OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 21

The sun had melted the last remnants of snow and streamed unrestrained over the steaming spring earth. Liverworts and primroses dotted the ground beneath the beeches in blue and yellow, and Friederike had intended to go into the forest to pick a bouquet for Reichenbach’s desk. But a dull unease had plagued her since the previous evening; she could find no explanation for why she wasn’t cheerful amid so much sun, light, and vibrant color in the world. Several times, despite the heavy pressure in her temples and the sluggishness of her legs, she had started out, but each time she turned back, as if she weren’t allowed to leave the dairy today. Something was approaching, compelling her to stay.

While she was in the milk room, a young man limped through the courtyard gate. He was about twenty-five, crippled in both legs; his left foot was a shapeless lump, and his right knee was bent and drawn up, so he touched the ground only with his toes, using a stick for support. He had a slightly crooked nose and a wide mouth; his face was scarred by smallpox, and behind the humble demeanor of a beggar lurked something indefinable. He was anything but handsome, so wretched and dirty that one had to pity him, though it was a pity mixed with revulsion.

As he took a few steps into the courtyard, Friederike emerged from the milk room, carrying a large pot of milk in her hands.

She had to watch the pot to avoid spilling, unaware of what else was happening in the courtyard, until a shadow suddenly fell before her feet.

She cried out, and the pot slipped from her hands. There, there was the man she had encountered twice before in Sievering. He had stared at her with cold eyes, and it felt as if a veil had been cast over her. She had prayed God would spare her from meeting this man again. And now he had come to the courtyard, standing before her, grinning, gesturing mockingly at the broken pot’s shards and the large puddle of spilled milk.

Friederike didn’t understand him. But then he pointed to his mouth and ear, then made a scooping motion with his hand, as if tossing invisible bites into his mouth.

Now Friederike understood—he was deaf-mute and hungry. Fine, he would get food; he shouldn’t think they’d drive him away from this farm out of disgust or fear. Friederike lowered her head and walked toward the steward’s quarters, the beggar limping behind her.

She signaled him to wait, took another pot from the kitchen shelf, and headed back to the milk room. In the courtyard, she thought the only thing left was to run to the Freiherr and ask for help. But then she told herself it wouldn’t do to leave the man waiting if he was hungry—God knows how many doors had already turned him away.

He stood before the pipe collection when Friederike returned with the milk, expressing lively admiration for the large, finely tinted meerschaum heads with vivid gestures. Friederike set a glass on the table and was about to fill it with milk, but he held her hand back, made the sign of the cross over the empty glass, crossed himself over mouth and chest, and then nodded for her to pour.

Friederike sat by the window while the man ate. She saw his large, red, freckled hands with broken nails, the grime around his neck, the matted hair with bald patches. He was hungry and poor, my God, yes, but her dread of him was so great that she could only wish he’d leave soon.

After the man drank the milk and ate the large piece of black bread, he leaned back, blinking at Friederike, sated and content. She thought hard about how to make him understand he could now go. He seemed in no hurry to leave, making no move to do so; he sat there, apparently quite comfortable, grinning. Friederike was at a loss for what to do with him and couldn’t immediately grasp what he wanted when he reached across the table and mimed writing.

She tried offering ink and a pen, and indeed, that was exactly what he wanted. After slowly scrawling a few lines on the paper, he handed it to Friederike, and she read: “I am the Son of God, come from heaven, and my name is: Our Lord God! You see my small wonders and will soon see my great ones. Do not fear me, for God has sent me to you.”

What did that mean? Was she dealing with a madman? But the man sat calmly, his face solemnly serious, his eyes glinting so sharply that Friederike could hardly look away. A while later, as dusk began to fall, he pointed to his feet, likely indicating he was tired, then folded his hands, raised them to his cheek, and tilted his head against them.

He wanted to go to sleep. Friederike was startled; she didn’t immediately know where to put the man, but she was also unable to turn him away.

