Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

VII.

“No, no, my child, let it be said that all scholars are fools.” 

Iltis sat among a group of young people, preaching his worldly wisdom. 

Strange that he hadn’t yet brought up his forty-five years. 

Falk couldn’t forget his cynical remark from yesterday. He’d been watching all evening for a chance to put Iltis in his place a bit. 

“All of them! I don’t know a single sensible one. Look, this is typical of those professors. I was once with a geology lecturer who wanted to take measurements. But the compass needle wouldn’t settle. 

‘Aha!’ says the clever lecturer, ‘I have a magnet in my pocket.’ ‘Fine, throw it away,’ I said. The magnet flew far away. But the needle was still restless. ‘You probably have a pocketknife on you?’ Yes, indeed, the clever man had a pocketknife. The pocketknife flew far away. But the needle was bewitched. ‘You’re probably standing on an iron ore layer,’ I ventured timidly. ‘Can’t you throw the layer away?’ No, the clever man couldn’t do that. 

That’s how measurements are made, and of course, God knows what theories are built on the results.” 

“But are you sure the iron ore was the cause?” Falk asked. 

Iltis looked at him in surprise. “Of course!” 

“Well, you know, causes are a tricky business. You can hardly ever name a cause without it being wrong. Can you, to touch on your favorite topic, give causes for the inferiority of women?” 

“You just need to open a physiology textbook.” 

“Breathing? Those proofs are simply ridiculous. Children of both sexes breathe with their stomachs until the age of ten, and so do all women who don’t wear corsets, like Chinese women and Yuma women. The costal breathing type is artificially induced, as you can see with the women of the Chickasaw Indians…” 

“Those are claims by scholars, dear Falk, that say exactly the opposite.” 

“Oh no, those claims are made by unbiased people, but the second proof, that women are on a lower developmental stage because they resemble children in form and proportions, is completely invalid. On the contrary, it speaks to women’s higher standing. The childlike type particularly shows the essential traits of the human species, whereas the male type, morphologically speaking, signifies a growth into senility.” 

“That’s metaphysics, dear Erik. You’re far too much of a metaphysician.” 

“Possibly. But the fact is, you only reached your conclusions through a confusion of morphological concepts of higher and lower development.” 

Iltis looked at him blankly. “I don’t understand.” 

“That’s not necessary.” Falk searched for Isa with his eyes. Why talk at all? If he came here, it wasn’t to discuss morphology. He wanted to dance… 

“And let’s make peace, shall we?” Falk toasted Iltis amiably. 

Someone began playing a waltz. 

Falk approached Isa. She stood in the back of the large studio. She smiled at him. No! That smile couldn’t be analyzed, that absorbing smile, as if the half-darkness she stood in had smiled mysteriously. 

“Do you dance, Fräulein?” 

A streak of light flashed across her face. “Shall we dance?” Falk asked, trembling. 

His blood surged to his head with a sudden jolt as he pressed her slender body to his. 

He was caught in a whirl that pulled him down. He felt them merging, her becoming a part of him, and he spun around himself, with himself, into an endless intoxication. 

He didn’t see her, for she was within him. And he drew into himself the rhythm and line and flow of her movements, feeling it all as a surging and ebbing in his soul, softer and stronger… 

And then, suddenly: yes, a feeling of something infinitely smooth, cooling, a soft mirror surface. He felt her. She pressed her cheek to his. 

A jubilation rose in him, and he held her tightly. She was his! 

He forgot everything around him. The faces of those around blurred into a flesh-red streak, circling him like a ring of sun. He felt only himself and the woman who was his. 

He didn’t hear the music; the music was in him, the whole world resounded and rejoiced in him and shrieked with hot desire, and he carried her through all the world, and he was grand and proud because he could carry her so. 

Who was Isa, who was Mikita? 

Only he, he alone was there, and she a piece of him that he held in his hands. 

Exhausted, they collapsed onto a sofa. 

It was loud around them. Excited, incoherent voices reached his ears, which he didn’t understand, and still he saw the flesh-red ring of sun circling him. 

He recovered. The red mist faded; he saw long, narrow wisps of cigar smoke. 

She lay half on the sofa, breathing heavily, her eyes closed. He gently took her hand. They sat alone; no one could observe them. 

She returned his grip. 

And they held each other’s hands tighter and tighter. 

She was so close to him—closer—closer still; their heads almost touched. 

