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OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“It can’t go on like this,” says Reinhold, quite indignant. But then he startles and suddenly looks utterly helpless: “The father—”

“No, no,” Schuh reassures him, “he won’t find out.” And he adds with a sly wink: “We know how to keep quiet, Reinhold.”

Reinhold nods briefly to him and slips into the next booth alley, following his friends.

“They’ll keep trampling on Viennese good nature,” remarks Schuh, “until even that gets fed up with it.”

Shadows fall over the Christmas market. “We must go,” Hermine urges, “we must fetch Ottane. It’s getting dusky.”

It’s getting dusky, and Max Heiland lays down his brush.

“I must stop,” he says, “the colors and forms are blurring for me.”

Now Ottane can release the inner tension that is always in her while the master paints. A gentle weariness softens her, and a sweet anxiety comes over her. It’s sweet and unsettling; the blood sings; now things all draw closer and envelop her with their twilight folds.

“Where can Hermine and Schuh be staying so long?” Ottane says quietly, so as not to tear the delicate fabric. “They’ve never been away this long.”

“They have it good,” a bitterness sounds in Heiland’s voice, “they can go off together whenever and wherever they want. Tell me, Ottane, is Schuh courting your sister?”

Before this question, Ottane is startled. She has never thought about it—Hermine and Schuh, no, that seems unlikely to her; Hermine has other things on her mind, goodness knows, love stories don’t suit Hermine at all, not to mention the father. But actually, she hasn’t given it any thought at all.

“I don’t know,” she says anxiously. “I don’t think he’d have any luck.”

“It’s luck enough,” says Heiland harshly, “always being able to be with the woman one loves.”

He looks up, and Ottane thinks he will now light a lamp. But Heiland doesn’t light a lamp; he paces the room, stops suddenly with a jerk in front of Ottane, who sits on the Turkish divan, as if he wants to say something. He says nothing and wanders on silently, and this silence is oppressive. He bumps his foot against a breastplate lying in the way. With a kick, he sends it clattering aside, and a great two-handed sword leaning against the wall crashes down with a thud over it.

Ottane pulls a shawl shivering over her bare shoulders.

Perhaps Heiland noticed, for he takes a beech log, throws it into the flames of the open fireplace, and stokes the glow. Lights dance; Heiland stands dark against the fire, staring into it, one arm propped against the mantelpiece.

“Yes, I’m finished with your picture,” he says, “it can’t get any better now; I can only ruin it.”

Why does he say that so reproachfully, almost angrily? Whom is he accusing? Yes, now he is done with the picture, and Ottane can’t help it that a tender regret seeps into her soul. She must say something. “Are you satisfied with your work?” she asks.

Heiland spins around. “Satisfied? No, not at all. There’s something veiled in you, something unresolved, which I couldn’t capture. A—what shall I call it—a hidden treasure. I know of it, but it’s like with many treasure hunters. One reaches out, and it sinks back many fathoms deeper.”

He throws himself into an armchair and covers his face with his hands. Between his fingers, he peers sharply at Ottane, watching what she will do next. The flickering lights of the fireplace play on her features, and Heiland sees how tormented, uncertain, and unsettled Ottane is by his words. An uncontrollable hunger for this fresh, blooming girl is in him, a longing for her possession; Max Heiland almost believes he has never before been possessed by such a desire. But he also knows that the means he usually employs to win women must be used with the utmost caution here. Naturally, the surest way to success is to show passion to awaken passion. This time, however, it’s not enough with mere pretense; it’s not a matter of reaching a mutual agreement in the belief of passion to justify everything. He knows he must dig deeper within himself, draw more from himself; this time, his seductive arts must, so to speak, be in earnest.

He watches Ottane through his fingers and sees her rise and approach him.

“What’s wrong with you, Master?”

He gives no answer. Should he groan now? Yes, he groans softly.

“What’s wrong with you, Master?” Ottane asks again and places her hand on his shoulder.

