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

XV.

Falk sat in his hotel room, brooding. 

Why had he even come here? He could just as well have tormented himself in Berlin. 

It must be six days now? 

He reflected. Yes, he’d been here six days. 

But now he couldn’t take it anymore. No, impossible. Yes, he had to state, without any self-pity, simply as a bare fact, that he couldn’t endure this torment any longer. He would surely go to ruin. Every day, something in him broke that was whole yesterday, every day his disgust for life grew—and this pain… 

To go to ruin over a woman? He, the artist, he… Ha, ha, ha… As if it weren’t better to go to ruin over a woman than over some idiotic stroke, or typhoid, or diphtheria… 

Oh, you foolish Iltis! How shallow you are! At least I go to ruin over myself; I go to ruin over what makes up my innermost soul’s structure. And she, yes, she: that’s me, me, whom you’ve never seen, whom I only now recognized in myself. 

He couldn’t finish the thought… 

Go to ruin over your drunkenness or persecution mania if you think that’s more worthy of a man—I go to ruin over myself… 

But why the devil go to ruin? I want to be happy—I want to live… 

He suddenly lost the thread of thought. His mind had been so scattered lately. 

He sat and sat, noticing he was completely numb. He forced himself to think. 

Hmm; he’d never done anything without controlling himself. Yes, the first two days, he still had himself in hand. He worked on her with conscious means… 

Good God! That ridiculous swan story! How stupidly made up, how clumsy… brash, yes, brash… 

And then came the vortex, the whirl… His brain began to spin around itself, circling faster and faster into the abyssal funnel of sexuality… 

The dance—the dance… 

He suddenly saw a spiderweb in the corner. He stared at it long and intently, but his eyes closed. 

Yes, he was tired, terribly tired, he felt a tearing in his limbs… Yes, three—no, four hours he’d walked, to kill the pain with exhaustion, to sleep without that wretched poison, that morphine… 

Now he had to fix his eyes on a shiny object. He stared at the brass doorknob for a while. 

He only felt tears running down his cheeks… 

It was a glorious autumn day. Bright, clear noon. He looked at the tall tower of the Redeemer Church in Copenhagen. Mikita stood beside him, waving his handkerchief. 

Farvel! Farvel! he heard shouted, but he saw no people. Suddenly, he noticed a tearful young man beside him. He was probably headed to Stettin for a wholesale business… 

How many nautical miles did this steamer make in an hour? You!—Mikita excitedly pointed out an English coal steamer. 

Two cabin boys were boxing as if they’d gone mad. He saw them leap at each other like roosters. In an instant, they became a tangled heap rolling on the deck, then breaking apart and rolling again. Then he saw them spring up and start again with renewed fury. He saw fists flying back and forth, then they tumbled down the cabin stairs, reappeared, and again he saw the heap rolling on the deck… 

Falk woke up, opened his eyes, and closed them again. 

“You, Erik, look at this marvelous night on the water and this shimmering—this glowing… Good God, if you could paint that!” 

“You dear fellow!” 

And they sat and drank. The night was so black. They sat close together. 

And suddenly, a frenzy seized them. They grabbed each other. He lifted Mikita up, wanting to throw him overboard. But Mikita was nimble. He slipped under his arms and grabbed his legs. Desperately, Falk pounded Mikita’s head with his fists, but Mikita didn’t care, he carried him, yes, he wanted to throw him into the sea, now they were at the railing, now… now… Then he got something hard under his feet. He threw his whole body over Mikita, making him buckle, with one grip he seized his hips, and with a terrific thrust: Mikita flew overboard in a wide arc. 

Falk woke up. 

He stood in the middle of the room with clenched fists. He came to himself. 

A wild hatred burned in him, a savage urge to fight. Overboard! Overboard! 

He clenched his teeth. He was cold. He paced back and forth. 

Who would rob him of his happiness, for whose sake should he go to ruin?! 