Finally, she decided to offer him a bed in the hay and led him to the barn. To the stable hand Franz, who asked in astonishment what sort of suspicious fellow she was letting onto the farm, she replied almost irritably that he was a poor wretch, and it was a Christian duty to grant him a roof for the night.

But when she went to bed herself, such fear overcame her that she dressed again and ran to the castle. She wanted to see and speak to Reichenbach, to beg him to let her sleep at the castle that night, where she’d feel safe. It struck her like a misfortune when Severin told her the Freiherr was in the city and wouldn’t likely return before tomorrow or even the day after.

With drooping arms, weary and disheartened, Friederike returned, as if surrendering to an inevitable fate. She bolted her bedroom door and lay on the bed fully clothed, beside herself with terror at the thought that the dreadful man was lying in the hay nearby. And she felt distinctly that a foreign will was relentlessly fixed on her.

But nothing further happened; the night passed quietly, save for a chaotic flurry of dreams in which the image of enormous pincers kept recurring, their jaws opening to seize Friederike’s head.

In the morning, as she stood at the stove cooking milk soup, she sensed the man behind her. He stood in the open doorway, grinning at her, and made a scooping gesture with his hand, as if tossing invisible bites into his mouth. Friederike set a plate before him, but the beggar pointed to the seat opposite, signaling with gestures that he wished her to eat with him. Fine, that too, thought Friederike; she’d do his bidding, but then she’d make it clear he must leave the farm.

As she raised the spoon to her mouth, the man made a lightning-fast motion, as if tossing something into her plate. The spoon fell from her hand, clattering against the plate’s rim, and Friederike was instantly paralyzed throughout her body. She hadn’t lost consciousness but was defenseless; she saw the man rise with a nod and a grin, limping around the table toward her. An immense scream of mortal terror remained silent within her. The man grabbed her around the waist, dragged her to the bedroom, threw her onto the bed, and pressed his body into hers.

Around nine in the morning, the stable hand Franz saw the stranger stagger across the courtyard and head toward the forest path. A few minutes later, Friederike appeared, a bundle under her arm and her headscarf pulled low over her face, as if heading to a distant field. Franz intended to ask where she was going, but a commotion broke out in the stable—the gray stallion and the chestnut were fighting, as they never got along, and he had to rush to intervene.

No one stopped Friederike; she reached the forest’s edge, where the beggar waited under the first trees. They wandered all day and spent the night in a hayloft.

The next evening, they stopped at a remote farmhouse near Heiligenkreuz, and the man asked for lodging.

Yes, he spoke—he was not deaf-mute at all—making a humble face and begging for shelter. Had he been alone, the farmer would have turned him away, but the delicate, quiet girl with him, who looked so utterly miserable, stirred pity in the farmer and his wife, and they allowed the two to stay. They even permitted them to sleep in their son’s room, as he was at the livestock market in Sankt Pölten.

After supper, as they prepared for bed, the strange girl suddenly fell to her knees before the farmer’s wife and cried out, “Help me… for God’s sake, help me… save me from this man; he forced me to follow him… I can’t… help me. He forced me… I’ll throw myself into the water.”

This wasn’t immediately clear to the simple folk, but something was certainly amiss. The farmer glared threateningly at the beggar.

The man grinned and tapped his forehead. “This is my bride,” he said in a tone that brooked no interference, “no one has any say in this. She’s just not right in the head sometimes.”

“He pretended to be deaf-mute…” Friederike wailed, “he wrote that he’s the Son of God. Help me. Let me sleep with you, not with him. Not with him.”

“Shut your mouth!” the man snapped at her. “Watch, she’ll follow me in a moment.” He stood in a corner of the room, whistled as one might to a dog, and pointed to the floor. And the girl, whimpering and whining, began crawling on her knees toward him.

“Good, very good,” he praised, “and now you’ll go up and climb the stairs.”