Then he suddenly grabs that hand and pulls it to himself. “Don’t you know? Can’t you grasp it? Now your picture is finished, and now you won’t come here anymore. I won’t wait anymore to hear your step on the stairs; you won’t sit over there anymore, and I won’t be able to cast another glance at your face after every brushstroke.”

“Yes, the picture is finished…” stammers Ottane, confused by the fervor that rushes over her.

“It’s finished; they will come to fetch it and carry it to the exhibition, and then the emptiness will be complete. An icy emptiness, Ottane! Strange women will come again and want to be painted. And I won’t be able to turn them all away. They will come and sit where you sat, they will flirt and laugh and coquetry, and a hatred will rise in me because it’s not you sitting there. A hatred against this hypocrisy, because you are the truth; a hatred against this unnaturalness, because you are pure like nature. And despite all truth and openness, still a riddle I haven’t unraveled, while the others act mysteriously, yet with them, it’s all just surface.”

Everything wavers in Ottane; supports collapse; she is swept into a whirlpool, carried away by a wild torrent.

Can it be ventured now? Has it come so far that it can be ventured?

Max Heiland suddenly stands up. “Go,” he says through clenched teeth, “go!” And then he is suddenly at her feet, his arms around her knees, pressing his face into her skirts.

Ottane is beside herself. “I beg you… I beg you… I beg you…” She can say nothing else but this trembling, helpless “I beg you.”

No, not a word now, only no word, nothing but erupting, unrestrained feeling—hurricane, whirlpool, abyss, chaos. Only thus is it possible to cloud Ottane’s clarity, to switch off her resistances, to disarm her self-defense, to numb her vigilance, insofar as there is still something like vigilance in her subconscious. But seized by the well-considered fervor itself, Max Heiland truly flares up; the cool skill fizzles out; he puts on the spectacle of one completely overtaken by the divine intoxication of love; he groans, he burrows in, he clings to Ottane’s knees.

Ottane stands pale and trembling; her soul already lies defenseless in his arms. Max Heiland is a farmer’s son. He has made his way in the city with the tenacious stubbornness of his lineage; he exploits his powerful position at the top with peasant cunning—women perhaps love precisely this strange mix of earthiness and slyness. But Max Heiland also retains the sharpness of a nature-bound peasant’s senses.

And amid all the roaring and crackling of this fireworks art of passion, he does not overlook a light, fleeting step on the stairs.

He pulls himself up, hurriedly creates space between himself and Ottane—not a moment too soon, for now someone, after a brief hint of knocking, opens the door quickly and confidently.

“Ah,” says Therese Dommeyr, “I suppose I’ve come at an inconvenient time? I’m interrupting an intimate twilight hour.”

“You’re not disturbing us at all,” Max Heiland’s voice is very calm and controlled, “my eyes hurt from painting. But we can light a lamp now.”

He fumbles for light and a match, pretends not to find them, mutters irritably, knocks over a vase. It’s about giving Ottane time to compose herself.

Finally, the master can no longer delay.

“Wait, I know where the lamp is,” says Therese mockingly.

“I’ve got it,” and now it becomes light.

Max Heiland has given Ottane time to compose herself, but not enough. He himself shows not the slightest sign, but Ottane still glows and trembles a little. One wouldn’t even need Therese’s keen eye to see that a spring storm has passed over this young soul.

“It seems to me,” says Therese, “our new Paris already knows whom to give the apple to.” Behind the sharply curled mockery shines a threat of a storm.

Heiland ignores the mockery and the threat. “Yes, the picture was finished today.” A weather incantation, yes, the picture is finished, and with that, it’s probably over with the eye-sparkling, thread-weaving, twilight hours, and all that.

Incidentally, fortunately, Hermine and Schuh return from their walk just now. Both fresh and reddened by the cold, Hermine as quiet as ever, Karl Schuh a bit conspicuously noisy. Hermine feels a bit guilty; no, they don’t want to step far into the atelier; they have snow on their soles, and it’s gotten so late—oh, and the picture is finished, yes, a very beautiful picture, very lifelike, strikingly lifelike, but it’s late, one must hurry to get home; the father scolds if one stays out so long.

