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

VIII

In the hallway he suddenly remembered that he had met a spy earlier. He lit a match, looked around everywhere, but he could discover no one.

Perhaps he had been mistaken, or, yes—perhaps a persecution mania was beginning to develop… He felt cold shivers run down his back. That was probably the fever again.

He walked and walked without knowing where he actually wanted to go. He thought.

Home? What for? To see people who tormented him through their love? No! He wanted no more love. That was repugnant to him. He could not see that. Everything came only from being loved. He had the cursed little pity for the few people who loved him. His heart was narrow, his interests were petty and yet he was born for something great. That is why his other, his great soul now took revenge, which kissed Czerski’s hand in ecstasy, naturally only to shame the small Falk.

But he did not let himself be shamed. What should he actually be ashamed of? Ha, ha, ha…

Then a dull, sick melancholy befell him, he stopped and looked thoughtfully at the ground.

A new life? No, he no longer had the strength for that; it would probably not be better than it is now. No, no; better that it ended.

Isa? Isa? Between him and her stood her past life: the other who separated them was always there…

He groaned.

And how much happiness she could have given him!

No, nonsense! Ridiculous that he sought a reason in that. He was simply falling apart. His psychic constitution was not calculated for all these experiences, it was too fine and crumbled under all this brutality.

What did he actually want in life anymore?

His art? He, he… I was an artist… I had to create because I had to. And I created. But suddenly in the middle of writing the idea overcomes me, what for? I see the people before me, I see the whole world that I let arise and I suddenly find all that so terribly ridiculous. And I ask you, dear Czerski, how can one create then?! For that one needs faith too, and perhaps another faith, the faith in posterity…

He laughed loudly.

Oh, he would gladly give the whole posterity together with the whole present to the first best servant for his bit of animal happiness, yes the whole world, the coming and the past and a piece more…

Humanity? To make it happy? But then one must also make it knowing at the same time… Why not rather let humans return to the animal: the knowing human cannot become happy.

A splendid reply! I should have answered that to Czerski. He stopped again.

What did he say? He had written to Stefan?

A paralyzing fright shot through his limbs. Written to Stefan… He had not understood it at first, he only heard the words… He now felt an unheard-of desire to go to Czerski and smash him with his fists, to twist his neck.

But in the next moment he had forgotten his rage. Only a feeling of trembling fear whipped the blood back into his heart. He breathed heavily and became very weak.

He walked on, but something heavy weighed on his chest as if a world had fallen down on him.

So it could by God not go on. That would destroy him completely. And he had to live, he had to become happy for Isa’s sake.

A strange energy poured into his brain. He began to walk with large steps and thought of her glory—yes, sun-like glory… Oh, if he had lived millions of years, they would still have shrunk into the second in which he looked into her eyes for the first time, so he would have spread over the whole world, so he would still have crept into this one glance, the one long glance of her love…

He, he—that was thought very beautifully, very beautifully… He started.

The disgusting picture rose in him again: she in a foreign embrace…

He crouched anxiously. Only that not, no, no!

He caught himself beginning to whistle a street melody. He had to become calm.

Yes, quite calm.

Right! A cigarette. Naturally, naturally. He stopped.

What time could it be now? Well, not yet half past ten. Yes, then… he lit the cigarette deliberately—then I could perhaps go to Olga… Chat a bit about humanity, about ideals… She is so good, and I need so much goodness…

Suddenly a strange idea fixed itself in his brain. He felt surrounded by detectives, perhaps in the next moment he would be arrested…

His fear grew foaming, he was so dazed by it that he could not think. He suddenly became so certain. The certainty that he would be arrested in the next moment brought him to despair.

He looked cautiously in all directions. It was dark on the street, he could not see well. There suddenly: not far from him stood a man. Falk trembled, but collected himself immediately and began to consider. Naturally it was a detective, only how should he get rid of him? He turned around, walked past him and looked at him sharply. The other seemed not to notice Falk and walked on.

Falk laughs scornfully.

This ridiculous trick! naturally only to lull me into security and suddenly appear in the decisive moment.

What should he do now?

Get into a cab? But what would that help?

He entered a restaurant, ordered beer and took a newspaper in front of him.

Immediately after him a man entered, sat down opposite him and observed him, as it seemed to Falk, with a strange impudence.

Falk looked away from his newspaper a few times, but each time their eyes met.

It was unbearable. A wild despair seized him, he threw the newspaper away, sat down broadly and began to examine the stranger scornfully.

