Anarchistbanjo's World

Homo Sapiens by Stansilaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

II.

“Mikita, my dear brother!” “Yes, it’s me.” 

The two friends embraced warmly. Falk was deeply excited. 

He rushed about, rummaging through all sorts of things, asking incessantly: 

“Tell me—tell me, what do you want? Beer? Schnapps… Wait a moment—right! I have a splendid Tokay here—got it from Mother—you know, from Father’s time. He knew his way around these things.” 

“Come on, enough already. Sit down. Let me see you.” Finally, Falk calmed down. 

They gazed happily into each other’s eyes and clinked their glasses. 

“Magnificent! But man, you look awful. You’ve been writing a lot, haven’t you… Good heavens! Your last book—you know, it threw me into such a frenzy… no, it was incredible! I buy the book, start reading it on the street, stop in my tracks, the book grips me so much that I have to finish it right there on the street, and I go half-mad. You’re a real man!” 

Falk beamed. 

“That gives me immense, immense joy. You’ve always had such terrifying expectations of me. So you really liked it?” 

“Well, of course!” 

Mikita made a wide circle in the air with his hand. Falk laughed. 

“You’ve picked up a new gesture.” 

“Well, you know, speaking just doesn’t cut it anymore. All these unbelievably subtle things can only be expressed with gestures.” 

“Yes, you’re right.” 

“It’s the grand line, you see, the great sweep, the hot undercurrent—few understand it. So, I went to one of the greats in Paris, you know, the leader of the Naturalists, or whatever they call themselves… He’s making money! Sure, the rabble’s starting to buy that *cinquième élément* Napoleon discovered in Poland—mud with a few potato stalks on it. Before, it was the gingerbread dolls of His Apostolic Majesty’s court upholsterer—Raphael, wasn’t that his name? Now it’s the potato painters…” 

So I asked the leader why one would paint something that’s a thousand times better in nature and, in the end, has no meaning. 

“Oh, nonsense! Meaning! It’s nature, you see…” Yes, I understood. 

“Nature is meaning. But not the potato, surely?” 

Now the potato painter got wildly enthusiastic. 

“Yes, precisely the potato, that’s nature, everything else is rubbish! Imagination? Imagination? You know, imagination—laughable, a makeshift!” 

Both friends laughed heartily. Mikita paused to think. 

“But now they’ll see. Good Lord, my head’s bursting with ideas. If I had a thousand hands, I’d wave a thousand lines at you, then you’d understand me. You know, one forgets how to speak. I was with a sculptor—you’ll see his sketches at my place… I lay on my stomach before that man. I told him: that’s glorious! What? I described the thing. Oh, you mean this! And then he traced an unbelievably magnificent line in the air. That man got it… But good Lord, I’m talking till my mouth twists—how are you? Not great, huh?” 

“No, not great. I’ve endured a lot of torment lately. These thousand subtle feelings for which there are no sounds yet, these thousand moods that flare up in you so fleetingly and can’t be held onto.” 

Mikita interrupted him fiercely. 

“Yes, exactly, that’s it. You see, that sculptor, that splendid fellow—you know what he said? He said it magnificently: 

Look, here are the five fingers, you can see and touch them—and then he spread his fingers apart—but here, here, the space between the fingers, you can’t see it, you can’t touch it, and yet that’s the main thing.” 

“Yes, yes, that’s the main thing, but let’s leave art aside. Are you a bit jaded?” 

“Not that, but sometimes it gets a bit tedious. Not being able to enjoy life directly, always living with an eye to how to shape it, how to exploit it—and for what, really? It makes me sick to think that I’m barely capable of feeling pain or joy just as they are…” 

“You need to fall in love.” 

“Mikita, you? You’re saying that?” 

“Yes, yes. Love. That’s something that doesn’t become ideal, that can’t be felt indirectly. If there’s happiness, you could leap to the heavens without worrying about breaking your legs; if there’s pain, it gnaws at you so tangibly, you know, you can’t write it away, you can’t file it under perspectives…” 

Mikita smiled. “By the way, I’m engaged.” “You?! Engaged?!” 

“Yes, and I’m unbelievably happy.” 

Falk couldn’t get over his astonishment. “Well, to your fiancée’s health!” 

