Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

She laughed hysterically and then looked at Janina with wild hate, but only a moment… 

“You naturally did not know that he was married… How he lies, ha, ha, ha, how he lies…” 

Suddenly Janina’s strength left her. She threw herself on the bed and sobbed. 

Isa became very serious; she stood up. 

“Did I insult you?” she asked coldly. 

But she expected no answer, she went to the bed end where the little one lay, looked at him attentively and then stood in the middle of the room. 

“But don’t cry. I did not want to insult you… How beautiful the child is! And you have no guilt… You are only a small, weak girl.” 

And again she began to laugh. 

Strange that you have a child… How old are you actually? Eighteen? Nineteen? Well, farewell and don’t cry. He will come back, he will come, she raged… I will drive him back to you, immediately—immediately… 

“Don’t torment me!” Janina suddenly cried out. 

“Torment? Torment? Ha, ha, ha… I will send him here immediately… tout de suite, tout de suite…” 

On the street she stood for a long time. 

A few street boys went past her, laughed impudently at her and threw obscene words at her. 

She looked around timidly and began to go, quick, senselessly quick… “Only not back, only not back, only not back to the liar,” 

she murmured softly to herself. 

“But my God! what disgusting people live here! Why do you harass me, why do you push me then? What did I do to you?” 

She gnashed her teeth in impotent rage. 

Suddenly she felt a violent pain. A fellow had run into her and brutally pushed her aside so that she almost fell. 

The pain brought her to consciousness. 

She began to go slowly, kept close to the wall, she became anxious like a small child, a crying cramp worked its way up in her with all strength, she choked it down with difficulty, but could not prevent the tears from running unstoppably over her cheeks.  

Then she came to an empty square, sat down on a bench and calmed herself. And only now everything flew through her brain with visionary clarity and a wild pain began to rage in her. She lost her senses. 

And in the moment she collected herself. Geißler will give money. Only away, far, far away from him, Geißler will give money, Geißler, Geißler she repeated incessantly. 

She got into a cab and gave Geißler’s address. 

The pain raged ever wilder… As if a hell had been unleashed in her… Ha, ha, ha… Mais non, pas du tout; je suis au contraire tres enchantée… très enchantée… These big letters: Isak Isaksohn… No, how comical! Isak Isaksohn… Ha, ha, ha… Falk is a genius. He must improve the race, it is his duty, his duty… Here I can buy fabrics—Friedrichstraße 183, and yes, what was his name? Isak Isaksohn and Friedrichstraße 183… 

Then she suddenly felt an unspeakable disgust. The person took her, with the same hands he embraced her as the girl there—with the same mouth he kissed her… 

She shook herself. A morbid rage overcame her, it became unbearably tight to her, she would have liked to tear her clothes apart. The disgust choked her ever more violently. 

Why did he not drag the woman into my bed?! Ha, ha, ha… He should have done it before my eyes… 

She could no longer control herself. She cramped and crawled into herself and stretched up again, she felt an unbearable pain in the breast, in the head, everywhere, everywhere… 

Oh que j’ai mal, que j’ai mal… Mon Dieu, que jai mal! 

When she entered Geißler’s room, she was seized by a sudden cheerfulness. 

“How well you look at me! You are like a small, shy boy… Ha, ha, ha… And you have such a beautiful, soft coat… Well, don’t look at me as if I fell from heaven… I am after all Erik Falk’s legally, legally you understand? on the Mairie of the fifteenth arrondissement in Paris legally married wife…” 

She laughed heartily. 

Geißler looked at her astonished. But since she laughed so heartily, he laughed with. 

“Just think, Walther, we haven’t even greeted each other…” She kept his hand in hers. 

“How big and good your hand is! And so warm, so warm.” 

“You didn’t meet Erik downstairs?” asked Geißler a little uneasily. “Erik Falk? My husband?” She choked with laughter. “No, no! 

My husband, ha, ha, mon mari! quelle drôle idée plus philosophique qu’originale, n’est-ce pas?” 

She looked around and sat down. Geißler looked at her helplessly. 

