniacal state. Dr. Poklewski held the pen, Lopatkin held the paper.
Professor Philidor set about things in such a way that he first put down on the table a single one-zloty coin. Gente did not react. He pu
t down a second coin—nothing; a third—nothing too; but at four zlotys she said:
“Aha, four zlotys.”
At five she yawned; at six she said indifferently:
“What’s this, old man, more sublimity?”
But it was only at ninety-seven that we noted the first manifestations of surprise, and at a hundred and fifteen her gaze, which till that point had been flitting between Dr. Poklewski, the Associate Professor and me, began to synthesize somewhat upon the money.
At one hundred thousand Philidor was wheezing, Anti-Philidor had become somewhat anxious, and the previously heterogeneous courtesan had acquired a certain concentration. As if riveted, she stared at the growing pile, which in fact was ceasing to be a pile; she tried to calculate it, but the calculation no longer came out. The sum was ceasing to be a sum and was becoming something unencompassable, something incomprehensible, something higher than a sum; it burst open the brain with its immensity, equal to the immensity of the Heavens. The patient was moaning dully. The Analyst leaped to the rescue, but the two doctors held him back with all their strength—it was to no avail that he advised her in a whisper to divide the whole into hundreds or five hundreds—for the whole could not be divided. When the triumphant archpriest of integrating knowledge had put down everything he had, and had sealed the pile, or rather the immensity, the mountain, the financial Mount Sinai, with one single indivisible penny, it was as if some god entered into the courtesan; she stood up and exhibited all the symptoms of synthesis—sobs, sighs, laughter, and pensiveness—and she said:
“I am the state. I myself. Something greater.”
Philidor gave a cry of triumph, and then Anti-Philidor with a cry of horror broke free from the doctors’ grip and struck Philidor in the face.
This blow was a thunderbolt—it was a lightning shaft of synthesis torn from analytical innards; darkness was loosed. The associate professor and the medics offered heartfelt congratulations to the profoundly dishonored Professor, while his bitter enemy writhed in the corner and howled in torment. But once set in motion, the course of honor could not be stopped by any howling, for the matter, until now not one of honor, had entered on the customary honorable course.
Full Professor G. L. Philidor of Leyden appointed two seconds in the persons of Associate Professor Lopatkin and myself; Full Professor P. T. Momsen, who bore the noble appellation of Anti-Philidor, appointed two seconds in the persons of the two assistant professors; Philidor’s seconds symbolically accosted Anti-Philidor’s seconds, who in turn symbolically accosted Philidor’s seconds. And with each of these honorable steps there was an increase of synthesis. The Colomban twisted as if on burning coals, while the man of Leyden smiled and stroked his long beard in silence. Meanwhile, in the city hospital, the professor’s sick wife had begun to unify her parts; in a barely audible voice she asked for milk and the doctors took heart. Honor peeped out from behind the clouds and smiled sweetly at the people. The final combat was to take place on Tuesday, at seven sharp.
Dr. Roklewski was to hold the pen, Associate Professor Lopatkin the pistols. Poklewski was to hold the paper, and I the overcoats. The steadfast warrior under the sign of Synthesis entertained no doubts at all. I remember his words the morning before:
“Son,” he said, “he could just as easily perish as I, but whoever perishes, my spirit will always be victorious, for it is not a matter of death itself, but of the quality of death, and the quality of death will be synthetic. If he should fall, with his death he will pay homage to Synthesis; if he kills me, he will kill me in a synthetic manner. And thus victory will be mine beyond the grave.”
And in his elation, wishing to celebrate the moment of glory the more appropriately, he invited both the ladies, that is, his wife and Flora, to watch from the sidelines in the capacity of ordinary spectators. But I was oppressed by forebodings. I was afraid—what was it I was afraid of ? I myself did not know; all night long I was tormented by my not knowing and it was only at the appointed place that I understood what I was afraid of. The daybreak was dry and bright, like a picture. The mental adversaries stood opposite one another. Philidor bowed to Anti-Philidor, and Anti-Philidor bowed to Philidor. And it was then I realized what I was afraid of. It was the symmetry—the situation was symmetrical, and in this lay its strength but also its weakness.
