Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
XV.
Falk sat in his hotel room, brooding.
Why had he even come here? He could just as well have tormented himself in Berlin.
It must be six days now?
He reflected. Yes, he’d been here six days.
But now he couldn’t take it anymore. No, impossible. Yes, he had to state, without any self-pity, simply as a bare fact, that he couldn’t endure this torment any longer. He would surely go to ruin. Every day, something in him broke that was whole yesterday, every day his disgust for life grew—and this pain…
To go to ruin over a woman? He, the artist, he… Ha, ha, ha… As if it weren’t better to go to ruin over a woman than over some idiotic stroke, or typhoid, or diphtheria…
Oh, you foolish Iltis! How shallow you are! At least I go to ruin over myself; I go to ruin over what makes up my innermost soul’s structure. And she, yes, she: that’s me, me, whom you’ve never seen, whom I only now recognized in myself.
He couldn’t finish the thought…
Go to ruin over your drunkenness or persecution mania if you think that’s more worthy of a man—I go to ruin over myself…
But why the devil go to ruin? I want to be happy—I want to live…
He suddenly lost the thread of thought. His mind had been so scattered lately.
He sat and sat, noticing he was completely numb. He forced himself to think.
Hmm; he’d never done anything without controlling himself. Yes, the first two days, he still had himself in hand. He worked on her with conscious means…
Good God! That ridiculous swan story! How stupidly made up, how clumsy… brash, yes, brash…
And then came the vortex, the whirl… His brain began to spin around itself, circling faster and faster into the abyssal funnel of sexuality…
The dance—the dance…
He suddenly saw a spiderweb in the corner. He stared at it long and intently, but his eyes closed.
Yes, he was tired, terribly tired, he felt a tearing in his limbs… Yes, three—no, four hours he’d walked, to kill the pain with exhaustion, to sleep without that wretched poison, that morphine…
Now he had to fix his eyes on a shiny object. He stared at the brass doorknob for a while.
He only felt tears running down his cheeks…
It was a glorious autumn day. Bright, clear noon. He looked at the tall tower of the Redeemer Church in Copenhagen. Mikita stood beside him, waving his handkerchief.
Farvel! Farvel! he heard shouted, but he saw no people. Suddenly, he noticed a tearful young man beside him. He was probably headed to Stettin for a wholesale business…
How many nautical miles did this steamer make in an hour? You!—Mikita excitedly pointed out an English coal steamer.
Two cabin boys were boxing as if they’d gone mad. He saw them leap at each other like roosters. In an instant, they became a tangled heap rolling on the deck, then breaking apart and rolling again. Then he saw them spring up and start again with renewed fury. He saw fists flying back and forth, then they tumbled down the cabin stairs, reappeared, and again he saw the heap rolling on the deck…
Falk woke up, opened his eyes, and closed them again.
“You, Erik, look at this marvelous night on the water and this shimmering—this glowing… Good God, if you could paint that!”
“You dear fellow!”
And they sat and drank. The night was so black. They sat close together.
And suddenly, a frenzy seized them. They grabbed each other. He lifted Mikita up, wanting to throw him overboard. But Mikita was nimble. He slipped under his arms and grabbed his legs. Desperately, Falk pounded Mikita’s head with his fists, but Mikita didn’t care, he carried him, yes, he wanted to throw him into the sea, now they were at the railing, now… now… Then he got something hard under his feet. He threw his whole body over Mikita, making him buckle, with one grip he seized his hips, and with a terrific thrust: Mikita flew overboard in a wide arc.
Falk woke up.
He stood in the middle of the room with clenched fists. He came to himself.
A wild hatred burned in him, a savage urge to fight. Overboard! Overboard!
He clenched his teeth. He was cold. He paced back and forth.
Who would rob him of his happiness, for whose sake should he go to ruin?!
Gradually, he calmed down.
It became clear to him now: one had to go overboard, him or Mikita.
She no longer loved Mikita! What did Mikita want from her? Who was Mikita anyway? He’d been with him at school, starved with him—and yes, what else? What more?
He sat down and let his head hang limply.
This sick, mad longing for her he’d never felt before…
Overboard! Him or me.
