Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
V.
He must not see her again. That was clear to him now. No! Never again.
Fear, painful fear rose within him.
What would happen? How could he stifle this compelling desire? In one hour, that woman had sunk deep roots into him. Her tendrils ensnared his soul. Tighter and tighter, the mesh of this root-network constricted. He clearly felt himself splitting into two people: one cool and clear, trying to control his will, while the other suddenly flung thoughts into his mind that destroyed the conscious self, burrowing deeper with a longing and desire that tossed him restlessly to and fro, unable to find peace.
What had happened?
Oh, you psychologists! Explain to me with all your psychophysical laws what has gone on in my soul? Please, explain it!
He sat up abruptly. What was wrong with Mikita?
Did he sense it, feel it coming? But nothing had happened… Why was he so taciturn today?
He must love her immensely. Suffering twitched around his mouth.
Yes, Mikita feels across distances; yes, Mikita sees the grass grow… The tone with which he asked him to escort Isa to Iltis’s today. He had so much to do, and Isa was so eager to go.
Why didn’t he take her himself?
Yes, he might come later… But couldn’t he postpone his business until tomorrow?
Falk stood up.
No! He won’t escort her. He must not see her again. Now he might still be able to forget her. She could still become a glorious experience, yes, an experience he could use literarily. Literarily! Falk laughed scornfully.
He’ll stay home and be literarily active. Ha, ha… He felt disgust.
This stupid, idiotic writing! Why isn’t he aristocratic enough not to prostitute his most personal, finest, most shameful feelings? Why does he throw it all before the masses? Those gentlemen who wander the heights of humanity, along with the “Ferschten.” Yes, the “Ferschten,” like those in *Fliegende Blätter*, half poodle, half ape, with rolled-up trousers… Disgusting!
No! Now he’ll decide. Yes! It’s settled. He’ll stay home.
The firm resolution felt good. He sat at his desk and began to read.
He read a page and understood nothing.
Then he looked up. He couldn’t help thinking of a servant in a Gogol novel who took pleasure in purely mechanical reading without understanding a single word.
He pulled himself together and read on. What was it about her movements?
It was no longer movement; it was language, the most perfect expression of his own highest artistic ideal—and her hand, her hand…
He started.
How could he forget that!
He had to write to Mikita that he was prevented from escorting Isa.
He sat down and wrote a pneumatic post card.
How nice it would be to send someone with the card! Now he had to run to the post himself!
He stepped onto the street. It urged him to go to her, to see her just once more, to brush against her presence—to breathe her just once more.
But he mustn’t. Surely he could still control himself?!
Yes, control! Control, just like one of his friends whose greatest desire was to see Rome. And he went to Rome, but a mile before Rome, he told himself that a man must be able to control himself, and turned back. When he returned home, he went mad.
Yes, it all comes from the ridiculous idea that you can control yourself, and especially that which is strongest in you, because it’s been there from eternity.
And he thought of Heine’s words—what was it? If I could control myself, it would be nice; if I couldn’t, it would be even nicer. Something like that.
But the cynical undertone embarrassed him. He felt as if he had sullied Isa.
Why? In what way should Isa be connected to this undertone?
And he walked, brooding over the secret associations that take place somewhere in the hidden depths and then suddenly enter the mind without any apparent connection.
Yes, seemingly unconnected. The treacherous unknown knows exactly what it links together.
It amused him to puzzle over this strange riddle. Of course, he was only doing it to keep other thoughts from surfacing—how beautiful was the narrowness of consciousness… But the thought of Mikita broke through.
He didn’t want to think of him.
It was as if he had a heart cramp each time. His blood pooled in his heart for moments. It hurt unspeakably.
Why should Mikita have rights over a person, exclusive rights, some kind of monopoly?
He suddenly felt ashamed, but clearly felt a hot surge of—yes, truly, it was a distinct feeling of hate—no—displeasure…
For Mikita’s sake, he mustn’t go! For Mikita’s sake?! He laughed scornfully. Erik Falk thinks himself irresistible! With some pre-established harmony, he must make every man a cuckold, every fiancée of another must fall for him with compelling force.
That was endlessly ridiculous!
If he could just say to himself: Don’t go, you’ll only fall in love where you can’t hope for reciprocation, since she…
He faltered.
He had such a ridiculously certain feeling that she was closer to him than to Mikita, he felt so clearly—yes, Mikita seemed to feel it too, that Isa…
No, no!
But one thing he could do with a clear conscience: be near her physically, just across the street—in the restaurant, there he’d sit and mechanically get drunk to make himself incapable of going to Isa.
Yes, that’s what he must do, what he will do.
He stopped in front of the house where Isa lived.
Now it was too late! Now he couldn’t notify Mikita in time.
What was he to do?
Good Lord, in the end, he’d have to go up.
His heart pounded fiercely as he climbed the stairs. He rang the bell.
Now he was badly startled. It felt as if the ringing would throw the whole house into uproar.
Flee! Flee! it screamed within him.
The door opened. Isa stood in the corridor.
He saw a hot joy light up in her eyes, spreading over her entire face.
She squeezed his hand warmly, very warmly. Was she trying to say something with that?
“You know that Mikita can only come later?” “Yes, he was at my place today.”
“Then you must escort me there. It’s not unpleasant for you, is it?”
“For you, I’d do anything!” It came out so brashly.
They both grew embarrassed. Yes, he had to stay vigilant not to lose himself again.
How did it happen so suddenly, without him being able to stop it?
They sat down, looked into each other’s eyes, and smiled. He sensed that she, too, was restless.
He forced himself to be cheerful. “So, how did you enjoy yesterday?” “It was a very interesting evening.”
“Iltis is a peculiar man, isn’t he?” She smiled.
“No, no; I mean it in all seriousness. I take the man absolutely seriously…”
Isa looked at him doubtfully. “Yes, Iltis is downright a dilettantish genius. He knows everything, has investigated everything, read everything. His mind works absolutely logically, but it reaches such odd conclusions that always ruin his entire work. Recently, for instance, he tormented himself with the problem of where to place children on the developmental scale. That naturally caused a lot of headaches. First: a comparison with women. All children are larvae of women, or rather, women are developmentally stunted children. Children and women have round shapes and delicate bones. Children and women can’t think logically and are unable to master their emotions with their minds
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