Friederike stood and began ascending the wooden stairs from the room to the son’s chamber, counting, “One, two, three, four, five…” Suddenly, she broke into laughter that made her sway, nearly falling from the steep steps. The man nodded to the farmer’s wife, as if to say, “See, what did I tell you?” and drove the girl ahead of him into the bedroom.

The household didn’t know what to make of it all. The farmer seemed reluctant to get further involved, but his wife insisted something was amiss, and the two maids and the farmhand sided with her.

Finally, the farmer grudgingly agreed to go to the village the next day and report it, to ease their conscience.

But the next morning, nothing stirred in the bedroom, and when the farmer’s wife went upstairs, she found the strangers had already left. They must have departed the house together before dawn.

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OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 19

After Semmelweis’s departure, the young Doctor Roskoschny succeeded him at the maternity clinic. This inexplicable step, which looked like a flight, infuriated Semmelweis’s friends the most. They had exerted all their power to support him, digging, pushing, and paving the way, even allowing themselves to be politely dismissed—and now this man simply ran off. True, the ministry had initially permitted him only phantom exercises, which was certainly a setback, but it wasn’t such a disgraceful slight that he couldn’t have endured it and waited for the ministry to reconsider. But to throw everything away and flee was not only foolish but also a humiliation for all those who had championed him. How did that leave them now? One almost had to doubt Semmelweis’s sanity. Now he was in Pest, rumored to be an unpaid honorary senior physician at Rochus Hospital—let him stay with his Magyars and see how he fares; no one would lift a finger for him anymore.

Professor Klein and his allies, however, rubbed their hands and remarked with regret that this confirmed their view of Semmelweis: a talented man, but clearly not quite right in the head. This incomprehensible resignation fit the overall picture—such a pity.

And now the young Doctor Roskoschny had taken his place. His father had once been the Freiherr von Reichenbach’s family physician; he hailed from Moravia, a backwoodsman, so to speak. His greatest effort was to erase that provincial stigma; the mark of his origins had to be obliterated. He aspired to be Viennese in essence, demeanor, behavior, and intellect, aligning himself in spirit with the city’s upper echelon. He had succeeded in gaining entry into noble and high-church circles—a driven young man, he enjoyed his superior’s favor. Professor Klein held him in high regard; this pupil shared the right judgment: Semmelweis’s views were unacceptable to science.

The only embarrassment was that Roskoschny found the Freiherr von Reichenbach’s daughter as a nurse at the clinic. She couldn’t bring herself to follow Semmelweis to Pest; she wanted to stay in Vienna and continue his work in his spirit. Oh yes, Roskoschny remembered well—Ottane, a little girl with bright eyes; they had played together as children. But now he was the doctor, and she was the nurse, and her mere presence was a constant reminder of that backwoods past. Moreover, aside from everything else, it would be entirely inappropriate to renew old ties with a family that had brought itself into public disrepute. Everyone spoke of the scandal in Reichenbach’s house; the sister had eloped and married a former barber’s apprentice and juggler. The furious letter the father had flung at her like a curse was in everyone’s hands. And this Karl Schuh hadn’t remained silent; he had responded with a pamphlet titled A Reckoning with Freiherr von Reichenbach, available in all bookstores. The Freiherr and the barber’s apprentice had publicly clashed, and moreover, Reichenbach had faced a resounding rejection at the Academy of Sciences—about as harsh as it could get.

No, it was better to have nothing to do with these people. What would they say in the high circles Roskoschny frequented about such an acquaintance?

Ottane sensed from the first glance how things stood with her new superior. She avoided undue familiarity, had no intention of embarrassing Doctor Roskoschny. Here, he was the doctor, and she the nurse—nothing more.

If she began to realize she couldn’t endure it much longer, that wasn’t the reason. Roskoschny’s refusal to acknowledge her was his affair. But he started dismantling Semmelweis’s legacy; he was a man after Klein’s heart, sharing his superior’s convictions. Semmelweis’s approaches were deemed excessive; his directives were ignored, and mortality rates rose.

