Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
XVII.
Mikita wandered through Munich as if in a dream. He did everything his friends advised, went wherever they said he should, but he felt things were bad, very bad with him.
Now he had to leave. He would’ve loved to stay in Munich, but he had nothing left to do. And he needed something to do. Anything.
He walked slowly to the station. Yes, he had to go back to Berlin. He really should’ve said goodbye to his friends, but that was so awkward. They’d want to go to the station with him, make jokes, offer kindnesses… no! He had to be alone.
Strange how his thoughts spread out wide! Before, they’d tumble over each other, making it hard to know what he wanted, and now everything was so neatly broad, comfortable, clear.
His voice had grown quiet too.
Only this strange trembling that could seize him for hours, this odd vanishing of consciousness—oh! That was horrific.
He felt fear that it would come back.
Suddenly, he stopped in front of a weapons shop. He recalled the thousand travel stories he’d read in newspapers. It wasn’t impossible that something like that could happen to him. Yes, he could be attacked. Good God! Why shouldn’t what happened to a thousand others happen to him? He laughed quietly to himself.
Yes! Strange, this thinking. He hadn’t skipped a single word.
He saw the manifold weapons in the shop window. How terribly inventive people are!
*To be or not to be*… flashed through his mind.
*To be or not to be*… Now he just needed a fitting cloak and a skull… Damn it all! He’d have to rehearse that in front of a mirror! Little Mikita… marvelous. He’d probably look like the small opera singer Sylva in the garb of the giant hero Siegfried.
He went into the shop.
The first thing that caught his eye was a large tear-off calendar.
April 1—he read the huge letters. *Prima Aprilis*… lots of surprises today.
He asked for a revolver but was so tired he had to sit down.
Was it absolutely necessary to return to Berlin today? Couldn’t he wait until he’d recovered a bit?
Then he perked up again.
Distance is of the utmost importance for love. Falk is gone too. She must’ve been bored the whole time. She always needed someone around her. If he returned now… Why shouldn’t what happened to a thousand others happen to him?
Hadn’t he read in a hundred novels that distance rekindles a fading love!
Good God! Writers aren’t made of cardboard… How beautifully and thoroughly they’ve described it!
He paid for the revolver and left.
One hope replaced another. His steps quickened. He stretched tall. It felt as if new muscles suddenly sprang into action.
And so a restlessness came over him, a tension so great he thought he couldn’t endure the long journey.
A fever began to burn in his brain.
He thought of Isa; he thought of how happy they were, how she loved and admired him. He was the mighty artist she revered in him.
But it wasn’t just the artist. No, no! She loved to nestle against him, to stroke him… Her—her—oh God, how he loved her! How he wasn’t himself, how every thread of his being was knotted with hers—so inseparably…
But of course she got tired, he’d tormented her endlessly with his jealousy, his… his…
Yes, now, now… she was so good. She’d forgiven him everything.
There—yes, there she’d stand, reaching out her hands, throwing herself against his chest: Thank God you’re here! I’ve longed for you so endlessly.
Yes, she’ll do that! he cried out. He knew it for sure.
But… yes! Hadn’t she sent only one brief note in response to his letters, saying she was doing well…
He struck his head.
Oh, you foolish Mikita! What do you know of women? What do you know of their cunning… Yes, of course! How could he torment himself over that? It’s perfectly clear… and it’s right that she punishes me like this…
And he convinced himself with clear, piercing arguments that he’d completely misunderstood everything, that it was just feminine cunning, feminine cleverness… no, no, what did Falk call it… innate selective cunning…
Yes, Falk had a word for everything…
But the closer he got to Berlin, the stronger his unrest grew. The old torment rose again, and the last two hours, he was nothing but a helpless prey to the wildest agony of pain.
He was tormented like an animal! It’s unheard of, what a person must endure—unheard of!
And he paced back and forth in the compartment, jumped and twitched, and then suddenly that horrific trembling seized his whole body, making him think he’d go mad with pain and fear.
Isa received him with a cold, embarrassed smile. She was busy packing.
With a jolt, Mikita felt a clear, icy clarity.