Suddenly his heart stopped.

The stranger rose and walked toward him. Falk jumped up.

But the person doesn’t look like a spy at all. He is quite anxious and humble, it shot through his head.

“I have the honor to speak with Herr Falk?”

“Do you want to arrest me? Then not here, come to the street.”

Falk trembled and supported himself on the table.

The stranger looked at him astonished. Their eyes met in a long, questioning glance.

“I did not understand you,” the stranger finally said. Falk came to his senses and rubbed his forehead.

“Are you following me?”

“No! I met you by chance, quite by chance, I live nearby. I did seek you though, I wanted to speak with you.”

Was the man lying, did he want to lure him into a trap?

“So you have no direct arrest warrant? Well, if you want to speak with me, come to me.” Falk laughed scornfully. “I am not in the mood for such conversations now. Isn’t that so? You want something about my participation in the strike? He, he, come to me, then we will talk about it…”

Falk had to sit down, his heart beat so violently, his head was bursting full of blood.

The stranger looked at him with growing astonishment, but Falk stood up, paid and went.

On the street he breathed a sigh of relief. The whole scene suddenly seemed to him a few years distant in his thoughts. It seemed to him as if he had survived a danger…

He, he—that was strange, but everything in life is strange. What is not strange? he asked with a sick smile. He felt his facial muscles distort. What is not strange? Ha, ha, ha… The fear the man had of me. Naturally it was no spy. Absolutely no spy. Perhaps a person I saw somewhere once in society, with whom I even drank brotherhood; perhaps I told him that he was the most splendid person on earth, perhaps I told him that he was my only friend, the first person I met in my life.

Falk laughed long, almost convulsively.

To whom have I not said that? Is there a single person to whom I have not said that?

Ha, ha, ha; now the fellow will run around the whole city and tell that he met Falk in a quite neglected state, Falk was quite confused and spoke crazy talk… Ha, ha, ha…

He suddenly remembered that he wanted to go to Olga. He was quite nearby.

