Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
VII.
“No, no, my child, let it be said that all scholars are fools.”
Iltis sat among a group of young people, preaching his worldly wisdom.
Strange that he hadn’t yet brought up his forty-five years.
Falk couldn’t forget his cynical remark from yesterday. He’d been watching all evening for a chance to put Iltis in his place a bit.
“All of them! I don’t know a single sensible one. Look, this is typical of those professors. I was once with a geology lecturer who wanted to take measurements. But the compass needle wouldn’t settle.
‘Aha!’ says the clever lecturer, ‘I have a magnet in my pocket.’ ‘Fine, throw it away,’ I said. The magnet flew far away. But the needle was still restless. ‘You probably have a pocketknife on you?’ Yes, indeed, the clever man had a pocketknife. The pocketknife flew far away. But the needle was bewitched. ‘You’re probably standing on an iron ore layer,’ I ventured timidly. ‘Can’t you throw the layer away?’ No, the clever man couldn’t do that.
That’s how measurements are made, and of course, God knows what theories are built on the results.”
“But are you sure the iron ore was the cause?” Falk asked.
Iltis looked at him in surprise. “Of course!”
“Well, you know, causes are a tricky business. You can hardly ever name a cause without it being wrong. Can you, to touch on your favorite topic, give causes for the inferiority of women?”
“You just need to open a physiology textbook.”
“Breathing? Those proofs are simply ridiculous. Children of both sexes breathe with their stomachs until the age of ten, and so do all women who don’t wear corsets, like Chinese women and Yuma women. The costal breathing type is artificially induced, as you can see with the women of the Chickasaw Indians…”
“Those are claims by scholars, dear Falk, that say exactly the opposite.”
“Oh no, those claims are made by unbiased people, but the second proof, that women are on a lower developmental stage because they resemble children in form and proportions, is completely invalid. On the contrary, it speaks to women’s higher standing. The childlike type particularly shows the essential traits of the human species, whereas the male type, morphologically speaking, signifies a growth into senility.”
“That’s metaphysics, dear Erik. You’re far too much of a metaphysician.”
“Possibly. But the fact is, you only reached your conclusions through a confusion of morphological concepts of higher and lower development.”
Iltis looked at him blankly. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s not necessary.” Falk searched for Isa with his eyes. Why talk at all? If he came here, it wasn’t to discuss morphology. He wanted to dance…
“And let’s make peace, shall we?” Falk toasted Iltis amiably.
Someone began playing a waltz.
Falk approached Isa. She stood in the back of the large studio. She smiled at him. No! That smile couldn’t be analyzed, that absorbing smile, as if the half-darkness she stood in had smiled mysteriously.
“Do you dance, Fräulein?”
A streak of light flashed across her face. “Shall we dance?” Falk asked, trembling.
His blood surged to his head with a sudden jolt as he pressed her slender body to his.
He was caught in a whirl that pulled him down. He felt them merging, her becoming a part of him, and he spun around himself, with himself, into an endless intoxication.
He didn’t see her, for she was within him. And he drew into himself the rhythm and line and flow of her movements, feeling it all as a surging and ebbing in his soul, softer and stronger…
And then, suddenly: yes, a feeling of something infinitely smooth, cooling, a soft mirror surface. He felt her. She pressed her cheek to his.
A jubilation rose in him, and he held her tightly. She was his!
He forgot everything around him. The faces of those around blurred into a flesh-red streak, circling him like a ring of sun. He felt only himself and the woman who was his.
He didn’t hear the music; the music was in him, the whole world resounded and rejoiced in him and shrieked with hot desire, and he carried her through all the world, and he was grand and proud because he could carry her so.
Who was Isa, who was Mikita?
Only he, he alone was there, and she a piece of him that he held in his hands.
Exhausted, they collapsed onto a sofa.
It was loud around them. Excited, incoherent voices reached his ears, which he didn’t understand, and still he saw the flesh-red ring of sun circling him.
He recovered. The red mist faded; he saw long, narrow wisps of cigar smoke.
She lay half on the sofa, breathing heavily, her eyes closed. He gently took her hand. They sat alone; no one could observe them.
She returned his grip.
And they held each other’s hands tighter and tighter.