For the situation was such that every movement of Philidor’s had to be matched by an analogous movement of Anti-Philidor’s, and Philidor had the initiative. If Philidor bowed then Anti-Philidor had to bow too. If Philidor fired, then Anti-Philidor also had to fire. And everything, let me emphasize again, had to take place on an axis drawn between the two opponents, an axis that was the axis of the situation. All very well! But what would happen if the other man were to break away to the side? If he were to jump aside? If he were to play a trick and somehow manage to evade the iron laws of symmetry and analogy? Who knew what excesses and acts of treachery could be concealed in Anti-Philidor’s cerebral head? My thoughts were in disarray when suddenly Professor Philidor raised his arm, took aim convergently straight at his opponent’s heart, and fired. He fired and missed. He missed. And then the Analyst raised his arm in turn and aimed at his opponent’s heart. We were already on the point of uttering a cry of victory. It already seemed that if the other man had fired synthetically at the heart, then this man too must fire at the heart. It seemed that there was simply no other way out, that there was no intellectual back door. But suddenly, in the blink of an eye, with a supreme effort, the Analyst let out a quiet squeak, yelped, dodged slightly, departed from the axis with the barrel of his pistol, and all at once shot to the side, and at what?—at the pinkie finger of Mrs. Philidor, who was standing nearby with Flora Gente. The shot was the height of mastery! The finger fell off. Mrs. Philidor raised her hand to her mouth in astonishment. And we, the seconds, for a moment lost control of ourselves and gave a cry of admiration.
And then a terrible thing happened. The Senior Professor of Synthesis could not withstand. Spellbound at the accuracy, the mastery, the symmetry, and stunned by our cry of admiration, he also dodged and also shot at Flora Gente’s pinkie finger and emitted a short, dry, guttural laugh. Gente raised her hand to her mouth; we gave a cry of admiration.
Then the Analyst fired again, taking off the other pinkie finger of the Professor’s wife, who raised her other hand to her mouth—we gave a cry of admiration—and a split second later a shot of Synthesis, delivered with unerring conviction from a distance of seventeen meters, took off Flora Gente’s analogous finger. Gente raised her hand to her mouth, and we gave a cry of admiration. And so it went on. The shooting match continued unremittingly, furious, brutal, and splendid as splendor itself, while fingers, ears, noses, and teeth fell like leaves from a tree shaken by a storm, and we seconds could barely keep up with the cries that the lightning marksmanship wrested from our mouths. Both the ladies were already divested of all natural appendages and protrusions and had not dropped dead for the simple reason that they too could not keep up, and besides, I think they also took their own pleasure in all this. But in the end the ammunition ran out. With his last shot the master of Colombo pierced the very top of Mrs. Philidor’s right lung, and the Master of Leyden in an instantaneous reply pierced Flora Gente’s right lung; we gave one more cry of admiration, and silence descended. Both torsos died and slumped to the ground; both sharpshooters looked at one another.
And what now? They looked at each other and neither really knew—what? What, in fact? There was no more ammunition. Besides, the corpses already lay on the ground. In fact there was nothing to do. It was nearly ten o’clock. In fact Analysis had won, but what of it? Nothing whatsoever. Synthesis could just as well have won and nothing would have come of it either. Philidor picked up a rock and threw it at a sparrow, but he missed and the sparrow flew away. The sun was beginning to swelter; Anti-Philidor picked up a clod of earth and threw it at a tree trunk—it hit. In the meantime a chicken had presented itself to Philidor; he threw and hit,
and the chicken ran away and hid in the bushes. The scholars stepped down from their stations and moved off—each in his own direction.
By evening Anti-Philidor was in Jeziorno, and Philidor in Wawer. The one was hunting crows by a haystack, the other had spotted an out-of-the-way lantern and was aiming at it from a distance of fifty paces.
And in this way they wandered around the world, taking aim at whatever they could with whatever they could. They sang songs and enjoyed breaking windows; they also liked to stand on balconies and spit on the hats of passersby, and things really got interesting when they managed to hit some fat gentlemen from the eastern provinces riding in a dorozhka. Philidor honed his talent until he could spit from the street on someone standing on a balcony. Anti-Philidor on the other hand could put out a candle by throwing a box of matches at the flame. Most of all they enjoyed hunting for frogs with a fowling piece or sparrows with a bow, or throwing scraps of paper and blades of grass into the water from a bridge. And their greatest pleasure was to buy a child’s balloon and chase after it through the fields and woods—tally ho!—waiting for it to burst with a pop as if struck by an invisible bullet.
And when someone from the scientific world mentioned their former eminent past, their mental battles, Analysis, Synthesis, and all their irrevocably lost glory, they would only reply dreamily:
“Yes, yes, I remember that duel ... the shooting was good!”
“But, Professor,” I cried—and with me Roklewski, who in the meantime had married and started a family on Krucza Street—“but Professor, you’re talking like a child!”