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

It wasn’t long before she received her deserved punishment for
denying her good mother. By the next day Alraune had already told
all the students about her mother’s cheese shop and it cost a lot of
effort to again win back the respect which she lost throughout the
Institute.
But things were much worse for Alraune’s schoolmates then they
were for the instructors. There was not one student in the entire school
that had not suffered because of her. Strangely enough it appeared
that every new bit of mischief seemed to make her even more popular.
She made a point to sacrifice everyone that appeared to stand against
her until they were all on her side. She was more popular than any of
the other girls.
Fräulein Becker reported some of the worst cases to the Privy
Councilor and they were mentioned in the leather volume.
Blanche de Banville had just returned from vacation with her
parents in Picardy. The hot-blooded fourteen-year-old had fallen head
over heels in love with her cousin who was the same age as she was.
She wrote to him from Spa as well and he answered, addressing her
letters B.d.B., hold at post office until claimed by addressee. Then he
must have found something better to do with his time, in any case no
more letters came.
Both Alraune and little Louison knew about her secret. Naturally
Blanche was very unhappy and cried through entire nights. Louison
sat with her and tried to comfort her. But Alraune declared that it was
wrong to console her, her cousin had been unfaithful and betrayed
her. Now Blanche needed to die of unrequited love. That was the only
way to repay her false lover and make things right. Then for the rest
of his life he would be tormented by the furies. She knew several
famous stories where it had been like that.
Blanche was agreeable to the dying part but it did not go well.
Food always tasted good to her despite her great pain. That’s when
Alraune declared that if Blanche couldn’t die of a broken heart she
must find some other way to bring it about. She recommended a
dagger or a pistol–but they didn’t have either one.
Blanche could not be persuaded to jump out the window, push a
hatpin into her heart or hang herself. She just wanted to swallow
something, nothing else. Soon Alraune had some new advice. There
was a bottle of Lysol in Mlle. de Vynteelen’s medicine chest–Louison
must steal it. Unfortunately there was only a little bit left in the bottle
so Louison had to scratch the phosphorus heads off a couple boxes of
matches as well.
Blanche wrote several farewell letters, one to her parents, the
principal and her traitorous lover. Then she drank the Lysol and
swallowed the matchheads–They both tasted horrible enough. Just to
be certain Alraune had her swallow three packets of needles–She
herself, by the way, was not present at this suicide attempt. She had
gone to her room under the pretence of being a lookout after Blanche
had sworn on the crucifix to follow her instructions exactly.
That evening little Louison sat on the bed with her friend. Crying
miserably she handed over first the Lysol, then the match heads and
finally the packets of needles. Blanche became very ill from these
threefold poisons and was soon writhing and screaming in pain.
Louison screamed with her and their screams roared through the
entire house. Then she ran out of the room and fetched the Head
Mistress and the teachers yelling that Blanche was dying.
Blanche de Banville did not die. A capable doctor quickly gave
her an effective emetic that brought the Lysol, phosphorus and needle
packets back up again. Still, one of the needle packets had opened up
in her stomach and a half dozen needles had gotten loose. They
wandered through her body and in the course of her life came out
again in all kinds of places painfully reminding the little suicide of her
first love.
Blanche lay in bed sick for a long time and had a lot of pain. It
appeared that she had been punished enough. Everyone sympathized
with her, was good to her and granted her slightest wish. She wished
for nothing else but that her two friends that had helped her, Alraune
and little Louison, not be punished. She pleaded and begged for so
long that the principal finally promised. That was why Alraune was
not thrown out of the school.
Then it was Hilde Aldekerk’s turn. She loved the Berlin style
cakes that were sold in the German confectionery at Place Royal. She
claimed she could eat twenty. Alraune bet that she couldn’t polish off
thirty. Whoever lost the bet had to pay for the cakes. Hilde Aldekerk
won–but she got so sick that she had to stay in bed fourteen days.
“Glutton,” said Alraune ten Brinken. “It serves you right!”
From that point on the only thing all the little girls called fat,
round Hilda was “Glutton”. She howled about it for awhile but then
got used to her new nickname and finally became one of Alraune’s
most faithful companions, just like Blanche de Banville.
Fräulein Becker reported that Alraune had only one time been
seriously punished at the school and strangely enough, unjustly. On a
full moon night the French teacher stumbled out of her room terrified.
She woke the entire household with her screams and yelled that a
white ghost was sitting on the balustrade of her balcony. No one
would go into her room until they finally woke up the porter who
armed himself with a club and went inside.
The ghost turned out to be Alraune who was sitting there in her
white night gown and staring with wide-open eyes into the moon. She
could not say how she got there. The principal took the playing ghost
as a very bad prank. Only much later did it come out that the girl had
been seen on several different occasions sleep walking under the
influence of the full moon.
Interestingly enough Alraune accepted this unjust punishment–to
copy a chapter out of “Tèlèmaque”–without protest and
conscientiously carried it out on a free afternoon. She would have
most certainly rebelled and resisted any just punishment.
Fräulein Becker concluded, “I fear that your Excellency will not
experience much joy from your daughter in the future.”
The Privy Councilor replied, “That might well be, but up to now
I believe that I am very well satisfied with her.”
He did not let Alraune come home for vacation the last two
years. Instead he permitted her to travel with her school friends, once
to Scotland with Maude McPherson, then with Blanche to her parents
in Paris and finally with the two Rodenburgs to their family estate in
Münster.
He didn’t have any reports from these episodes in Alraune’s life
and could only imagine how she occupied herself during these
vacations. It was a satisfaction to him to think of how this creature he
had created extended her influence outward in ever expanding circles.
In the newspaper he read that during the summer in which
Alraune was at Boltenhagen the green and white colors of the old
Count Rodenberg did exceedingly well at the track and his stud
brought in a considerable winnings.
He also learned that Mlle. de Vynteelen had received an
unexpected inheritance that placed her in the position of needing to
close the school so she didn’t take any new students and only kept her
old students until they graduated.
He attributed both of these things to the presence of Alraune and
was half convinced that she brought gold into the other houses she
had stayed at, the convent in Nancy, at Reverend McPherson in
Edinburgh and the home of the Banvilles on Haussmann Boulevarde.
She had made good threefold on her little deviltries.
He felt that all these people ought to feel gratitude to his child,
this strange girl that went abroad out into the world bringing gifts and
strewing roses upon the life paths of all those that had the fortune to
meet her. He laughed as it occurred to him that those roses also had
sharp thorns capable on inflicting many beautiful wounds as well.
“By the way,” he asked Fräulein Becker. “How are things going
with your dear mother?”
“Why thank you for asking, your Excellency,” she answered.
“Mother can’t complain. Her business has grown considerably better
during the last few years!”
“Really,” said the Privy Councilor and he gave orders that all
cheeses, the Emmenthall, Roquefort, Chester and old Höllander, from
now on were to be purchased from Frau Becker on Münster Street.