“Why do you look at me so sadly? Ah,—ah…” she stood up again… “He was here, he told you everything…” 

Geißler turned around and busied himself with the papers. 

“Did he tell you about his little son, and about his little mistress? Ha, ha, ha… did he want to lighten his heart with you?” 

“Well, you know, Isa, you don’t need to take that so to heart. You are after all a woman, and a man is organized quite differently…” 

She had sat down again in the meantime, but suddenly she felt a great fatigue, she was near fainting. 

“Give water!” 

She drank greedily a large glass. 

“Ha, ha… I have not seen my husband, no, no, je ne l’ai pas vu depuis cinq jours… Strange preference for my mother tongue. I have almost forgotten it… I was in a hideous, German boarding school… At five o’clock we had to get up… O! brr! But how strong you are and your hand so big and so good.” 

She suddenly looked at him fixedly. 

“You don’t need to look so mournful. I want no pity. I want money. Give me money,” she said harshly. 

He looked at her frightened. “What do you need it for?” 

“You are a nice gentleman! Ha, ha, ha. You ask a lady what she needs money for! Just give me money, I have a very bad affair…” 

“Isa, be serious for a moment. You don’t want to do stupid things?” 

“What do you think?” 

“Well listen, Isa. You know very well what you are to me… very bad things are going on with you now… And there you know to whom you should turn… I mean, well—you will not misunderstand me… You know me… But… pas de sentiments, n’est-ce pas? How much do you need?” 

“Three, four hundred…” 

“I will give you five hundred.” 

She did not understand him, stared only at him with growing rapture. Her senses began to confuse. 

“How splendid you are!… And give me your big, warm hand… Yes, so, hold me tight, hold me tight… O que j’ai mal, que j’ai mal…” 

She fell into a hysterical crying cramp.

