Anarchistbanjo's World

Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

Hmm… 

But he was a refined man. He was the finest cream of European society. Yes, he, Herr Erik Falk, the blonde beast. His sexuality was delicate and brittle; it was too entwined with his mind, it needed soul, and from the soul it had to be born. 

Yes, and? 

Yes, that means I desire Marit, I want her, I must have her: for that is my will. 

Falk was feverish; he felt an insane longing for Marit. 

Now she lay there in her bed: her hands chastely folded over the blanket, perhaps the brass cross he had so often seen her with in her hands. 

To possess a saint! That would be a remarkable thing. Of course, he would do it; he had to do it. 

This unbearable longing gnawed at him like an ulcer; it destroyed his peace, made him so nervous and torn that he couldn’t even work. 

He had to do it, and he had every right to. 

So, please, gentlemen: isn’t that so? Right or wrong don’t exist. They’re just empty concepts that regulate the behavior of Müller and Schulze toward each other. Well, you can read the rest in Nietzsche or Stirner. But if we want to talk about right, and we must, by the way, to calm the stupid conscience, that old heirloom that fits so poorly with modern furnishings, then I say: 

I am, in any case, a man of far higher and greater significance in life than a child. 

That’s what I say for those who believe in significance and the seriousness of life. 

I am a man who can enjoy life far more refinedly, far more powerfully than a girl who will later only bear children and raise poultry. 

That’s what I say, gentlemen, for the philosophers. 

I am a man who is directly ruined by this girl—that’s for the doctors—and consequently is in a kind of self-defense—that’s for the lawyers. 

Therefore, I am right! 

Then comes Herr X and will say: You are an immoral man. 

I will answer him, very charmingly, with the most engaging demeanor: Why, Herr X? 

“Because you seduced a girl.” 

“Just that? Nothing more? Well, listen: I didn’t seduce her; she gave herself to me. Do you know the passage in the Napoleonic Code about natural children? You don’t? Then you’re an uneducated man, and Napoleon was at least as great as Moses. But listen further: the holiest purpose of nature is to produce life, and for that, sexual intercourse is necessary. So: I wanted to fulfill this purpose, and accordingly, I acted entirely, yes, highly morally in the sense of nature.” 

Now comes Herr Y. 

“But—*mais* is the French for that, I’ll roar at him—go to the devil, understand? I am me, and that’s that!” 

Falk grew more and more irritated. A wild anger built up in his brain, confusing his thoughts. 

Outside, the dawn began; the world flowed in the blue wonder of morning light, and the birds started to chirp. 

Falk drank cognac, lit a cigarette, and grew calmer. 

Marit, the good, dear child! And those eyes that looked at him alternately frightened, anxious, and again with that tender love and pleading… 

Marit! No, what a beautiful name. Yes, in Kristiania, he had seen girls named Marit. Yes, yes, he remembered, she had told him: her father had been in Norway and brought back the name for the newborn girl. 

Sweet, splendid Marit! 

He felt her hand on his forehead; he heard her voice loving him so warmly, so passionately: My Erik, my Erik… 

He felt her sitting on his lap, her arms around his neck, her boyish chest pressed against his shoulders. 

Falk drank and grew more sentimental. Suddenly, he stood up, irritated again. 

I know this lying beast of a brain; now it suddenly wants to cloak its desire with the mantle of sentimental rapture. I absolutely won’t have that, I thank it very much. *Mille graces, monsieur Cerveau*, for your services; I don’t need them. 

What I do, I do with absolute consciousness. I love only my wife, and if I want to possess Marit, I don’t betray my wife; on the contrary, I give myself to her again, entirely. 

The sky threw flames of light into the room; the lamp’s light gradually shrank. 

Falk looked in the mirror. 

His narrow face had something eerie in this twilight. His eyes burned as if in a feverish glow. 

He sat on the sofa; he was very tired. 

Ridiculous how that foolish girl suddenly became indifferent to him. That was truly strange. Not the slightest trace of desire anymore. 

Yes, yes: tomorrow it will come back. But it’s madness to stay longer in this atmosphere, constantly rubbing against her presence. 

No! 

Falk tore himself up. 

He would go to his wife today or tomorrow, back to Paris. 

He saw himself in the train compartment. 

Cologne! Good God, another day’s journey! He felt a hot unrest; it took an eternity. He’d rather get off and run, run as fast as he could, run without stopping… Three hours from Paris—two hours—he held the watch in his hand, following the second hand minute by minute. Half an hour left; his breath grew heavy and hot, his heart pounded like a hammer in his chest. Now the train slowly pulls into the station hall. His eyes scan the crowd. There—there: in the yellow coat—he recognized her—she stands searching, seeking, agitated. And now: they take each other’s hands, fleetingly, as if afraid of a stronger grip. Now he takes her arm, trembling with joy, and she presses against him in silent bliss. 

Falk woke up. 

He had to do it; he had to telegraph her immediately that he was coming at once. 

Suddenly, a nervous fear seized him; it felt as if he no longer had the strength for such a journey. He sat down and let his arms hang. 

No, he surely wouldn’t have the strength. Paris seemed to him somewhere in China, two years away; it kept moving further from him. 

Strange that he couldn’t recall his wife’s face—the face… yes, good God: Fräulein… Fräulein… what had he called her? 

He began to fidget with his fingers. He paced around; but he couldn’t remember. 

A new fear gripped him, as if he were going to the scaffold. He had heard the name somewhere before, read it, or something; yes, somewhere in *Le Figaro*, in the proceedings of the French Chamber. 

Well, finally! 

He breathed deeply. 

Fräulein Perier, Perier… Perier. 

He felt almost joy; it became very light for him. 

Then he grew restless again, very dissatisfied with himself. 

No, this idiotic comedy! If you lie, you should at least not get caught in lies. Now he had betrayed himself: Marit must think him a liar. 

Maybe not? No, impossible. Marit would sooner cut off her head than think him a liar. 

Impossible. She thinks I was drunk; she’s used to that from her father. 

The room grew completely bright. 

Now he had to lie down. He was very tired. And how his head burned! His fingers all hot. 

Something cooling! Yes, now her hands on his forehead! Whose hands? 

He laughed scornfully at himself. 

Marit’s hands, of course, Marit’s hands he would like to feel on his forehead now. 

Marit’s… hands… 

Outside, he heard the loud chirping of birds; he tore open the window. 

A cool wave of air hit the room; that felt good. 

He saw the thin mist fade from the meadows; the meadow lay all green—no, violet-green. Falk delighted in the expression. And above, soft, light, sun-soaked clouds of mist. 

Below in the gardens bordering the meadow, he saw tree after tree in white blooming splendor, a great, billowing sea of white, and on the meadow, whole oases of yellow buttercup flowers.