Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
V.
It was night. Outside, a strong wind raged; from time to time, it whipped thick rain showers against the windows, which whined as they flowed down the panes.
Marit sat half-dressed on her bed; she didn’t have the strength to undress.
Why bother? She knew it from many nights. She would lie down, the bed would dance around the room with her, then she would sit up and straighten the pillows and stare into the dark room, then get up completely and press her forehead against the windowpane; and so again and again, staring blankly, thoughtlessly.
Everything is indifferent, everything in vain…
She repeated this in her thoughts with ever new pain.
Before the image of the miraculous Mary burned the red oil lamp, which she had refilled again and again, and the ghostly light illuminated half the room.
The wick tipped over, and the flame consumed the oil. A foul smell smoked through the room.
The sweaty church with the bad smell—unwittingly, she thought of Falk’s words.
She extinguished the flame; now it was completely dark. She stared thoughtlessly into the barren emptiness of the darkness. My God, what did he want from her, what did he want? A glowing wave of blood shot into her face.
She sensed it; she didn’t understand it. Then suddenly, she felt his searching lips. It was as if a jagged lightning snake had bored through her breast.
She couldn’t think; she only felt the wild, desirous shiver twitching through her body. She pressed both hands between her knees, bent forward, and drew her legs to her. So she sat hunched on the edge of the bed, listening with anxious pain to the unknown, terrible thing.
What was that? It came so often; again and again. She feared it. She trembled before it. Oh, how gladly, oh how gladly she would throw herself around his neck, hot, wild, in silent passion, and kiss him, yes—kiss…
But then it came again and drove her mad; her senses faded, everything danced in circles around her.
That was sin. Sin! Sin!
She tore herself up; she flew in all her limbs, groped tremblingly for the matches, couldn’t find them; she threw herself on her knees before the bed.
She tried to collect herself, to pray. But she couldn’t find a word.
“Ridiculous formulas!” she clearly heard Someone mock behind her. Terrified, she turned around. No, it was in her! Falk had spoken in her.
“Everything you do is for the sake of imagined heavenly joys. Be yourself!”
“God, God!” she groaned loudly.
Suddenly, it seemed as if someone had forbidden her to pray. She tried to force herself, she struggled for words.
No, it wouldn’t work. Not a word! Mary had abandoned her.
Why was God punishing her so cruelly? What had she done? Ridiculous formulas—the lust for happiness—sweat-smelling church: his sentences whirled in her head, chased, overwhelmed her.
A desolate tiredness made her sink completely into herself.
And he said she didn’t love him! How had he put it? Yes, the formula was stronger than her love—no, no! He should see! She wanted to love him! She wanted to embrace him! Yes, she wanted to love him. May God damn her, plunge her into the deepest hell, but she would love him.
She tore herself up and went to the window. She tried to think.
Outside, the spring wind roared and howled in the trees.
She felt his arms around her neck again; she didn’t resist; she gave herself to him. She sucked the poisonous happiness into her body with all her pores, she let herself be taken, she gave herself to him—oh, to Him—so hot—so warm.
No! No!
Finally, she found the matches.
She lit the light; a wavering strip fell on the face of the Byzantine Madonna.
Marit stood rooted, will-less, unable to move. She stared with growing horror.
In the feverish brain of the child, the face of the Mother of God shifted to a mocking grin, then to pained compassion, and now to terrible, punishing seriousness.
She wanted to throw herself down, she couldn’t. She was rooted to the ground. Fear-sweat broke out on her forehead; she gasped. The horror constricted her heart.
Finally, the Immaculate showed her the old, gracious smile.
A rustling crackle came from under the bed. Disturbed, she jumped to the side; she didn’t dare breathe.
No, it was only in the wallpaper.
She wanted to flee; the whole house was full of ghosts. She listened, trembling, tense.
It was completely still.
God, how uncanny, how horribly uncanny. She had to flee, far, far away—to Him—oh, to Him—
No! Pray!
No, she couldn’t. Something stuck in her that forced her hands apart, and when she tried, the sweat smell of the church rose again, and she heard his mockery.
Oh, how unhappy she was. And He had made her so—no, not he; he was so unhappy himself.
What should she do? Everyone, everyone had abandoned her.
She threw herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillows. A convulsive sobbing tossed her back and forth.
That calmed her.
He was so good. She would beg him so fervently that he demand nothing from her, only stay with her and talk to her.
“But he won’t stay; he’s leaving!” She jumped up.
“Yes, he’s already gone… gone… gone!”
She ran through the room in frantic unrest, pressing her head with both hands.
Yes, she knew it exactly: gone—he’s gone!
And again, a long, choking sob tore from her throat.
No, no—it’s impossible—he’s so good—so good; he won’t leave me.
Erik—Erik, she whimpered; I’m with you, I’ll do anything, just don’t go away!
Her thoughts confused themselves; she listened to her own sobbing. Don’t pray—don’t pray! I don’t want any kingdom of heaven! I want Him—
Him!
But the unrest grew and foamed and boiled; she couldn’t bear this torment any longer… God, these grinning shadows on the wall, and this punishing judgment of the Virgin.
She had to get away.
She dressed in a fever and ran down to the park.
The cold wind calmed her. She felt strangely light. She thought of nothing. No, she really couldn’t think.
She walked up and down the park avenue; it grew colder and colder, violent rain showers soaked her to the skin.
She went back up and lay down in bed. Suddenly, falling asleep, she clearly saw Falk’s face.
He stared at her, then his face contorted into a devilish grimace; he bit her with his vampire eyes, he literally devoured her soul.
She looked horrified. She wanted to hide from him. But it was as if a whole heavy world lay on her heart; she had to stare at him unwaveringly.
With her last strength, she gathered herself: the face faded, only a mocking grin did she still see in the dissolving features.
She breathed deeply and sat up.
She listened. Something was in her that wanted to speak. It reared up; higher and higher. A gruesome secret she would now hear: Falk’s soul.
She had never seen him like that. Her brain struggled for clarity. With uncanny fear, she listened to her doubts. There—: had he lied?
He? Yes! She heard him as he spoke that name to her on the first evening—Fräulein Perier.
No, he doesn’t lie… But? what? what? what was it…
She couldn’t think anymore. She was too tired. She lay and stared into the shadows.
Outside, it had grown still; outside, the wind had laid itself. On the graciously inclined face of the miraculous Virgin played the shimmer of the candle.
No, she thought of nothing more. Before her eyes was a great, bright field with flowers, and from afar she saw Falk coming, and now she went to him… he was so good, so good…
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