Read Full Post »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Twelve
Gives an account of how Frank Braun stepped into Alraune’s
world.
FRANK Braun had come back to his mother’s house,
somewhere from one of his aimless journeys, from
Cashmir in Asia or from Bolivian Chaco. Or perhaps is was
from the West Indies where he had played revolutionary in
some mad republic, or from the South Seas, where he had dreamed
fairytales with the slender daughters of a dying race. He came back
from somewhere.
Slowly he walked through his mother’s house, up the white
staircase upon whose walls was pressed frame upon frame, old
engravings and modern etchings, through his mother’s wide rooms in
which the spring sun fell through yellow curtains. There his ancestors
hung, many Brinkens with sharp and clever faces, people that knew
where they stood in the world.
There was his great-grandfather and great-grandmother–good
portraits from the time of the Emperor, then one of his beautiful
grandmother–sixteen years old, in the earlier dress of Queen Victoria.
His father and mother hung there and his own portraits as well. There
was one of him as a child with a large ball in his hands and long
blonde child locks that fell over his shoulders. The other was of him
as a youth, in the black velvet dress of a page, reading in a thick,
ancient tome.
In the next room were the copies. They came from everywhere,
from the Dresden Gallery, the Cassel and Braunshweig galleries, from
the Palazzo Pitti, the Prado and from the Reich Museum. There were
many Dutch masters, Rembrandt, Frans Hals, Ostade, Murillo, Titian,
Velasquez and Veronese. All were a little darkened with age, but they
glowed reddish gold in the sunlight that broke through the curtains.
He went further, through the room where the modernists hung.
There were several good paintings and some not as good. But not one
of them was bad and there were no sweet ones.
All around stood old furniture, most of it mahogany–Empire,
Directoire or Biedermeir. There was none of oak but several simpler,
modern pieces were scattered in between. There was no defined style,
simply one after another as the years had brought them. Yet there was
a quiet, pervasive harmony that transformed everything that stood
there and made it belong.
He climbed up to the floor that his mother had given him.
Everything was exactly as he had left it the last time he had departed–
two years ago. No paperweight had been moved, no chair was out of
place. Yes, his mother always watched to see that the maids were
careful and respectful–despite all the cleaning and dusting.
Here, much more than anywhere else in the house, ruled a
chaotic throng of innumerable, abstruse things. They were on the
floors and on the walls. Five continents contributed strange and
bizarre things to this room that were unique to them only.
There were large masks, savage wooden devil deities from the
Bismarck Archipelago, Chinese and Annamite flags and many
weapons from all regions of the world. Then there were hunting
trophies, stuffed animals, Jaguar and tiger skins, huge turtle shells,
snakes and crocodiles. There were colorful drums from Luzon, long
necked stringed instruments from Raj Putana and crude castings from
Albania.
On one wall hung a mighty, reddish brown fisherman’s net. It
hung down from the ceiling and contained giant star fish, sea urchins,
swords from swordfish, silver shimmering tarpon scales, mighty
ocean spiders, strange deep-sea fish, mussels and snails.
The furniture was covered with old brocade and over it was
thrown delicate silk garments from India, colorful Spanish jackets and
mandarin cloaks with large golden dragons.
There were many gods as well, silver and gold Buddhas of all
sizes, Indian bas-reliefs of Shiva, Krishna and Genesha along with the
absurd, obscene stone idols of the Tchan tribes.
In between, where ever there was a free space on the wall, hung
framed glass enclosed images, an impudent Rops, a savage Goya,
small drawings by Jean Callots, Crűikshank, Hogarth and assorted
colorful cruelties drawn on sheets of paper out of Cambodia and
Mysore. Many moderns hung nearby bearing the artist’s name and a
dedication.
There was furniture of all styles from all cultures, thickly
populated with bronzes, porcelains and unending bric-a-brac.
All these things were Frank Braun. His bullet killed the polar
bear on whose white pelt he now stood. He, himself, had caught the
mighty blue shark whose powerful jaws hung there in the net with its
three rows of teeth. He took these poisoned arrows and this spear
from the savage Buca tribe. A Manchu priest gave him this foolish
idol and this tall silver priest’s clothes hanger.
Single handedly he had stole this black thunderstone out of the
forest temple of the Houdon–Badagri, drank with his own lips out of
this Bombita in a Mate blood-brother ritual with the chief of the Toba
Indians on the swampy banks of the Pilcomayo. For this curved sword
he had given his best hunting rifle to a Malay sultan in North Borneo
and for this other long executioner’s sword, his little pocket chess
game to the Vice Regent of Shantung.
These wonderful Indian carpets were presented to him by the
Maharaja of Vigatpuri, whose life he had saved during an elephant
hunt and this earthen eight armed Durga, begrimed with the blood of
animals and people, he had received from the High Priest of the
dreaded Kalis of Kalighat–
His life lay in these rooms, every mussel, every colored rag,
reminded him of long past memories. There lay his opium pipes, over
there the large mescal can that had been hammered together out of