The mortality rose. That was what Ottane couldn’t bear; it turned her work into torment and frayed her nerves to see the whimpering, groaning victims of medical arrogance. She resisted Roskoschny’s orders, adhering to what she’d learned from Semmelweis, and faced daily reprimands. As brave as she was, she couldn’t prevent nighttime attacks of weeping fits.

“If my treatment of the patients doesn’t suit you,” Roskoschny had coolly stated, “then you can leave.” She could leave, and she would—she knew that now—but she didn’t yet know where to go.

It was strange that on the day she reached this point, she would receive an answer. And it was Max Heiland who provided it.

He arrived just as she returned from visiting her sister and headed to her room, walking down the corridor. Someone was coming down the hall, keeping close to the wall, occasionally feeling with his hand, placing his feet cautiously. A stranger, whom Ottane initially ignored, but then the stranger, almost past her, suddenly said, “Is that you, Ottane?”

So that’s what Max Heiland looks like now? He’s still as tastefully and fashionably dressed as ever—a handsome young man—but the fresh boldness has been wiped from his face. A crease runs across his forehead, another between his eyebrows, and in his eyes, now fixing on Ottane, there’s a slight cloudiness.

Ottane’s first instinct is to turn away, leave the man standing there. She could do so without self-reproach, given what he did to her. Surely he doesn’t come from an overflow of happiness, a world of love and devotion, a paradise of the heart—that’s evident—but it’s no longer her concern.

But then Max Heiland said, “Good day!” And: “How are you, Ottane?”

He said “Ottane!” and in that stirring tone, unchanged from before, Ottane felt she owed him a response. Well, how was she? She always had her hands full, but today she had time off; she’d visited her sister and would now resume her duties. She said nothing about the state of her work—Max Heiland didn’t need to know. Nor did she ask the usual counter-question about his well-being.

But Max Heiland began on his own: “I thought I should check on you. I’ve been to the eye clinic.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, something’s wrong with my eyes. I get these odd disturbances—gray spots, you know—and the outlines blur, and I can’t judge distances properly. They examined me thoroughly over there, with all sorts of devices…”

He smiled a little hesitantly, and Ottane’s heart, which she thought she’d calmed, suddenly began to beat hard and painfully again. Now she understood what that strange quality about Max Heiland might be.

“Well, and…” she asked anxiously.

“It’s nothing serious; it’s nerve-related. I’m supposed to to take it easy. No reading, no painting—best to go on a trip…”

“You should follow the doctors’ advice… you love traveling so much.” It was a small jab, and Ottane didn’t deliver it without thought. Here stood Max Heiland, and there stood Ottane, and it was just as well to set the situation straight with a little spite and raise a barrier between them.

But Max Heiland didn’t pursue it further; he smiled quietly, almost humbly: “Yes, certainly… it’s just… it has its difficulties… I don’t want to travel alone… and the doctor says I shouldn’t. It happens, you know… sometimes—only temporarily, but now and then—a veil comes over my eyes. Then I probably need someone…”

Ottane almost regretted her earlier jab. She felt a pang of sympathy rising within her and a desire to say something kind and balancing, but she hardened her resistance. No, Max Heiland didn’t deserve leniency or compassion; it was a matter of self-defense to keep all her defenses up against him.

“You have a companion!” she said bluntly and without mercy.

Max Heiland turned his head aside: “It’s over,” he said quietly.

“It’s over?”

“Yes, completely over, Ottane. I believe when fate wants to end something swiftly, it grants total fulfillment. Relationships between people that can withstand complete fulfillment are enduring, eternal from the outset; all others are mere attempts and illusions, a deceptive shimmer on the surface.”

There wasn’t a single false note in what Max Heiland said; Ottane had never heard him speak so earnestly before. And someone—perhaps Semmelweis—had once remarked that people with threatened eyesight begin to think more deeply about everything and grasp questions more profoundly.