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Homo Sapiens by Stansislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

Author’s Preface

Dedicated to the sculptor Gustav Vigeland

Due to various circumstances, I was compelled to tear apart what organically belongs together and to publish the three parts of *Homo Sapiens* separately. Thus, it came about that the first part appears last, but it is obvious that those who do not intend to misunderstand me from the outset will now read the *Homo Sapiens* novel series in its entirety and judge it as a whole, not as individual parts.

Chapter I.

Falk leapt up in a rage. What was it now? 

He didn’t want to be disturbed in his work, especially now, when he had finally resolved to start working again. 

Thank God! Not a friend. Just a postman. 

He meant to toss the card aside. It could wait. But then, suddenly: Mikita! A flush of heat surged through him. 

Mikita, my dear Mikita. 

He skimmed the card: “Be at home tomorrow afternoon. I’m back from Paris.” 

That was probably the most he’d written in ages, since that famous essay he’d indulged in years ago. 

Falk burst into hearty laughter. 

That marvelous essay! That he wasn’t expelled back then… New Year’s impressions, penned in the form of a New Year’s greeting in the most extravagant phrases; every sentence two pages long. 

And then—no, wasn’t that glorious? Old Fränkel… how he ranted! Well, the affair was dicey… 

Falk recalled how he’d persuaded Mikita to write an apology, in which a splendid pun ran as the underlying theme: What is permitted to a Schiller shouldn’t be permitted to a student? 

And then, the next day. They wrote the apology through the entire night, went to sleep in the early morning, and sent an excuse letter to Fränkel. 

Falk still couldn’t fathom how they got away with it. That splendid excuse: It was obvious that one couldn’t attend school after working all night on an apology. 

Twenty pages long… Now, though, he had to work. 

He sat back down, but the mood for work had vanished. He tried to force himself, fishing for thoughts, chewing on his pen, even scribbling a few lines that were utterly banal: no, it wouldn’t do. 

Another time, he’d surely have fallen into one of those familiar funereal moods that he had to drown in alcohol. This time, he was glad. 

He leaned back in his chair. 

Vividly, he saw the dreadful garret where they’d both lived during their final year at the gymnasium. Three windows in one wall, never to be opened lest the panes fly out. Every wall covered top to bottom with mold. And cold, God have mercy. 

How one early morning they awoke and looked around the room in astonishment: 

“Remarkably fresh air in here,” said Mikita. “Yes, remarkable.” 

And it was a wonder without bounds over this strange phenomenon. 

Yes, it became clear later. It was so cold that birds froze and fell from the sky. 

Falk stood up. Yes, those were his fondest memories. 

And that lanky fellow who always lent them books—what was his name again? 

He couldn’t recall the name for a long time. Then, at last: Longinus. 

A peculiar man. 

Falk thought back to how Mikita had secretly gained access to Longinus’s always-locked room and taken a book he wouldn’t lend. 

Suddenly, one Sunday—yes, there must have been fresh air in the room again… He woke up. A strange scene: Mikita in his shirt, key in hand, Longinus utterly outraged, trembling with rage. 

“Open the door!” Longinus hissed with theatrical pathos. “Put the book back, then I’ll open it for you.” 

Longinus, in a heroic pose, pacing back and forth, back and forth, in great cothurnus strides. 

“Open the door!” he roared hoarsely. “Put the book back!” 

Longinus was foaming. Suddenly, he approached Falk. 

“You’re a fine, educated man. You can’t tolerate my rights being infringed in any way.” 

Yes, Longinus always spoke in very refined and well-composed phrases. 

“Well, I’m sorry, Mikita has the key.” 

Now Longinus solemnly advanced to Mikita’s bed: “I deny you any form of education.” 

That was the gravest insult he’d ever uttered. 

“Open the door! I’ve been violated and yield the book to you.” God, how they laughed! And it was Sunday. They were supposed to be in church. They always skipped church. They were far too committed atheists. 