Gradually, he calmed down. 

It became clear to him now: one had to go overboard, him or Mikita. 

She no longer loved Mikita! What did Mikita want from her? Who was Mikita anyway? He’d been with him at school, starved with him—and yes, what else? What more? 

He sat down and let his head hang limply. 

This sick, mad longing for her he’d never felt before… 

Overboard! Him or me. 

The vortex seizes us both, one to happiness… only one to happiness… 

And that’s me! 

He stretched tall. 

He saw the elk before him, the trembling, blood-splattered victor. And an unprecedented unrest seized him. 

He tore open his clothes and buttoned them again. He searched for money, rummaged through all his pockets, couldn’t find it, raged, ran around, sweat beading on his forehead. 

He had to go to her now. He had to. He couldn’t bear it anymore. And he threw himself over the bed, tossing everything around, and finally found his wallet under the pillow. 

If only it’s not too late, if only it’s not too late… He looked at his watch. It had stopped. 

He rang the bell frantically. 

The waiter hurried up. “When does the train to Berlin leave?”  

“In about an hour.” 

“Quick, quick, the bill. Hurry, for God’s sake…” 

When Falk arrived in Berlin, it was already late in the evening. 

It suddenly became clear: he had to go to Mikita’s. 

Yes, he had to tell him openly that he shouldn’t deceive himself, that Isa no longer loved him, and if she hadn’t told him, it was probably only to spare him the pain as long as possible, she pitied him… 

Yes, he had to tell him openly. It was endlessly awkward. 

But why? Mikita was a complete stranger to him. 

But the closer he got to Mikita’s apartment, the heavier it felt. 

No! He couldn’t tell Mikita that. 

He tried to recall what Mikita had once meant to him, how he had loved him… 

He could hardly breathe. 

He stood indecisively outside Mikita’s apartment. 

Yes, he had to, he had to… or… oh God! Yes, then he’d have to go back. 

And he relived the horrific torment of those six days. Horrible! Horrible! he murmured. 

He went up. 

“Is Mr. Mikita at home?” 

“No! He’s gone to Munich.” 

Falk stood on the stairs. He couldn’t grasp the happiness. This happiness! 

He repeated it again, but he couldn’t feel joy. And now to Isa—to Isa! 

He thought only of her. He tried to imagine how she’d receive him, he thought of a thousand little details he’d noticed about her, he thought intensely, convulsively, to drown out something in him that wanted to speak, that resisted and fought against this great happiness. 

Then suddenly: He mustn’t go to Isa! He had to wait until Mikita returned. He had to tell him everything, so Mikita wouldn’t accuse him of cowardice, wouldn’t say he’d seduced his bride behind his back. 

Yes! He had to wait. 

But that was impossible for him—physically impossible. Now everything in him was stretched to the breaking point; one more thousandth of a millimeter, and it would collapse. 

Why had he come back? 

As long as he could bear the torment, he’d stayed away and fought bravely and been good, but then… 

He pulled himself together sharply. 

No, enough of arguments now! He’d do what he had to do, even if ten, a thousand feelings resisted… God, yes, he didn’t deny that each of those feelings carried a certain degree of necessity, but in the end, the final, mighty, inevitable necessity always won! 

And he thought it through to the finest detail, but he didn’t feel happier. 

Deep in the background, he felt a dull fear, an embarrassed, shameful pain, and then he felt everything merge into one feeling, an endlessly sad feeling of not being himself, of not belonging to himself. 

He passed a clock. He flinched sharply. 

In a quarter of an hour, the door would be locked, then he couldn’t see her. Not today… He groaned. 

Now you must decide. You must. You must. 

He felt a painful tension in every fiber, every muscle. He walked faster and faster. 

No, no! No more thinking, no more; now I must go to her… Come what may… 

He still thought, still tried to fight, but he knew he’d do it anyway. 