“So it’s over?” she asked again, a chill running down her spine.

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Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

XI.

Isa and Falk sat in the same wine restaurant as the previous evening. Only now they were completely alone, in a *chambre séparée*. 

Never had she enjoyed being alone with someone so much. 

Falk had ordered champagne, counted the bottles, and calculated whether he had enough to pay. 

Yes, it was enough—for much more. Strange that he had to think of that. 

She lay half-reclined on the sofa, blowing rings of cigarette smoke into the air. 

She had completely forgotten Mikita. When she occasionally thought of him, she saw him as a twitching, blustering mass, a sort of goblin. 

Yes, how malicious he could be! Those veiled jabs in the sausage story. 

Falk watched her. 

Sometimes he was surprised that her face flushed with crimson, and that she shuddered violently. 

And each time, he saw her sit up hastily and down a glass. 

How he loved her! How he wanted to press that slender body into his, to stroke that fine blonde head and hold it to his chest. 

Why didn’t he do it? Why? 

He felt, he knew, that she loved him; so why not? 

Pity for Mikita? Didn’t he suffer just as much, perhaps even more… 

He thought of the awkward scene at Mikita’s. How strange that he felt joy in it. What kind of devil in him took pleasure in that? He recalled how he once got a girl’s fiancé completely drunk and felt a diabolical joy when the girl was mortified by her lover’s indecent drunkenness, even began to hate him. 

What could that be? 

A nervous, pained smile played around the corners of his mouth. 

She looked at him. How beautiful he was! She could look at him for hours, yes, look at how his eyes, large, sparkling, feverish, stared at her… and when he occasionally paced back and forth: those supple movements of a panther. 

And again, she felt the flush of shame flood her face and a dark hatred rise within her… 

That was crude of Mikita—brutal! She drank hastily. 

They no longer spoke. 

He had already said so much; now he wanted to sink into himself, to drink in what was around him, within him, to savor it, to absorb it into every pore… 

And she heard his voice with its soft, hoarse tone… There was something compelling in that voice, lulling her will, hypnotizing her. 

She thought of when she heard *Tristan and Isolde* at the opera. It was exactly the same feeling. She saw herself in the box, forgetting where she was… oh, it was glorious, that half-awake state… she heard the music pouring into her with a longing, with… ah… 

She sank back into the sofa and closed her eyes. It was so good here with him… 

Falk stood up, paced a few times, then sat beside her. 

He took her hand. He looked into her eyes. It was like a hot phosphorescence all around. He saw a glow trembling in hers, a hot, alluring glow… yes, that’s how she looked at him the first time. 

They smiled at each other. 

“Now I’ll speak again.” “But don’t forget.” 

“Forget what?” 

“The condition…” 

“I’ve forgotten the condition.” “You mustn’t.” 

“No, no!” He kissed her hand. 

How she lured him, how she drew him in with those eyes. Did she know it? 

“Where are you from, Isa?” 

“Isn’t it more important where I’m going?” She smiled. 

“Yes, yes… You shame me, because you’re right… And your hand is so beautiful, so beautiful; I’ve never seen such a wonderful hand…” 

She looked at him. 

Suddenly, it overcame him. He sank beside her and passionately kissed her hand. He buried his lips in that hand. 

Then she gently withdrew her fine, slender, long hand. “Don’t do it, Falk! It hurts so much, so much…” 

She spoke softly, hesitantly, with a veiled voice.  

Falk sat back. He rubbed his forehead, drank, trembled with excitement, and fell silent. 

A long pause. 

Then he began, calmly, quietly, with a sad smile. 

“It’s been two, three days since I met you… Yes, I can’t comprehend it, there’s nothing to comprehend, it’s a fact… Be kind, let me say everything, it calms me… I have to talk about it… You probably can’t understand, but I’m loving for the first time in my life.” 

He drank hastily. 

“Yes, you don’t know, but it’s something terrible, to love for the first time at my age. It uproots the whole soul, it creates chaos in the mind… You became my fate, you became my doom…” 

He grew agitated. 