But it was risky. The fanatical religion teacher prowled about the church… 

Ha, ha, ha. 

Falk recalled how he once sat in church opposite his “flame”—yes, he sat on the catafalque, wanting to appear properly graceful and intriguing, and remained through the entire endless mass in a rather uncomfortable pose, one he’d seen in a depiction of Byron at Shelley’s grave. 

What a scandal that caused! 

Now he tried to muster himself for work again, but he couldn’t gather his thoughts. They all flitted and buzzed in his mind around that glorious time. 

He chewed absently on his pen and repeated: What a glorious time! 

How they’d suddenly discovered Ibsen, how *Brand* turned their heads. 

All or nothing! Yes, that became their motto. 

And they sought out the dives of the poor and gathered the proletarian children around them. 

Again, Falk saw himself in the garret. 

Five in the morning. A clatter of wooden clogs on the stairs, as if someone were dragging a cannon upstairs.  

Then the door opened, and in marched, single file: a boy, a girl—two boys—two girls, the whole room full. 

All around the stove, gathered at the large oak table. “Mikita, get up! I’m insanely tired.” Mikita cursed. 

He couldn’t get up. He’d worked all night on a Latin essay. 

With a jolt, they both sprang up, furious and full of hatred toward each other. 

The chattering of teeth in that cold! 

And now: he at the stove, puffing and cursing because the wood wouldn’t catch fire, Mikita at the large milk kettle, warming it with methylated spirits. 

Gradually, they softened. 

The children fell upon the milk and bread like young beasts of prey—Mikita, watching from the side, beaming, happy. 

And then: Children, out! 

Now they looked at each other amicably as usual. Falk felt a warmth around his heart. 

He’d long forgotten that. There was, God knows, a great, beautiful meaning in it. 

Then, usually, shame for catching themselves in sentimentality—no, they called it aesthetics—and, finally, a quarrel. 

“The *Nibelungenlied* is really just empty, foolish drivel.” Mikita knew Falk’s weak spots well. 

Of course, he wouldn’t admit that. He argued with incredible zeal and sliced the breakfast bread. 

Mikita was cunning. He always entangled Falk in a dispute and let him cut the bread, because Falk, in his fervor, never noticed how tedious it was. 

And suddenly: Good Lord, two minutes past time. Books snatched up and off to school in a frantic gallop. He in front, Mikita limping behind. Had he cured that bunion by now? 

Now Falk usually noticed he was hungry—Mikita had eaten all the bread, the splendid fellow.

Then… Falk faltered. 

*Brand* transposed onto the erotic. All or nothing… He faltered again. 

He had, in truth, destroyed Janina’s entire future. Hmm, why couldn’t she just let go of him? And how he had tormented her with *Brand*’s demands and *Brand*’s harshness. 

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OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 9

Ottane’s picture, which is to become Max Heiland’s masterpiece, still stands on the easel.

A layman might perhaps say that it is finished, but the master still finds something to improve; it is to be his masterpiece, and that must not be given up so carelessly.

“Any random lady from society can be painted down as fast as the hands can manage. There sits the model, and there is the canvas. Stroke, stroke, stroke—one only needs to paint what one sees. That’s mass-produced goods, what one gets before the brush. With you, it’s different, Ottane! You are unique in the world, Ottane!”

And: “You mustn’t grow impatient with me, Ottane! You pose the greatest challenge to my art. With you, Ottane, I must also paint what one cannot see—the soul.”

When Max Heiland says “Ottane,” it’s always like music; it flatters the ear like an Italian aria. And one becomes just a little dizzy in the head from it, and the heart beats a bit stronger too.

