I stopped. … He, on seeing me, said to them:
“You’ll have to repeat it once more.”
And then, even though I had not yet understood anything, the chill of young lasciviousness blew from them. Depravity. They didn’t move—their young freshness was terribly cold.
Fryderyk walked up to me, all gallantry. “Oh! How are you, my dear Mr. Witold! (The greeting was unnecessary, we had parted only an hour ago.) “What do you say about this pantomime?” (and with a sweeping gesture he pointed in their direction). “Not a bad performance, what, ha, ha, ha!” (the laughter was also unnecessary—loud as it was). “Where there’s no fish, a crawfish is as good as fish! I don’t know if you are familiar with my weakness for directing? I was also an actor for a while, I don’t know if you are familiar with this detail of my biography?”
He took me under the arm and led me in a circle on the lawn, gesticulating in a theatrical manner. The others watched us without a word. “I have an idea … for a screenplay … a film screenplay … but some scenes are a bit risky, need work, one has to experiment with living material.
“That’s enough for today. You may get dressed.”
Not looking back at them, he led me away over the bridges, recounting loudly, with animation, his various ideas. In his opinion, the method, up to the present, for writing plays or screenplays “separate from the actor” was totally obsolete. One should begin with actors by “composing them together” in some manner, and building the theme of a play using these compositions. Because a play “should bring out only that which is already potentially inherent in the actors as living people who have their own range of possibilities.” An actor “should not personify an imaginary stage hero and pretend to be someone he is not—on the contrary, the stage persona should conform to him, be cut to his measure, like a garment.” “I’m trying,” he was saying and laughing, “to achieve something like this with those kids, I promised them a little gift, because it’s work, after all! Hey, you know, a man gets bored in this godforsaken countryside, one has to occupy oneself with something for the sake of health, if nothing else, Mr. Witold, for health! Of course I prefer not to make a show of it because—I don’t know—perhaps it’s too daring for a good fellow like Hipolit and his Mrs., I wouldn’t want to expose myself to gossip! …” He was talking thus, loudly, so it would resound, while I, walking beside him and looking at the ground, the burning conundrum of this discovery in my head, hardly listened. The slyboots! The schemer! The fox! He was turning out such marvels—he had contrived such fun and games! … And everything was hurling down into cynicism and perversity, while the fire of this depravity was now consuming me, and, plainly, I was writhing in the throes of envy! And the glowing lights of my red-hot imagination lit up their chilly licentiousness, innocently devilish—especially hers, hers—for it was astounding that the faithful fiancee would go into the bushes for such séances … in return for the promise of a “little gift.” …
“It’s really an interesting theatrical experiment, of course,” I responded, “yes, yes, an interesting experiment!” And I left him with all haste so that I could consider this further—because the depravity was surely not theirs alone and, as it turned out, Fryderyk had been managing things more successfully than I had thought—he was even able to get at them so directly! He was on his tack, ceaselessly. And this behind my back, on his own initiative! His pathetic rhetoric, which had unfolded with Vaclav upon Madame Amelia’s death, didn’t get in his way—he was in action—and the question was: how far had he gone on this road? And where would he still go? As far as he was concerned the problem of boundaries was becoming a burning issue—especially since he was pulling me along as well. I was scared. It was evening again—and with it the barely perceptible fading of light, the deepening and saturation of the darker hues, as well as the intensification of nooks and crannies that the night’s sauce was filling. The sun was already behind the trees. I remembered having left a book on the porch, so I went to get it. … In the book I found an envelope without an address and in it a piece of paper with a note scrawled in pencil:
I’m writing this in order to be in communication with you. I don’t want to be in this business totally alone, by myself, a lone player.
When one is alone one cannot have the certainty that, for instance, one hasn’t gone mad. When there are two people—it’s another matter. A twosome provides certainty, an objective guarantee. When there are two there’s no madness!
I’m not really afraid of this. Since I know I couldn’t go mad. Even if I wanted to. It’s impossible for me, Tm an antimadman. I want to secure myself against something else, possibly more serious, that is, I would say, against an Anomaly, a manifold increase of possibilities that comes about when man distances himself and goes off on the only possible, permissible road. … Do you understand? I don’t have time for a more precise statement. If I were making a trip from the earth to some other planet, or merely to the moon, I would still prefer to be with someone—just in case, so that my humanity could mirror itself in something.
I will write from time to time, to keep you up to date. This is strictly confidential—unofficial—a secret even between ourselves, that is, burn this piece of paper, do not discuss this with anyone, not even with me. As if nothing has happened. Why upset—someone else, or oneself? It’s best to avoid being demonstrative.
Actually it’s good that you saw what you saw on the island. Better that two rather than just one should have seen this. Yet devil take all my labor, instead of exciting them and bringing them together, they were as cold as actors. … It was just for my sake, at my bidding, if anything, they are exciting themselves with me, not with each other! What bad luck! What bad luck! You know how it is because you saw it. But never mind. In the end we will inflame them.