She didn’t resist; he felt her surrender, felt her lay herself in his heart, in the warm blood-bed of his heart. 

She suddenly pulled away. 

“Mr. Falk, allow me to introduce the first German patron of the arts—” Schermer grinned maliciously—“the patron of German race, pure and true… Mr. Buchenzweig.” 

Mr. Buchenzweig bowed deeply. 

“Mr. Schermer introduces me with a bit too much aplomb into your esteemed company, but I may say I have a great interest in art.” 

Mr. Buchenzweig sat down and paused. 

He looked odd. Beardless, his face somewhat bloated, with browless eyes. 

“Look, Mr. Falk, your book interested and delighted me to the highest degree.” 

“That pleases me.” 

“Do you know why?” 

“Mr. Buchenzweig is immensely interested in art—” Schermer tried to hide his drunkenness. 

“Is that so…” 

Mr. Buchenzweig spoke melancholically, puffing out his lower lip. “Do you know why? After many disappointments, I’ve come to seek solace in art…” The Infant approached. 

“Well, Mr. Falk, have you discovered another new genius?” 

“Well, you don’t seem to have discovered yourself yet, or have you already been discovered?” 

Isa grew restless. She listened distractedly. How did this come over her so suddenly? How could she let herself surrender to Falk like that… It was ridiculous to allow a stranger, whom she’d only met yesterday, to get so close. She felt shame and unease because she felt that this man was closer to her than she wanted to admit. 

“You know, Mr. Buchenzweig,” Schermer mocked, “are you really the man interested in art—yes, you’re always talking about German art and other nonsense—so do something for German art! Yes, do something, lend a poor German artist, like me for example, two hundred marks. Yes, do that…” 

Mr. Buchenzweig puffed out his lower lip and stuck his index fingers in his pockets. He seemed to have ignored everything and glanced at Isa. 

How unpleasant that man was to her. But why doesn’t Mikita come; it’s already late. 

“Do you even have two hundred marks?” Schermer laughed with open scorn. “How many marks does your million-mark fortune amount to…” 

That the man wasn’t offended. Isa suddenly found the company repulsive. 

Why doesn’t he come? What does he want from her again? 

She felt tired. This constant jealousy… But he had only her, no one else. Of course, he won’t come. Now he’s sitting in his studio, tormenting himself, raging, pacing… 

She perked up. Falk spoke with such an irritated tone. 

“Leave me alone with this endless literary gossip! We have better things to do than argue over who holds first rank in German literature, Hauptmann or Sudermann.” 

“Now, now,” the Infant was very indignant. “There’s a colossal difference between the two…” 

“But it doesn’t occur to me to doubt that. I’m an admirer of Hauptmann myself. I particularly value his lyrical work. Have you read the prologue he wrote for the opening of the German Theater? No? It’s the most precious pearl of our contemporary poetry. Listen: 

*And as we, the old ones, succeeded in this house, 

We will hold the flag high 

Above the market clamor of the street…* 

“The best part you forgot,” Schermer mocked. “What’s it called? That bit with the ninety-nine onion pieces and the shimmer of the wonder-flame and that thing… oh, whatever—it’s a pearl, isn’t it…” 

The Infant threw Schermer a contemptuous glance and spoke with meaningful emphasis: 

“I don’t know, Mr. Falk, if that’s your earnestness or mockery, but consider what it takes to write *The Weavers*…” 

Schermer interrupted him sharply. 

“That doesn’t impress anymore. We’re used to revolts and killings—from the *Lokal-Anzeiger*.” 

The Infant found it unpleasant to be in the company of a drunken man, whereupon he heard a slew of unflattering remarks. The group dispersed. Only Isa and Falk remained seated. 

He suddenly felt her so foreign, so far away. He was very irritated. Of course, she’s sitting on pins and needles, waiting for Mikita. He felt a sharp pain. 

“No, Mr. Falk, Mikita won’t come tonight,” she said suddenly. 

“Stay a bit longer. He could come any moment.” 

“No, no! He’s not coming. I have to go home now. I’m so tired. The company bores me. I don’t want to stay here any longer.” 

“May I escort you?” “As you wish…” 

Falk bit his lip. He saw her restless agitation. “Perhaps you don’t wish me to escort you?” 