Mexican silver dollars. Near it was the small tightly locked container
of snake venom from Ceylon and a golden arm band–with two
magnificent cat’s eyes–it had once been given to him by an eternally
laughing child in Birma. He had paid many kisses for them–
Scattered around on the floor, piled on top of each other, stood
and lay crates and trunks–twenty-one of them. They contained his
new treasures–none had been opened yet.
“Where can I put it all?” he laughed.
A long Persian spear stretched through the air across the large
double window. A very large, snow white Cockatoo sat on it. It was a
Macassar bird from South Africa with a high flamingo red crest.
“Good morning Peter!” Frank Braun greeted him.
“Atja Tuwan!” answered the bird.
He climbed solemnly over the spear and down to his stand. From
there he clambered onto a chair and down to the floor, came with
bowed stately strides up to him, climbed up onto his shoulder, spread
out his proud crest and flung his wings out wide like the Prussian
eagle.
“Atja, Tuwan! Atja, Tuwan!” he cried.
The white bird stretched out his neck and Frank Braun scratched
it.
“How’s it going, little Peter?–Are you happy that I’m back
again?”
Frank Braun climbed halfway down the staircase, stepped out
onto the large covered balcony where his mother was drinking tea.
Below, in the garden, the mighty chestnut trees glowed like candles,
further back, in the monastery garden, lay an ocean of brilliant snow-
white flowers. Brown robed Franciscans wandered under the laughing
trees.
“There is Father Barnabas!” he cried.
His mother put her glasses on and looked, “No,” she answered.
“That is Father Cyprian.”
A green amazon squatted on the iron railing of the balcony and
as soon as he set the Cockatoo down, the cheeky little parrot came
rushing up to it. It looked comical enough, walking sideways, like a
shuffling Galatian peddler.
“All right,” he screamed. “All right–Lorita real di España e di
Portugal!–Anna Mari-i-i-i-i-a!”
He pecked at the large bird, which just raised his crest and softly
said, “cockatoo”.
“Still saucy as ever, Phylax?” Frank Braun asked.
“Every day he gets saucier,” laughed his mother. “Nothing is
safe from him anymore. He would love to chew up the entire house.”
She dipped a piece of sugar in her tea and gave it to the bird on a
silver spoon.
“Has Peter learned anything,” he asked.
“Nothing at all,” she replied. He only speaks his soft,
“’Cockatoo’, along with some scraps of Malay.”
“Unfortunately you don’t understand any of that,” he laughed.
His mother said, “No, but I understand my green Phylax much
better. He loves to talk, all day long, in all the languages of the world–
always something new. Sometimes I lock him up in the closet, just to
get a half hour of peace.”
She took the amazon, who was at that moment strolling across
the middle of the table and attacking the butter, and set the struggling
bird back up on the railing.
Her brown hound came up, stood on its hind legs and rested its
little head on her knee.
“Yes, you are here too,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”
She poured tea and milk into a little red saucer, broke off some
white bread and a piece of sugar, putting them in it as well.
Frank Braun looked down into the wide garden. Two round
hedgehogs were playing on the lawn and nibbling at the young shoots.
They must be ancient–he, himself, had once brought them out of the
forest, from a school picnic. The male was named Wotan and the
female, Tobias Meier. But perhaps these were their grandchildren or
great-grandchildren–then he saw the little mound near the white,
blooming magnolia bush. There he had once buried his black poodle.
Two large yuccas grew there now, in the summer they would bloom
with hundreds of white, resounding bells. But now, for spring, his
mother had planted many colorful primroses there.
Ivy and other wild vines crawled up the high walls of the house,
all the way up to the roof. There, twittering and making noise were
the sparrows.
“The thrush has her nest over there, can you see?” asked his
mother.
She pointed down to the wooden trellis that led from the
courtyard into the garden. The round nest lay half-hidden in ivy. He
had to search before he finally found it.
“It already has three little eggs,” he said.
“No, there are four,” his mother corrected him. “She laid the
fourth one this morning.”
“Yes, four,” he nodded “Now I can see all of them. It is beautiful
here mother.”
She sighed and laid her old hand on his. “Oh yes, my boy–it is
beautiful–if only I wasn’t so lonely all the time.”
“Lonely,” he asked. “Don’t you have as many visitors as you
used to?”
She said, “Oh yes, they come every day, many young people.
They look after this old lady. They come to tea and to dinner.
Everyone knows how happy I am when someone comes to visit me.
But you see, my boy, they are still strangers–you aren’t.”
“Well now I’m here,” he said and changed the subject, described
the various curiosities that he had brought back with him, asked her if
she wanted to be there when he unpacked.
Then the girl came up bringing the mail that had just arrived. He
tore his letters open and glanced fleetingly at them. He paused, looked
at one more closely. It was a letter from Legal Councilor Gontram
that briefly communicated what had happened at his uncle’s house.
There was also a copy of the will and his expressed wish that Frank
Braun travel over as soon as possible to put the affairs in order. He,
the Legal Councilor, had been court ordered to act as temporary
executor. Now that he, Frank Braun, was once more back in Europe
he begged him to take up his obligation.