You saw it, but now it’s necessary that you should lure Vaclav. Let him see it! Tell him that: (1) while walking about, you happened to see their rendezvous on the island, (2) you consider it your duty to inform him, (3) they don’t know that you saw them. And tomorrow take him to the spectacle, the point is that he should see them and not see me, I’ll figure out everything in detail and write, you’ll receive my instructions. You must do it! It’s important! As early as tomorrow! He must know, he must see it!
Are you asking what my plan is? I have no plan. I walk the line of tensions, do you understand? I walk the line of excitements. Now I’m anxious to have him see it, and they should also know that they’ve been seen. We must lock them into the betrayal! Then we’ll see what comes next.
Please take care of this. Please do not write back. I will be leaving my letters at the wall, by the gate, under a brick. Please burn the letters.
And that other one, that No. 2, that Józek, what is to be done with him, how, in what combination should he be combined with them so that everything works out, works out, after all he’s perfect for the part, I’m racking my brains, I don’t know anything, but slowly we’ll sew it up, weave it together, let’s just go forward, onward! Please carry out everything exactly.
The letter seared me! I began walking with it in my room, finally I went out with it into the fields—where the sleepiness of the swelling earth greeted me, as did the outline of the hills with the vanishing sky in the background and the increasing pre-nightfall onrush of all things. The landscape, already perfectly familiar, was just what I knew I would encounter here—but the letter put me off balance and away from any landscapes, oh, the letter put me off balance, and I pondered what to do, what to do? What to do? Vaclav, Vaclav—on no account would I dream of doing this, it was well beyond what one does—and it is terrifying that the miasma of a preposterous lust was materializing into a fact, into a concrete fact that I had in my pocket, into a definite command. Had Fryderyk indeed gone mad? Was I necessary to him only so that his craziness could show its identity through me? This was indeed the last moment to break off with him—and I had before me a very simple solution. I could actually communicate with Vaclav an
d Hipolit … and already I saw myself talking to them: “Listen, this is an awkward matter. … I’m afraid that Fryderyk … is suffering from some mental problem. … I’ve been observing him for quite a while … well, after all those hellish experiences he’s not the first and he won’t be the last … but in any case we should pay attention to it, I think it’s a kind of mania, an erotic mania, and it’s actually directed toward Henia and Karol. …” That’s what I would say. Each of those words would be casting him outside the orbit of healthy people, making him a madman—and all this could be done behind his back, turning him into an object of our discreet care and discreet supervision. He wouldn’t know anything about it—and, being ignorant of it, he couldn’t defend himself—he would be demon turned madman, and that would be it. While I would recover my balance. It was still not too late. I hadn’t done anything yet that would embarrass me, the letter was the first embodiment of my cooperation with him… that’s why it lay so heavily on me. So I had to decide—and, while returning to the house, and while the trees were diffusing into blotches shrouded in vagueness whose only meaning was darkness, I carried my resolve to render him harmless and to cast him out into the realm of simple lunacy. But the brick by the gate appeared white—I looked—there was already a new letter waiting for me.
The earthworm! You knew! You understood it! You had surely sensed it at the time, just as I did!
Vaclav is the worm! They have united on top of the worm. They will unite on top of Vaclav. By trampling Vaclav.
They don’t want it with each other? They don’t? You’ll see that we will soon make a bed of Vaclav for them in which they will mate.
One must definitely stick Vaclav into this, he must (1) see it. T.b.c. To be continued.
I took the letter upstairs, to my room, which was where I read it. It was humiliating that its contents were so clear—as if I had written it to myself. Yes, Vaclav was to be the worm squashed by them jointly, to provide them the sin, to turn them into sinners, to cast them into the heat of the night. What was it, what was actually in the way, why DID THEY NOT WANT IT with each other? Oh, I knew—but I did not know—it was obvious yet elusive—it was as if they were youthfully escaping adult thinking … but in any case it was a kind of restraint, a kind of morality, a law, yes, an internal prohibition which they were obeying … so perhaps Fryderyk was not mistaken in thinking that when they trample Vaclav together, when they become depraved through Vaclav, this is precisely what will loosen them up! When they become lovers for Vaclav … they will become lovers for themselves. And for us, who are already too old, this is the only way of erotically coming closer to them. … Thrust them into this betrayal! When they find themselves in it together with us, there will be a mingling and unification! I understood that! And I also knew that sin will not spoil their beauty, on the contrary, their youth and freshness will be more powerful when they become black, pulled by our overripe hands into decay and united with us. Yes! I knew it! Enough of youth, merely meek and charming—this was about creating a different kind of youth, tragically permeated by us, the elders.