“No, no… yes, but—I have to go home now…”

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OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 11

Before the door on the third floor of the old house on Kohlmarkt, Ottane had to pause for a moment to catch her breath, so quickly had she run up the stairs. She always felt anxious when she came here, and today she had proof that her concern about being caught was not unfounded.

Was someone following her? She leaned over the stair railing and looked into the dark depth. On the first floor, two women stood in the hallway, talking loudly and excitedly. But no one followed her, and Ottane was just digging the key out of her little bag when the door opened, and a hand grabbed her arm, pulling her inside.

Kisses overwhelmed her—wild, famished kisses in the dark—as if she hadn’t been here three days ago but three years. The terror of the past minutes threw her into the passionate embrace like a refuge.

Inside the meticulously kept little room, Max Heiland helped her out of her coat and took off her hat.

“Imagine,” said Ottane, still distraught, “I ran into Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel. The Hofrat lives two houses over, and I’ve always thought I’d meet him or her someday, and they’d ask what I’m doing here.”

“Did she see you?” asked Max Heiland, concerned.

“I don’t think so. I suddenly stood before her; I couldn’t dodge anymore, but I think she didn’t notice me. She passed by stiffly and stared straight ahead.”

“Then it’s all right,” said the painter, quickly reassured. “You must have an excuse ready for all cases. Something to get rid of people, because if you ever kept me waiting in vain, I might lose my mind.”

“And there were so many people on the street. I think a lot of them were workers; they had angry, grim faces and carried sticks; they moved in groups, shouting and singing. It was hard to get through.”

“Yes, I believe they want something from the government. I passed by Stephanskirche; they posted a placard there last night, calling on the Viennese to free the good Emperor Ferdinand from the bonds of his enemies, and it says that whoever wants Austria’s rise must wish for the downfall of its state leaders. They mean Metternich. And it’s said the students want to move to the country house in Herrengasse and demand that their wishes be brought before the Emperor.” He laughed cheerfully and placed his hands on Ottane’s hips: “But what do we care about the Hofräte, the workers, the students, Metternich, and the addresses and placards? You’re with me, and now the world outside can go to ruin. How long can you stay?”

“Not long,” pleaded Ottane, “maybe an hour. I must be home soon; the father is in an increasingly bad mood.”

“Oh, what’s an hour after three days of longing?”

A small table stood there with a bowl of pastries and a bottle of Hungarian wine and two glasses. Max Heiland moved it close to the sofa, poured himself some in a picturesque manner, and pulled Ottane down beside him. He bent her body back, seized her mouth, and kissed her so long that she felt she was suffocating, and her vision darkened. She forgot everything; everything had sunk and vanished; she was only a part of the life force coursing through the universe, blissfully stolen from herself and swept into another.

Max Heiland had found this hideaway for their love hours since his atelier wasn’t safe enough. Strange women came there, and Therese made surprise, mistrustful visits. She had asked: “Are you meeting with Ottane? Where are you meeting with Ottane? I know you’re deceiving me, but watch out—I’m not one of those women who let themselves be cheated.” Max Heiland also had to be cautious; no one suspected this nest. The kind, deaf old woman who had rented him two rooms in her apartment made herself invisible; she didn’t want to risk losing the good pay.

“Take!” he said after releasing Ottane. He broke a piece of dry pastry in two and pushed half into Ottane’s mouth; he was an exuberant, reckless, boundless-in-love big boy. “Your father is still in a bad mood? Have you told Hermine anything yet?”

“I don’t know if it might not be better not to tell her. She keeps asking why Schuh doesn’t come. What should I say? I tell her he’ll come back eventually. Maybe Schuh was wrong, and Hermine cares for him more than he thinks. But she has a way of not showing it.”

“Thank God you can show it,” laughed the painter and kissed her.

“She’s closed off and completely unapproachable. But I think she’s tormented, suffering, unable to explain it. And Schuh doesn’t come. The father wrote him a letter. He wrote that Schuh isn’t suited for marriage, that he lacks the flexibility and suppleness needed for it, and that Hermine has a similar character—stubborn and unyielding—and that she has therefore turned down other proposals. He should not disturb Hermine’s peace and should be content with her respect and friendship. And he wrote that this is by no means a reason to avoid our house, and he should come and must come. But Schuh doesn’t come.”

Ottane raises her head; it feels to her as if a distant noise is pressing in—murmuring of many people, a clamor that a marching crowd pushes ahead of itself.