And then: with a jolt, he threw all thoughts from his mind and quickly climbed the stairs. 

But as he was about to ring, that paralyzing fear gripped him again. He put his finger to the electric bell button several times but didn’t dare press it. Then he leaned against the wall, feeling suddenly so heavy. He went down a few steps, counting them; then he heard the jingle of keys below, and all at once, he recalled his necessity, the final necessity that must always win. 

He went back up and rang. A maid opened the door. 

“Is Fräulein Isa…” 

“Fräulein Isa is not receiving; she’s forbidden anyone to be let in…” 

“But tell her I must speak to her…” He almost shouted it, not knowing why. 

At that moment, a door opened: Isa stood in the hallway. 

Falk walked toward her; without a word, they entered the room. 

They took each other’s hands and both trembled. 

Then she threw her arms around his neck and wept loudly.

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by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Beautiful lady,” says the man with the cap cheerfully, in his best high German, “it’s a great imprudence for Your Grace to wander alone like this. There are so many bad people down here in the Prater—a young, beautiful lady with so much jewelry, that doesn’t bode well. You can be glad you’ve met us, and we will permit ourselves to escort you.”

Since the woman still says nothing, the man takes her hand and pulls her deeper into the bushes, while the old man closes his shaded lantern and follows, watching to ensure she doesn’t suddenly run off.

And nearby, beyond the thicket, the stream roars in the darkness—

At first, the Hofrat had hoped his wife would return home, as she had on that March day, once she awoke from her state, and he had resolved to follow Doctor Eisenstein’s advice to send her to his brother-in-law’s estate near Graz. Country air, the doctor suggested, was what she needed—this noisy Vienna was unsuitable for her, and he hinted it was especially important to shield her from the experiments with which Reichenbach further disrupted her weakened nervous system. He was now quite opposed to these experiments, stating as her family physician he could no longer endorse them.

The Hofrat waited, inwardly indignant but not overly alarmed, until the evening of the next day. Then fear overtook him, and he reported his wife missing to the police.

From Ottane, they learned the Hofrätin had been at the hospital, leading them to conclude she had wandered toward the Alservorstadt and prompting a search of the city’s west side.

When the rumor of the Hofrätin’s disappearance spread through the city, people came forward claiming to have seen her on the street. The statements contradicted each other, offering no clear picture; the poor woman seemed to have wandered aimlessly. It was Reinhold who insisted on searching the Prater. A chestnut vendor at the end of Jägerzeile had given a description that seemed to match Frau Pauline. Had she gone there? A hunch had led him to Jägerzeile, and the vendor’s account deepened his fears. Reinhold took leave from the factory, scoured the entire Prater, and kept returning to the Danube, its yellow, muddy waters swollen with meltwater, its roar seeming to drown out a beloved voice.

On the fifth day, the Hofrätin’s body was pulled from the stream.

The police doctor noted signs of assault, with strangulation as the likely cause of death; the commissioner confirmed the jewelry she was known to have taken was missing.

Yes, yes, it was clearly a robbery-murder, no doubt about it.

The fishermen, with their dripping waders and long poles used to probe the riverbed, stood around the body. Year in, year out, they A multitude of bodies from the Danube was nothing new to them; they were hardened to death. But a Hofrätin had never been among them, let alone a murdered one! Yes, there she lay, looking no different from the other waterlogged corpses that had spent five days in the Danube.

Reinhold walked away; what came next was a matter for the police—he had no further business here. He didn’t want the image he carried within him to be destroyed as well. That image lived in him, and he wanted to keep it alive.

He went to Ottane at the hospital, and Ottane knew at a glance at his face that something terrible had happened. Still, she asked, “What has happened?”

“The Hofrätin has been murdered and thrown into the Danube.”

“So that’s what had to happen!” Ottane had sensed how things stood with her brother; now it became certainty as she saw his haggard features and noticed the trembling of his hands. She wanted to comfort him, taking those trembling hands gently and tenderly between her own.