He could just as well leave, but he was so exhausted he had to sit down.
Isa turned away.
“You!” he suddenly shouted hoarsely at her, without looking.
He couldn’t go on. On the table, he saw a pair of green silk stockings. Some hidden, sexual association stirred in him, he grabbed the stockings and tore them to pieces.
Isa looked at him with contempt. Now she finally found the courage.
“What do you want from me? I don’t love you.” She tested whether she could say it.
“I don’t love you. You’re completely foreign to me…”
She wanted to add something about Falk, but she couldn’t. She saw that doglike, submissive quality in him.
He became repulsive to her.
She said something else, then he heard nothing more. He went out to the street.
He’d read somewhere that in such moments you understand nothing, but he’d understood everything, so clearly, so distinctly. She didn’t even need to say it.
Why was the street so empty?… Aha! It was Sunday, and everyone went out to the countryside… Sunday… *prima Aprilis*—afternoon—he looked at his watch—six in the afternoon… *To be or not to be*—Yes, if I stand before the mirror with a Hamlet cloak and a skull in hand, I’d have to mention the fact of time in the final monologue.
He could never have imagined he’d think so clearly, so calmly, so rationally before his end…
Yes—Garborg was right. Once you know you must inevitably die, you’re completely calm.
Yes, yes… writers are always the ones who… He walked very slowly, but now he stopped.
That foolish boy had irritated him for a while. Yes, for some time he must’ve been watching him.
He was probably going to a girl, wanted small feet, and had bought boots too tight. And now he had to stop every moment, and to mask his corns, he pretended to look at shop windows.
There—there… now he stopped again!
A sudden rage seized Mikita against this foolish boy. He approached him with a stern expression.
“You, young sir, got some mighty corns, huh?”
The young man looked at him, stunned, then grew angry, deep red with rage.
Mikita felt afraid.
“That’s vile insolence!” the young man shouted.
Mikita shrank fearfully. “Sorry… you know… wax mood-rings in the watch…”
He hurried away.
God, how unkind people become—they yell at me, plague me, torment me to the blood—yes… *saigner à blanc*…
Yes, he felt tears running down his cheeks.
Come on, Mikita! A lot of bad things have happened to you, but you don’t need to cry… Damn it! Pull yourself together!
He grew angry.
Foolish man with your sentimental comedies! Why are you sniveling? Sensing some beautiful sex nearby that’s making you all teary? Huh? The beautiful sex… yeah, right!…
He went up to his studio and locked the door.
He looked at a painting. That hideous distortion! How hadn’t he noticed? He had to fix it right away!…
He grabbed a brush, but his hand flailed aimlessly.
He went mad, seized the painting in senseless rage, and tore it to pieces.
Then he threw himself on the sofa. But he sprang up again, as if possessed by a thousand devils.
“Isa!” he cried out—“Isa!”
He began to laugh. A laughing fit, choking him.
He rolled on the floor. He banged his head against the floorboards, grabbed a chair, smashed it to pieces, a frenzy of destruction raging in him.
When he came to, it was night.
He was exhausted. His mind was unhinged.
Only one thing, the last thing: Yes, God, what was it, what was he supposed to do?
Suddenly, he felt something heavy in his pocket.
Aha! Yes, right! Right… He wandered around the room, searching, repeating endlessly: Yes, right, right…
That was it! The revolver in his pocket must’ve chafed the skin on his leg. It burned so. Sit down! Right? That was probably the right thing.
How the calm hurt!
He took the revolver; it took a long time to load it. His hands no longer obeyed his will.
He got very angry.
Of course, sit down first. That was the most important thing. He sat down.
In the heart? Sure! That was a good idea. You usually shoot a millimeter higher and get cured! Heh, heh…
Suddenly, he fell into aimless brooding, forgetting everything.
All at once, he heard singing in the courtyard. A sudden unrest seized him. He gripped the revolver tightly.
Quick! Quick!
Something whipped him into a terrible unrest. In one second, he wouldn’t be able to do it.
And with a sudden jolt, he shoved the weapon deep into his mouth and pulled the trigger…
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