Read Full Post »

Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“That’s wholly Austrian,” Ruprecht said,
sketching the castle’s character for Hedwig. “You
might think someone’s aloof and, despite simplicity,
unapproachable, then find you can chat quite
comfortably. Our great men all have a back road,
bypassing the official facade.”
They entered the tournament courtyard. Hedwig
was lifted from the carriage and placed in her
wheelchair. Maurerwenzel resumed his duty. Hedwig
wished to stay in the wide, open courtyard; the
castle’s stair-laden tour was not for her. Ruprecht
offered to keep her company. The others departed
toward the octagonal tower at the entrance, after Fritz
Gegely took tender leave, pressing a kiss on
Hedwig’s forehead.
The carriages drove out to stable at the tavern by
the courtyard. Maurerwenzel watched them
enviously. Ruprecht understood the look. “You can
go over too,” he said. “If you’re thirsty. Here—have
a quarter of wine.” Maurerwenzel cupped his hand
like a nest for a silver egg, tipped his cap, and
shuffled out the gate with his “quick” gait, bound for
the inn.
“Shall we move to the shade?” Ruprecht asked,
hands on the wheelchair’s backrest.
“No, please, if it’s no trouble, let’s stay in the sun.
It’s not too hot… and the breeze cools nicely. I love
the sun… I feel it’s kind to me. I let it soak through
me… I feel it in my limbs… like a new strength…”
Ruprecht pulled the wheelchair close to the wall,
where reflected rays could work, and sat beside
Hedwig on a fallen stone. The vast courtyard, ringed
with double arcades, lay empty before them. Hedwig
reclined, basking in full sunlight, motionless.
Ruprecht saw her body drink the hot light. Through
half-closed eyes, a shimmering curtain of light
flickered. He tried to decipher the faded wall
paintings in the arcades. A brown-red hue remained,
other colors long extinguished. These might once
have been emblems, coats of arms, allegories—
symbols of families who once pranced their horses in
glittering carousels here.
From the castle’s past, he gently slipped into his
own. He smiled. “Do you remember, Frau Hedwig,”
he said, “when we danced in the woods? It was a
school outing from our gymnasium. Your girls’
school was there too… and suddenly, we paired up.
Youths and maidens… to the horror of teachers and
governesses…”
Hedwig turned to him. “Yes… dancing’s over for
me,” she said, smiling.
Ruprecht fell silent, dismayed. How thoughtless,
how careless he’d been. He longed to speak more of
those days—how they’d climbed walls and back
gardens at night, like thieves, to reach Hedwig’s
courtyard, bursting into four-part song: “Why are you
so far, oh my love!” The next day, stern professorial
faces and a disciplinary probe for nocturnal mischief.
Everything teetered… then ten hours’ detention as
penance. Ten glorious hours, filled with the thrill of
suffering for her, proving his heroism. They’d called
her Silvia then, for its melodic flow, redolent of
forest scent and soft leaf-rustle, no other name
seeming to fit. A touch of Shakespeare’s winged
Midsummer Night’s Dream. She’d been like a
lizard—slender, agile, gleaming.
“But… you’re happy,” Ruprecht said, consoling
himself. “Few preserve such pure joy in life as
you…”
“Yes… I’m happy,” she said gratefully, offering
her hand. “There’s still so much I needn’t forgo.”
Ruprecht steeled his heart. “Above all, you’ve
found the happiness of love… Your husband is full of
gentle care…”
Hedwig closed her eyes, lying still. The sun
poured into her like a hot draught. The sun is clarity
and truth, she thought. One shouldn’t lie in its light.
“Why should I deny you the satisfaction I owe you?”
she said after a pause. “You’re mistaken, Ruprecht,
the world’s mistaken. I’m a burden to my husband.
My frailty irks him. Yes… he masterfully plays his
role before others. I know how I hurt you then. Your
strong confidence looked down on the pampered
prince Gegely. But I was vain… yes, let me
confess…”
She paused, and Ruprecht saw her fingers twitch
on the wheelchair’s armrest, betraying agitation.
Alarmed, he leaned to see her face, but her eyes
were shut.
“I hurt you. I know you loved me. I’m still
happy… thinking of those times. Yet I chose Fritz