She was so close to him—closer—closer still; their heads almost touched.
She didn’t resist; he felt her surrender, felt her lay herself in his heart, in the warm blood-bed of his heart.
She suddenly pulled away.
“Mr. Falk, allow me to introduce the first German patron of the arts—” Schermer grinned maliciously—“the patron of German race, pure and true… Mr. Buchenzweig.”
Mr. Buchenzweig bowed deeply.
“Mr. Schermer introduces me with a bit too much aplomb into your esteemed company, but I may say I have a great interest in art.”
Mr. Buchenzweig sat down and paused.
He looked odd. Beardless, his face somewhat bloated, with browless eyes.
“Look, Mr. Falk, your book interested and delighted me to the highest degree.”
“That pleases me.”
“Do you know why?”
“Mr. Buchenzweig is immensely interested in art—” Schermer tried to hide his drunkenness.
“Is that so…”
Mr. Buchenzweig spoke melancholically, puffing out his lower lip. “Do you know why? After many disappointments, I’ve come to seek solace in art…” The Infant approached.
“Well, Mr. Falk, have you discovered another new genius?”
“Well, you don’t seem to have discovered yourself yet, or have you already been discovered?”
Isa grew restless. She listened distractedly. How did this come over her so suddenly? How could she let herself surrender to Falk like that… It was ridiculous to allow a stranger, whom she’d only met yesterday, to get so close. She felt shame and unease because she felt that this man was closer to her than she wanted to admit.
“You know, Mr. Buchenzweig,” Schermer mocked, “are you really the man interested in art—yes, you’re always talking about German art and other nonsense—so do something for German art! Yes, do something, lend a poor German artist, like me for example, two hundred marks. Yes, do that…”
Mr. Buchenzweig puffed out his lower lip and stuck his index fingers in his pockets. He seemed to have ignored everything and glanced at Isa.
How unpleasant that man was to her. But why doesn’t Mikita come; it’s already late.
“Do you even have two hundred marks?” Schermer laughed with open scorn. “How many marks does your million-mark fortune amount to…”
That the man wasn’t offended. Isa suddenly found the company repulsive.
Why doesn’t he come? What does he want from her again?
She felt tired. This constant jealousy… But he had only her, no one else. Of course, he won’t come. Now he’s sitting in his studio, tormenting himself, raging, pacing…
She perked up. Falk spoke with such an irritated tone.
“Leave me alone with this endless literary gossip! We have better things to do than argue over who holds first rank in German literature, Hauptmann or Sudermann.”
“Now, now,” the Infant was very indignant. “There’s a colossal difference between the two…”
“But it doesn’t occur to me to doubt that. I’m an admirer of Hauptmann myself. I particularly value his lyrical work. Have you read the prologue he wrote for the opening of the German Theater? No? It’s the most precious pearl of our contemporary poetry. Listen:
*And as we, the old ones, succeeded in this house,
We will hold the flag high
Above the market clamor of the street…*
“The best part you forgot,” Schermer mocked. “What’s it called? That bit with the ninety-nine onion pieces and the shimmer of the wonder-flame and that thing… oh, whatever—it’s a pearl, isn’t it…”
The Infant threw Schermer a contemptuous glance and spoke with meaningful emphasis:
“I don’t know, Mr. Falk, if that’s your earnestness or mockery, but consider what it takes to write *The Weavers*…”
Schermer interrupted him sharply.
“That doesn’t impress anymore. We’re used to revolts and killings—from the *Lokal-Anzeiger*.”
The Infant found it unpleasant to be in the company of a drunken man, whereupon he heard a slew of unflattering remarks. The group dispersed. Only Isa and Falk remained seated.
He suddenly felt her so foreign, so far away. He was very irritated. Of course, she’s sitting on pins and needles, waiting for Mikita. He felt a sharp pain.
“No, Mr. Falk, Mikita won’t come tonight,” she said suddenly.
“Stay a bit longer. He could come any moment.”
“No, no! He’s not coming. I have to go home now. I’m so tired. The company bores me. I don’t want to stay here any longer.”
“May I escort you?” “As you wish…”
Falk bit his lip. He saw her restless agitation. “Perhaps you don’t wish me to escort you?”
“No, no… yes, but—I have to go home now…”
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