“I know, yes, I know I shouldn’t speak to you like this, yes…” he choked down Mikita’s name—“I don’t know why I’m talking to you like this. It’s a terrible mystery… I’m a different person today than I was three days ago—I don’t understand what’s happened in me… well, yes… I can talk like this: I want nothing from you, I have you in me… I’ve carried you my whole life as a great, painful longing, and so… Yes, I’ve already told you the same thing a hundred times, but—” it burst out of him—“I’m tormenting myself so unbearably, I’m falling apart, I’m so insanely restless… No, no—I’m not crazy, I know, I know well what I’m doing and saying, I also know I have the strength to tear myself away… Yes, I’ll go and carry you in me, drag this eternal longing with me, and let my soul crumble…” 

Again, he sank before her. Everything went black before his eyes. He felt two hearts rubbing against each other. 

“Just love me, say, say you love me…” 

He embraced her and felt her body yield, he pressed her to him… 

“Mine, mine…” She pulled away. 

She didn’t know why she resisted; she only felt a sudden wild hatred for Mikita, who had defiled her. 

Falk looked at her. 

Her eyes were large and filled with tears. She looked away and gripped the sofa’s armrest convulsively. 

He controlled himself. 

“Yes, you’re right!” He spoke tiredly, a bit coldly… “Yes, that wasn’t nice of me. Forgive me. You’re too tired to love.” 

She looked at him for a long time with a quiet, sad reproach. 

“And then… it’s really so beautiful to sit side by side like this, without demanding anything… Yes, let’s be comrades… right?” 

Falk grew cheerful. But he felt miserable and sick. He couldn’t mask his pain well. Why bother? Yes, why? He grew angry and felt a hard, stubborn defiance. He almost wanted to slam his fist on the table. He never did that otherwise. 

Again, he stood, walked around the table, and sat beside Isa on the other side. 

“No, it would be too ridiculous to play a comedy with you. I won’t do that. I have to tell you. Yes, I must… You could be my greatest happiness, yes, you… no, you! You! Let me call you that. I have nothing in the world. It’s already an inexpressible happiness for me to feel you as mine with the word ‘you,’ it’s a happiness to scream this ‘you’ from my heart, this one ‘you’… You…” 

He felt dizzy. He saw nothing more. And he buried his face in her lap. And she took his head in her hands, and he felt her kiss him… shyly, then fiercely, in short bursts one after another. And he trembled and burrowed into her… 

Then suddenly he heard her speak in a choked, breathless, broken voice… 

“I followed him, I thought I could love him because he loves me so much… 

You don’t know how tired I am… You, you I’ve loved for a long time—long… Since he started talking about you… I made him come here… When I saw you the first time—I trembled as if I’d collapse… But I mustn’t, I mustn’t… I don’t want to go from one to another… Let me go, let—” 

But he heard nothing more, he pressed her to him, he burrowed his lips into hers, he clasped her head and pressed and pressed it to his face with frenzied passion. 

Finally, she tore herself free and sobbed loudly. 

“Let me go. Don’t torment me. I—I can’t!” 

He stood up, and an infinite sadness filled his soul. 

Then he took both her hands, they looked at each other silently and held on tightly, for a long, long time. 

“So we part?” “Yes…” 

“And we won’t see each other again?” 

She was silent. Tears ran silently down her cheeks. 

No more! Falk trembled violently. Now he would hear his death sentence. “No…”

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

X.

“Why didn’t you come to Iltis’s yesterday?” Isa was a bit uncertain. 

“What was I supposed to do there? I assumed you could have fun without me.” 

“That’s ugly of you; you know how happy I am when we go to gatherings together.” 

“Are you?” 

Mikita looked at her suspiciously. “What do you mean?” 

She grew sullen. But suddenly, she saw his sleepless, pale face twitching. She knew that look. 

“No, that’s very ugly of you.” She took his hand and stroked it. 