It also beats stronger when one enters Heiland’s atelier. Not only because it lies so heavenward under a glass roof in Spiegelgasse and one must climb many stairs, but perhaps also because it has, so to speak, something exciting about it. All painters like to surround themselves with beautiful, rare, and gleaming things; all would gladly elevate their outward existence into the extraordinary—if only they had the means. But few have them. Max Heiland, of course, need deny himself nothing; the women crowd to him to be painted, money plays no role—perhaps because he despises it. His atelier, therefore, is no bare hole like that of a colleague who paints animal pieces or still lifes, bought by petty bourgeois and officials, or who sits with his easel outside before the landscape.

When one enters Max Heiland’s studio, it’s as if one steps into the splendid chamber of a Venetian noble. Persian carpets and animal pelts, Italian glassware, weapons, armors, embroideries on the walls, church vestments thrown over inlaid chairs and Turkish divans, carved cabinets and chests stand about. Vases of man-height, in which dry grasses, thistles, peacock feathers, and artificial flowers are united into bouquets. East and West seem to have poured their treasures over the master; the past and the new age have heaped their precious items here. And amid all this clutter, absorbed by him, sprayed over it, is the scent of women, of many women who were here, some of whom were shameless enough to offer their naked bodies to the painter. Art, they say, art is the justification for that, but Ottane couldn’t bring herself to do it, no, she would be incapable of it.

Now no other women come here except Ottane. Max Heiland says so at least; he has had a barrier put up at the entrance, he turns everyone away to concentrate all his energy on Ottane’s picture. Only Hermine comes with her to the sessions; she doesn’t pay, she is the chaperone, as Heiland calls her; she doesn’t disturb much, for most of the time Karl Schuh comes along. Then they stand by the window or sit in a corner, behind a brocade curtain, and speak quietly with each other.

And sometimes Therese Dommeyr also sweeps in. She certainly disturbs a bit more; she laughs a lot, peeks curiously into every corner, lifts all the cloths as if she is looking for someone hidden underneath, throws herself onto a divan, and drinks a sweet liqueur that Heiland pours for her from a cut-glass carafe. But she seems to have a kind of house right here, which she exercises without hesitation; there’s nothing to be done about it, even if it’s sometimes annoying. The master himself occasionally grows impatient when she behaves so unruly and expressive, as if to suggest that the others were merely tolerated by her and as if she were the main figure. He frowns, becomes taciturn, whistles between his teeth, and deliberately overlooks her.

But she pays little heed to that, continues to laugh, and finds it immensely entertaining to watch the master paint. Her quick little eyes dart between the model and the painting, she praises both, the original and the copy, but sometimes, when Ottane unexpectedly casts a glance at her, she has the impression that a hostile malice darkens in those eyes. And if only she would at least stop her often rather embarrassing jokes. What, for example, is the meaning of her saying one day: “So, Maxi, that would have been a fine embarrassment for you if you had to give one of us a golden apple as a new Paris. I think you’d know even less than he what to do with it.” Isn’t that really malicious, to ask such questions? The master looks very annoyed and clearly doesn’t know what to say.

It’s only a stroke of luck that Karl Schuh is there; he has such a bright, cheerful voice and calls from the window: “Well, we’ve had an Athena, but a Juno is still missing us, and for that we have Venus twice!” With that, he makes his cheekiest rogue face, winks with his eye, and dangles his legs like a street urchin while sitting on the windowsill. Then everyone laughs, and the mythological embarrassment is over.

Overall, though—aside from Therese Dommeyr, as mentioned—these are the most beautiful hours Ottane has ever lived. She has nothing to do but sit quietly and chat with Max Heiland. He questions her about everything—her youth in Blansko, Reinhold, her father—and then he holds up his own grand life against her small, confined one, telling stories from Rome, Paris, Naples, Venice. He has been everywhere; he truly knows the whole world; he mentions the names of crowned heads, prominent figures, as if they were as familiar to him as the grocer downstairs in the neighboring house.

But it’s most beautiful when they are completely alone, for Karl Schuh thinks it’s by no means necessary for Hermine and he to sit up here the whole time; they could just as well go for a walk in the meantime; he finds that Hermine’s face has a pallor from staying indoors; he finds that exercise could only be beneficial for her. Even today, he persuaded her after a bit of coaxing to leave Ottane and the master with his art alone and go out with him onto the street.