Gegely. I was a foolish, vain girl. He was a poet, the
gymnasium’s pride, already famous at university,
destined for greatness.”
“Stop, Hedwig, please… I don’t want to know
more. Don’t make me unhappy…”
“You needn’t be. I’m past that disappointment.
Only sometimes I think it could’ve been different. I
soon realized he was an aesthete—one who doesn’t
take life directly but through a colored lens, feigning
mood. Then one hope: a child. But you see what’s
left of that. A paralyzed woman… That was the
darkest night of my life. Then… things brightened:
the clarity of limitation. I can’t even blame my
husband for his sullenness. I’m truly a burden. But he
draws benefit in his way. He plays a second
Browning couple before the world. As he wears
famous poets’ vests, coats, and wallets, I’m useful as
a paralyzed wife. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. But I
don’t complain—I’m still happy…”
“Why tell me this… why?” Ruprecht groaned.
“Why? I’m beyond passion’s good and evil. I’m safe
from all danger.”
“But I’m not, Silvia, I’m not…”
Hedwig opened her eyes. Her hat shaded her
brow, a blonde strand fluttering across it. “You call
me Silvia… like then… I think you invented the
name…”
“Yes… I think I found it: it was there, flowing
around you like song. I only sang it… Silvia…”
A car horn blared a triad on the forest road.
“The children,” Hedwig said, sitting up to greet
them. She felt a faint twitch in her right foot… but
surely she was mistaken. The car rolled through the
courtyard gate, halting before her wheelchair. The
children leapt out, rushing to Hedwig and Ruprecht.
Miss Nelson followed, slim, refined, silent as ever.
“Here already, you rascals?” Ruprecht teased,
laughing. “Your studies today… must’ve been half-
done!”
Lissy and Nelly each brought a bouquet of
meadow flowers, picked along the way. Lissy gave
hers to Hedwig, Nelly to Papa. Hedwig and Ruprecht
exchanged glances—a continuation, a symbolic close
to their talk. Two tears lingered in Hedwig’s eyes.
Laughing, she shook her head, pulled Lissy close,
and kissed her small red mouth.
Meanwhile, Helmina and her group had ventured
into the castle. The castellan, a young man not yet
ossified in his role, was lively enough to answer
unusual questions. Ernst Hugo flaunted his style
knowledge, gleaned from café art enthusiasts. He
spoke of form, material, line, and ornament. The
Major hunted for old locks and keys. In his spare
time, he tinkered with locksmithing and was fond of
gunsmithing. “Everyone’s got their hobby,” he said.
“Locksmithing’s my secret passion.”
And storytelling’s your creepy one, thought the
court secretary, but he didn’t say it, for he and the
Major were in a holy alliance against Fritz Gegely.
The poet of Marie Antoinette paid little heed to his
allied foes. He walked beside Helmina, speaking of
spatial sense. “You see, it’s a peculiar thing… a sixth
sense, so to speak. It brings exquisite delights and
torments… imagine, I enter a room and instantly feel
its spatial design like a physical impression. Without
tape or ruler, I know at once if its proportions are
balanced or left to chance. Proportions are immediate
certainty to me. The harmony of the Golden Ratio is
a heartfelt, if somewhat bourgeois, pleasure. Round
walls make me breathless, restless, caught in a whirl.
Alcoves, odd angles, slanted walls, sloping ceilings
give me strangely romantic sensations. This makes
old castles so fascinating, each room unique. It sours
me on city tenements with their uniformity—
everything cut from one mold, dull, barracks-like,
lacking even basic, natural harmony.”
But Helmina wasn’t listening. She gazed
distractedly out the windows they passed, letting
Gegely’s words flow by. Halls, corridors, vaulted
rooms, and alcoved chambers followed one
another—a glance into the inner courtyard, then at
the verdant moat and an old, gray turret.
The guide opened the door to the balcony over the
Kamp valley. At that moment, the Major called him
back. He’d spotted an intricate lock on a grand
Renaissance cabinet. A key moved seven bolts back
and forth. The fittings depicted Saint George slaying
the dragon—a small marvel. The Major eagerly
questioned the castellan, holding Hugo fast.

Read Full Post »