“If I imagine,” says Max Heiland, “that I should always be with you and not reveal with a single word that I love you… I couldn’t do that; I’m convinced it would be impossible for me. How can your father impose such a thing on Schuh? I find Schuh is right not to come. I, of course, might have done it differently.”

“Yes, you…” says Ottane, looking at the painter quite strangely. Then she adds: “Father is conducting experiments with the Hofrätin, and he probably needs Schuh to discuss the matter with him.”

“Egoist!” Heiland declares with great certainty.

Ottane wants to reply, perhaps that all people are more or less selfish, but her attention is drawn to the noise on the street. What is that? Step and tread, step and tread on the street—a vast crowd must be passing below.

Max Heiland and Ottane stand behind thick curtains, shielded from the view of people across who lean out of windows, looking at the street, waving handkerchiefs, and calling down. Below, a dense throng of young people, row upon row, linked arm in arm, marches—feather hats, caps, waves, and shouts back and forth between the street and the windows.

“They are the students,” explains Heiland, “heading to the country house in Herrengasse.”

Ottane lets out a cry: “Reinhold is among them!”

“Why shouldn’t he be there? The youth is making its voice heard; it wants to be listened to.”

“But the father? And if there’s a tumult, a rebellion? And how will I get home if the streets are so full? I must leave.”

Max Heiland has a cure-all for doubts and anxiety attacks. He takes Ottane wordlessly into his arms and kisses her. And Ottane instantly loses her senses. She knows nothing more of herself, floats between being and non-being in a rapture where all form dissolves into luminous ether.

Reinhold, on this March morning that anticipates a piece of May, went to the Polytechnic as usual. But there were no lectures today; the students stood in the hallways and around the building. It’s said those from the university mean to get serious today and force a decision. Yesterday, the lecture hall was locked, but the university students forced it open, drafted an address, signed it, and two professors had to deliver it to the Emperor. And it’s said that Count Kolowrat, who is usually very accommodating and seeks to balance opposites, even Count Kolowrat has said: “That’s just what’s missing—that the students should make splinters for us!”

But the Emperor gave an evasive and delaying response, and now those from the university want to make it happen. In the suburbs, there have been already been said yesterday: “It’s starting!” And the workers didn’t go to work today, and some masters even released their journeymen themselves so they could be part of it. In Reinhold, enthusiasm surges—yes, now freedom will finally come; he feels the breath of great events, what happiness to be able to throw himself into it. Bent, twisted, crushed all these years, but now he straightens up; somehow, the surge also crashes against the rigid bonds of his own life. All tyranny shall be shattered; it’s also against the tyranny of fathers—Reinhold has a very comprehensive concept of the freedom that is now coming.

A young student hurries up: “They’re already heading to the country house.”

“Comrades!” shouts a broad-shouldered, bearded man next to Reinhold, “are you servant souls? Do you want to remain slaves forever? Always just put off? Forward, we march with them!”

And the broad-shouldered, bearded man grabs Reinhold under the arm and pulls him along. This broad-shouldered, bearded figure was once a small, pitiful tutor and house steward, a poor wretch and hanger-on named Futterknecht; long ago, he also taught Reinhold and, through detours via other households and families, found his way back to being a student. With every house, every table, every bite of educator’s bread, every reprimand, and even every praise, a drop of hatred was added to his soul. The years since have thoroughly cleared away his humility and obsession; they have let him grow into a broad and bearded man, and freedom has stamped a daring hat with a feather on his head. Through his age, his enmity toward tyrants, and his relentlessness, he has gained respect and weight among his comrades; they follow him, and now he marches at the head of the procession with Reinhold under his arm. Reinhold is very proud to be so far forward, the confidant of the leader. Yes, now freedom comes; they are leading freedom.

The people join in, workers walking alongside, encouraging with shouts, shaking their fists. Reinhold stands next to a ragamuffin with a coat like a map of Germany, stitched a hundred times over, and a dirty cap. His pockets bulge wide, stuffed with something heavy. Beside him hobbles an old, greasy, stocky man, striving to keep pace; he wears a broad-brimmed hat and a coat much too large, with sleeves turned up, and something heavy must be in the long tails’ pockets, for they slap against his thin calves with each step. And now the ragged giant laughs, reaches into his pockets, and pulls out a fist-sized stone, showing it to the other; the greasy old man reaches into his coat tails and also pulls out a fist-sized stone, showing it to the ragged giant.

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