They emptied the bottle. 

“Look, Mikita, we’re staying together all day.” “Of course, naturally.” 

“You know, I’ve discovered a wonderful restaurant…” “No, brother, we’re going to my lady.” 

“Is she here, then?” 

“Yes, she’s here. In four weeks, we’re getting married. First, just one more exhibition in Munich so I can get the funds for a proper wedding, yes, a celebration like no painter’s studio has ever seen.” 

Falk resisted. 

“I was so looking forward to today, just today, being alone with you. Don’t you remember those glorious *heures de confidence* with our endless debates…” 

But Mikita insisted stubbornly on his plan. Isa was insanely curious about him. He had solemnly promised to present the wondrous creature that is Falk in the flesh. “No, it won’t do, we have to go to her.” 

Falk had to give in. 

On the way, Mikita spoke incessantly of his great happiness, gesticulating lively. 

“Yes, yes, it’s remarkable how such a feeling can stir you up. Everything turns upside down, it’s as if unimagined depths unlock. Ten worlds fit inside. And then, all the strange, unknown things that stir… Feelings so intangible they barely flash in your mind for a thousandth of a second. And yet you’re under the influence of this thing all day. And how nature appears to you! You know, at first, when she resisted—I lay like a dog at her door, in the middle of winter, in the most fabulous cold, I slept outside her room all night—and I forced her. But I suffered! Have you ever seen a screaming sky? No! Well, you know, I saw it scream. It was as if the sky opened into a thousand mouths and screamed color out into the world. The whole sky an infinite series of streaks; dark red, fading into black. Clotted blood… no! A puddle reflecting the sunset, and then a filthy yellow! Ugly, repulsive, but magnificent… God, yes, man! Then the happiness! I stretched and stretched—upward, so I could light my cigarette on the sun!” 

Falk burst out laughing. 

Mikita, who barely reached his shoulders! The marvelous fellow… “Isn’t it? Funny idea. Me reaching the sun! You know, when I was in Paris, the French turned to look at me. I had a friend, you see, and next to him, I looked like a giant.” 

They both laughed. 

Mikita warmly squeezed his hand. 

“You know, Erik, I don’t really know who I love more… You see, love for a woman, that’s something else, you want something, and in the end, don’t you? You love with a purpose… But now, you see, friendship—yes, you, Erik, that’s the intangible, the delicate, the thing between the fingers… And now, when you’re with a woman uninterruptedly for three months…”

Falk interrupted him. 

“You can’t imagine how much I’ve longed for you sometimes. Here among this scribbling rabble, there’s not a single person…” 

“I can imagine. Well, now let’s make the most of our time.” “Yes, we’ll always be together.” 

They arrived. 

“Look, Erik, she’s terribly excited to meet you. Just make yourself interesting, or you’ll embarrass me. Very interesting—you’re good at that, you devil!” 

They entered. 

A feeling came over Falk, as if he were surrounded by a vast, smooth mirror. 

Then it seemed to him that he had to recall something he’d seen or heard long ago. 

“Erik Falk,” Mikita introduced. 

She looked at him, became very embarrassed, then extended her hand warmly: 

“So it’s you.” 

Falk came alive. 

“Yes, it’s me. I don’t look *that* strange, do I? You must have expected some odd beast from Mikita’s description?” 

She smiled. 

Falk noticed something like a mysterious veil through which her strange smile shimmered. 

“I was quite jealous of you. Mikita talked about you the whole time. He probably only came to Berlin because of you.” 

Strange! The same veil in her eyes. A glimmer, as if from an intense light that had to break through heavy fog. What was it? 

They sat down. 

Falk looked at her. She looked at him too. Both smiled awkwardly. 

“Mikita said you always need cognac. I bought a whole bottle, but he’s already drunk half of it… How much should I pour you?” 

“Good Lord, enough!” 

“Well, I don’t know… You’re from Russia, aren’t you? They say it’s the custom there to drink cognac from liter glasses.” 

“She thinks,” Mikita explained, “that in Russia, bears come into houses to lick the scraps from the pots.” 

They all laughed. 

The conversation flowed back and forth. Mikita spoke incessantly, waving his hands. 

“You see, Erik, we love each other to the point of madness…”