Mikita gently pulled his hand away. He paced back and forth. “But what’s wrong with you?” 

“With me? Nothing, no, absolutely nothing.” 

She looked at him. A feverish unease twitched more and more violently in his face. Something was simmering in him, ready to erupt any moment. 

“Won’t you come to me?” He approached her. 

“What do you want?” 

“Sit next to me, here, close.” He sat down. She took his hand. “What’s wrong with you, Mikita? What?” 

“Nothing!” 

“Have I hurt you?” “No!” 

“Look, Mikita, you’re not being honest with me. You won’t tell me, but I know you so well: you’re jealous of Falk…” 

Mikita tried eagerly to interrupt her. 

“No, no; I know you too well. You’re jealous, and that’s terribly foolish of you. Falk is only interesting, perhaps the most interesting person next to you, but I could never love him, no, never. You see, when you didn’t come yesterday, I knew very well you were sitting at home tormenting yourself with jealousy. I asked myself the whole evening, what reason do you even have? Have I given you any cause for jealousy?” 

Mikita felt ashamed. 

“You mustn’t be jealous. It torments me. I get so tired of it. In the end, I won’t even dare to speak a word with anyone, afraid you’ll take it badly. You mustn’t. I simply can’t bear it in the long run. You have no reason for it. You’re only destroying our love.” 

Mikita softened completely and kissed her hand. 

“You humiliate me with your constant mistrust. You must consider that I’m a person too. You can’t torment me endlessly like this. You were so proud of my independence, and now you’re trying to destroy it and make me a slave. In the end, you’ll want to lock me up…” 

Mikita was utterly desperate. 

“Isa, no, no! I’m not jealous. But you don’t know what you mean to me. I can’t live without you. I’m rooted so completely—completely in you… You are…” 

He made a wide, comical hand gesture. 

“You don’t understand, you don’t have that raging temperament—this… this… well, you know, you can’t feel how it burns and torments, how it shoots into your eyes and blinds you to the whole world…” 

She stroked his hand incessantly. 

“No, you don’t know what you are to me. I’m not jealous. I only have this raging fear of losing you. I can’t comprehend that you can love me—me…” 

“You know, you know—” he straightened up. “Just look at little, comical Mikita, you’re taller than me…” 

“Let it go, let it go; I love you; you’re the great artist, the greatest of all…” 

“Yes, you see, you only love the artist in me, you don’t know the man. As a man, I’m nothing to you, nothing at all…” 

“But the man and the artist are one in you! What would you be without your art?” 

“Yes, yes; you’re right. No, Isa, I’m crazy. Don’t hold it against me, no, for God’s sake, don’t. I’ll be reasonable now. But I can’t help it. You must understand. I—I live in you… if I lose you, then… then—I have nothing—nothing…” 

Tears ran down his cheeks. She embraced him. 

“My dear, foolish Mikita. I love you…” 

“You do, don’t you? You love me? Don’t you? You… You…” 

He ran his trembling hands over her face, pressed her to him. “You’ll never leave me?” 

“No, no.” 

“You love me?” “Yes.” 

“Say it, say it again, a thousand times… You, my only one… You—You can’t comprehend how I tormented myself, yes, yesterday; I thought I’d lose my mind. I wanted to run there and couldn’t… I couldn’t sit, couldn’t stand… You, Isa, you’ll never leave me? No, no! Then I’d fall apart… Then—then, you know…” 

The painter’s small, frail body trembled more violently. 

“You see, I’ll paint—you don’t know what I can do… I’ll show you what I can do. I’ll paint you, only you, always you… I’ll force the whole world to bow before you… Everything, everything I can paint—thoughts, chords, words… and you, yes, you… You’ll be so proud of me, so proud…” 

He knelt before her, his words tumbling over each other, he stammered and clasped her knees. 

“You, my—You…” 

She grew restless. It was embarrassing for her. If only he would calm down. 