Enthusiasm. Wouldn’t this fill me with enthusiasm? Well of course, no doubt about it. I, who was past my time of beauty, excluded from the glittering web of charisma—uncharismatic myself, unable to win people’s hearts, uninteresting to nature … ha, I was still able to experience delight, yet I knew that my delight would never again be delightful … and so I was participating in life like a beaten dog, a mangy dog. … However, when at my age arises a chance of brushing against florescence, of entering into youth, even at the risk of depravity, and when it turns out that ugliness can be utilized, soaked up by beauty … It’s a temptation that annihilates resistance, becomes utterly irresistible! Enthusiasm, yes, even a strangling passion—but on the other hand … And yet! Of course! But no! This is too crazy! It’s not done! It’s too much my own—too private and individual—and without precedent! And to enter on this demonic, separate road, with him, with a being that scared me since I sensed it as extreme, I knew it would take me too far!
And, was I, like Mephistopheles, to destroy Vaclav’s love? No, oh, infamous and stupid fantasy! It’s not my way! Not for the world! What then? Back out, go to Hipolit, to Vaclav, make a clinical case of it, transform the devil into a madman, hell into a hospital … and I was on the verge of taking a tight hold, with forceps, of the lasciviousness that was prowling about. Prowling? But where? What is he doing at this very moment? The fact that at this moment he is doing something—something I don’t know about—brought me to my feet like a spring, I went outside, dogs surrounded me—no one about, only the house from which I had just emerged came into being in front of me and stood next to me, like an object. The kitchen windows were lit. Siemian’s window (I had forgotten about him) was on the second floor. I was in front of the house, suddenly pierced by the distance of the starlit firmament and lost among trees. I vacillated, I swayed, farther on there was a gate, a brick nearby, I went to it, I went as if carrying out my duty, and when I was near it, I looked around … to see if he was lurking somewhere in the bushes. Under the brick—a new letter. What a writing spree!
Do you have a good, clear understanding?
I have already found out something
(1) A PUZZLE:whynotwitheachother? … What, hm?
Do you know?
I know. It would have been too BRIMFUL for them. Too
COMPLETE.
INCOMPLETENESS—FULLNESS, that’s the key!
Almighty God! You are the Fullness! But this is more beautiful than You, 0 Lord, and I hereby renounce You.
(2) PUZZLE: why are they clinging to us? Why are they flirting with us?
Because what they want between themselves is through us. Us. And also—through Vaclav. Through us, Mr. Witold, my dear man, us, us. They must, through us. That’s why they are courting us!
Have you ever seen anything like it? That they need us for this?
(3) Do you know what is so dangerous? That, in the fullness of my spiritual-intellectual development, Tm finding myself in hands that are lightweight, incomplete, only just growing up. 0 God! They are still growing! They will lightly, lightly, superficially lead me into something that I will have to totally exhaust intellectually and emotionally. They will present me a chalice, lightly-thoughtlessly, and I will have to drain it to the last drop. …
I always knew that something like this was awaiting me. lam Christ, stretched on a sixteen-year-old cross. Bye-bye! Till I see you on Golgotha. Bye-bye!
What a writing spree! I was again sitting by a lamp in my room upstairs: should I betray him? Denounce him? But in that case I would also have to betray and denounce myself!
Myself too!
This was not entirely his alone. It was mine too. But to make a fool of myself? To betray within me the only chance of entering, entering … into what? Into what? Into what?! What was it? They called me for supper from downstairs. When I found myself in the everyday arrangement that we had formed at the table, all matters surrounding us, the war and the Germans, the countryside and our troubles, returned and hit me … but they hit me as if from some remote place … and they were no longer my own.
Fryderyk was also sitting here, at his place—and he carried on at length, while eating cheese dumplings, about the situation at the front. And he turned to me several times, asking for my opinion.
X
Vaclav’s initiation went strictly according to plan. Nothing unforeseen complicated the initiation, its course was smooth and calm.
I said “I want to show you something.” I took him to the canal, to the appointed spot from which one could view the scene through a gap between the trees. At this spot in the canal the water was deep—this functioned as a necessary safeguard so he couldn’t force his way to the island and discover Fryderyk’s presence.
I showed him.
The scene that Fryderyk had devised in his honor was as follows: Karol under a tree, she just behind him, their heads raised high, watching someth
ing on a tree, perhaps a bird. He raised his hand. She raised her hand.
Their hands, high above their heads, intertwined “unintentionally.” And, upon intertwining, they yielded to a downward pull, fast and sudden. For a moment, lowering their heads, they watched their hands. Then, without warning, they fell, it wasn’t actually clear who toppled who, it seemed it was their hands that had toppled them.
They fell and for a moment, lay together, and then sprang quickly to their feet … again they stood, as if not knowing what to do. Slowly she walked away, he followed her, they disappeared behind the bushes.
A scene ingenious in its apparent simplicity. In this scene the simplicity of the union of hands suffered an unexpected shock—the fall to the ground—its naturalness went through an almost convulsive complication, a veering from the norm so sudden that for a second they were like marionettes in the throes of an elemental force. But this was only a moment, and their coming to their feet, their calm walking away made one guess that they were already used to it. … As if this was not happening for the first time. As if it was familiar to them.
The stench of the canal. Sultry dampness. Immobile frogs. It was five in the afternoon, the garden was weary. The heat.
“Why did you bring me here?”
He asked this as we were returning home.
I replied.