It is the week before Christmas; much snow has fallen in the last few days, and narrow paths have had to be shoveled, narrow paths between towering snow walls. If one doesn’t want to walk single file, one must press close together. The clear, calm cold colors Hermine’s face red, which only now reveals how pretty she really is with her beautifully arched brows and the wonder of her eyes beneath them.

Schuh also keeps talking nonstop; he has a lot to report. He has given up Daguerreotypy now—a good business, but in the long run boring, always bringing the faces of indifferent people onto the plate; besides, there are now quite a few people in Vienna doing the same and making a living from it. Now Schuh has turned to galvanoplasty, a new process that utilizes electricity to produce small metal art objects.

At the “Hof,” the Christmas market is set up. Booths are lined up into alleys, filled with apples and nuts, toys for children—jumping jacks, dolls, nutcrackers, balls—a world of colorful things. Heavily wrapped women sit in the booths and at the stalls, warming pans between their legs, red noses frozen under watchful little eyes.

“Look at the children,” says Schuh, “isn’t that adorable?”

Children swarm around in groups, led by their mothers, crowding before the mountains of fruit and toys; but there are also many among them who are alone with their longing and their pitiful, daring Christmas hope. A tiny tot in a thin little coat stands before a mountain of apples, a mix of red, golden yellow, and wine green, his gaze unable to move away—hungry, captive looks.

Karl Schuh buys a few apples, a handful of nuts, stuffs everything into the tot’s pocket: “There you go! Run!”

The tot stares, doesn’t understand, looks at the strange man, and then suddenly sets off at a trot—the strange man might change his mind.

“Don’t you love children?” asks Schuh. “I think it would be so nice to have children of my own. As a child, things didn’t go well for me; I always wished a strange man would come and stuff apples into my pocket. I thought, perhaps the dear God might once walk the market in disguise and stop by me, giving me a jumping jack or a sheep made of red sugar.” Oh yes, Hermine probably loved children too, but in her heart something is buried, something living is entombed there; it dares not emerge, it doesn’t even venture to stir, for fear of sinking even deeper.

Otherwise, though, Schuh is very absorbed with his galvanoplasty. He begins talking about it again and again, then interrupts himself, laughing, shows Hermine a group, a whole regiment of little Krampuses with small wooden ladders and hats made of black paper, and then returns to galvanoplasty.

As they are now pressed even closer together by the crowd, he gently slips his hand into Hermine’s muff, where it’s warm and cozy, and tries to grasp her hand. But then Hermine pulls her fingers away; she makes a small turn, taking the muff with her and depriving Schuh’s hand of its shelter.

Athena! thinks Schuh, disappointed, always only Pallas Athena—cool, chaste, devoted only to science—her soul locked, surrounded by thick walls through which no heartbeat from next door can be heard.

A group of young people pushes past, students; they force their way ruthlessly through the crowd; the bustle of the Christmas market is merely an obstacle on their path—no, they aren’t here for the children’s toys; their expressions are full of bitterness, their gestures speak of rebellion.

“Reinhold!” calls Hermine.

Yes, Reinhold is among them; he heard his sister, detaches himself from the group, and approaches the two hesitantly and embarrassedly.

“What’s wrong with them?” asks Schuh, looking after the students. “What’s gotten under their skin?”

Reinhold pulls them into a narrow side alley between the booths. “We want,” he whispers, “to go to Haidvogel’s inn in Schlossergäßchen. The police are said to have disbanded the Ludlamshöhle.”

“The Ludlamshöhle,” says Schuh, “that’s that society of writers and actors… what does it have to do with politics?”

“Nothing, not the slightest bit. That’s just it. But the police found a poster saying: ‘This time Saturday is on a Sunday!’ Because this time the meeting is on Sunday instead of Saturday.”

“Oh dear, and the police can’t figure that out,” laughs Schuh. “And so it’s suspicious.”

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