“Yes, yes… You’re my great Mikita. I’m all yours, all… but you mustn’t be so ugly anymore…” 

“No, no; I know you love me. I know you’re mine… Forgive my ridiculousness… I’ll never do it again… You’ve forgotten it?” 

“Yes, yes…” 

He pressed her so tightly that she could hardly breathe. 

A dark unease grew and grew within her. She felt it coming, and a shudder of fear ran through her. She wanted nothing more than to run away… 

She pulled away. 

But he seemed to notice nothing. The wild, long-pent-up passion now broke free and erupted suddenly. 

“I’m so happy, so infinitely happy with you. You’ve given me everything, everything…” He stammered, and a hot greed came over him. 

“I’m nothing, nothing without you. I felt that yesterday, I fall apart without you…” 

He pressed her ever more tightly. “You… You…” He panted hotly. 

She felt his hot breath burning her neck. Her insides shrank like an empty sponge. Fear surged within her, paralyzed her, confused her… Oh God, what should she do? She saw Falk before her eyes. Something rose up in her, resisting in wild, desperate outrage. 

“Be mine!” He begged… “Show me you love me…” She saw Mikita’s eyes, the eyes of a madman, seeing nothing. 

Oh God, God… Once more, she gathered herself. She wanted to push him away and run, never see him again… never endure this disgust again… but the next moment, she collapsed. A sick sadness came over her. She couldn’t resist… she had to… 

“I love you… I’m sick for you…” he stammered like a child. And disgust rose in her. A rancid feeling of disgust, she shuddered—but she couldn’t resist, she had no strength left. She only heard Falk’s voice, saw his eyes… no, she had no strength left… She closed her eyes and let it happen… 

“You’ve made me so happy…” 

Happiness contorted Mikita’s nervous, gaunt face into a grimace. 

But she felt disgust, a choking disgust that pierced every nerve with growing outrage, with a hatred she hadn’t known until now. Yet a mechanical, charming smile played around her mouth. 

And again, she let her hand glide over his. 

She fought with herself. Everything went black before her eyes with shame and outrage. She struggled to hold back a word she wanted to hurl in his face for so brutally violating her. And the thought of Falk gnawed at her, gnawed. A furious pain tore her head apart… 

“Oh, Isa, I’m so happy, so unbelievably happy, today…” 

She controlled herself and smiled. But the disgust filled her relentlessly… Everything became disgusting to her, his words, his hand… 

But Mikita thought only of his happiness. The woman was his, wholly his. His head grew hot with joy and strength. 

She didn’t want to think anymore, but she couldn’t hold back the thought of Falk. The thought pained her, bit her, poured hate and shame into her heart. She breathed heavily. If only he wouldn’t come. Oh God, if only he wouldn’t come… 

“Will Falk come to you today?” Mikita looked at her, taken aback. “Who? Falk?” 

She gathered herself. 

“I’d love for him to see your paintings. He hasn’t seen them yet; he’s the only one who can understand them.” 

Mikita breathed a sigh of relief. 

“You know, Isa; I’ll write to him now to come right away.” 

She flinched. 

“No, no, not today.” “Why not?” 

“I want to be alone with you today.” 

He kissed her hand fervently and looked at her gratefully. 

There was something doglike in his submissiveness. She thought of the big dog in her hometown that loved her so much and she could never shake off. 

It had grown dark meanwhile. 

What right did he have to violate her so brutally… so… no… don’t think, don’t think… But yes—she felt defiled, he had defiled her… 

She suddenly felt his hand around her wrist. 

She shrank back. His touch was repulsive to her. “Turn on the light!” 

Mikita stood up and lit the lamp. Then he fixed his eyes on her intently. 

She no longer had the strength to control herself. Everything crashed over her: Falk, Mikita, the disgust… this terrible disgust… Suddenly, there was fear in him, a fear that momentarily paralyzed his mind. 

She saw his face twitch, his eyes widen immeasurably. 

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