The vortex seizes us both, one to happiness… only one to happiness…
And that’s me!
He stretched tall.
He saw the elk before him, the trembling, blood-splattered victor. And an unprecedented unrest seized him.
He tore open his clothes and buttoned them again. He searched for money, rummaged through all his pockets, couldn’t find it, raged, ran around, sweat beading on his forehead.
He had to go to her now. He had to. He couldn’t bear it anymore. And he threw himself over the bed, tossing everything around, and finally found his wallet under the pillow.
If only it’s not too late, if only it’s not too late… He looked at his watch. It had stopped.
He rang the bell frantically.
The waiter hurried up. “When does the train to Berlin leave?”
“In about an hour.”
“Quick, quick, the bill. Hurry, for God’s sake…”
When Falk arrived in Berlin, it was already late in the evening.
It suddenly became clear: he had to go to Mikita’s.
Yes, he had to tell him openly that he shouldn’t deceive himself, that Isa no longer loved him, and if she hadn’t told him, it was probably only to spare him the pain as long as possible, she pitied him…
Yes, he had to tell him openly. It was endlessly awkward.
But why? Mikita was a complete stranger to him.
But the closer he got to Mikita’s apartment, the heavier it felt.
No! He couldn’t tell Mikita that.
He tried to recall what Mikita had once meant to him, how he had loved him…
He could hardly breathe.
He stood indecisively outside Mikita’s apartment.
Yes, he had to, he had to… or… oh God! Yes, then he’d have to go back.
And he relived the horrific torment of those six days. Horrible! Horrible! he murmured.
He went up.
“Is Mr. Mikita at home?”
“No! He’s gone to Munich.”
Falk stood on the stairs. He couldn’t grasp the happiness. This happiness!
He repeated it again, but he couldn’t feel joy. And now to Isa—to Isa!
He thought only of her. He tried to imagine how she’d receive him, he thought of a thousand little details he’d noticed about her, he thought intensely, convulsively, to drown out something in him that wanted to speak, that resisted and fought against this great happiness.
Then suddenly: He mustn’t go to Isa! He had to wait until Mikita returned. He had to tell him everything, so Mikita wouldn’t accuse him of cowardice, wouldn’t say he’d seduced his bride behind his back.
Yes! He had to wait.
But that was impossible for him—physically impossible. Now everything in him was stretched to the breaking point; one more thousandth of a millimeter, and it would collapse.
Why had he come back?
As long as he could bear the torment, he’d stayed away and fought bravely and been good, but then…
He pulled himself together sharply.
No, enough of arguments now! He’d do what he had to do, even if ten, a thousand feelings resisted… God, yes, he didn’t deny that each of those feelings carried a certain degree of necessity, but in the end, the final, mighty, inevitable necessity always won!
And he thought it through to the finest detail, but he didn’t feel happier.
Deep in the background, he felt a dull fear, an embarrassed, shameful pain, and then he felt everything merge into one feeling, an endlessly sad feeling of not being himself, of not belonging to himself.
He passed a clock. He flinched sharply.
In a quarter of an hour, the door would be locked, then he couldn’t see her. Not today… He groaned.
Now you must decide. You must. You must.
He felt a painful tension in every fiber, every muscle. He walked faster and faster.
No, no! No more thinking, no more; now I must go to her… Come what may…
He still thought, still tried to fight, but he knew he’d do it anyway.
And then: with a jolt, he threw all thoughts from his mind and quickly climbed the stairs.
But as he was about to ring, that paralyzing fear gripped him again. He put his finger to the electric bell button several times but didn’t dare press it. Then he leaned against the wall, feeling suddenly so heavy. He went down a few steps, counting them; then he heard the jingle of keys below, and all at once, he recalled his necessity, the final necessity that must always win.
He went back up and rang. A maid opened the door.
“Is Fräulein Isa…”
“Fräulein Isa is not receiving; she’s forbidden anyone to be let in…”
“But tell her I must speak to her…” He almost shouted it, not knowing why.
At that moment, a door opened: Isa stood in the hallway.
Falk walked toward her; without a word, they entered the room.
They took each other’s hands and both trembled.
Then she threw her arms around his neck and wept loudly.
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