But Reinhold only shook his head, withdrew from her, and left.

The Freiherr was at home. Reinhold entered the study without knocking, unaware that he still had his hat on.

Reichenbach looked up from his work on the book about the sensitive human with disapproval. The written pages had accumulated into a considerable stack; the desk was covered with countless notes, excerpts from the diary, hasty remarks, and nearly every one bore the Hofrätin’s name.

“The Hofrätin has been murdered and thrown into the Danube,” Reinhold repeated.

“Murdered? That’s horrific!” Reichenbach exclaimed.

“And you are her murderer,” said Reinhold in the same calm, toneless voice.

“What are you saying?”

“You are to blame for her death. You’ve only ever thought of your Od. You shouldn’t have misused her for your experiments; she perished because of it. Her delicate health couldn’t withstand it; her condition worsened since you tormented her with these things.”

Reichenbach stood up and stepped threateningly toward Reinhold: “Have you gone mad? Where do you get these insane accusations? I’ll have you locked up.”

But threats and intimidation no longer worked on Reinhold. He didn’t lower his gaze or crumple to stand at attention afterward; he looked his father in the eyes and said, “You won’t do that. I’m not a schoolboy anymore, and I want nothing more to do with you. Our paths are parted from today onward.”

“Go to the devil for all I care!” shouted Reichenbach, throwing himself into the armchair at the desk, scattering the notes in a whirl. He paid no further attention to Reinhold—let him do as he pleased; he was done with him.

Toward evening, Severin entered the study and announced that the meal was served; after some hesitation, he added that the young master had left and ordered his belongings prepared in his room to be sent to the factory.

Reichenbach sat at the desk, head in his hands, not looking up or turning around. “Very well!” he said wearily.

It seemed, however, as if Reinhold had at least voiced part of public opinion. Initially, people had watched the Freiherr’s endeavors with smiling disbelief; then his Od became a veritable fad. Now, it was almost falling into disrepute. While some continued to smile or resumed doing so, voices emerged claiming that the case of Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel showed the matter wasn’t so harmless or safe, and that the police should actually intervene. Hofrat Reißnagel himself wasn’t among those voicing such opinions; he displayed a dignified and appropriate mourning expression, as befitted a man so heavily struck by misfortune, and he continued to associate with the Freiherr. After all, he was in a business partnership with Reichenbach—one hopefully profitable—and he didn’t hold the rumors blaming Od against the Freiherr. However, while the Hofrat remained silent, the deceased’s family physician, Doctor Eisenstein, openly admitted that Reichenbach’s experiments had adversely affected the poor woman’s soul, hastening her tragic end—and as the family doctor, who else would know better?

Among Reichenbach’s neighbors on Kobenzl—the small farmers and vintners—a wariness toward the Freiherr spread. They had never understood what he was trying to do; he locked people in a pitch-black chamber, engaged in the oddest practices with magnets and hand-laying. No one knew what good it served. He had always seemed strange to them; now he became eerie. They called him the Wizard of Kobenzl, avoided passing his castle at dusk or night, and crossed themselves when they saw light in his study.

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OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 16

Reichenbach has paid little attention to his large ironworks in Ternitz, just as little as to the one in Eaja, and since the estate on Reisenberg is in poor shape and the other holdings in Galicia and Moravia—where the stewards have also lined their own pockets—are no better, the Freiherr is very grateful to Hofrat Reißnagel for a hint concerning the ironworks.

Hofrat Reißnagel works in the state property administration, mockingly called the State Domain Squandering Office by malicious tongues. There are very sharp minds in this office—men who understand business and get wind of many things before others, making them able to offer valuable tips.

“The railway system is now to be expanded with all urgency in Austria,” hints the Hofrat. “Numerous new lines are planned. Nothing is more timely today than producing railway tracks—a business, dear Baron, that will yield a secure profit, an extraordinary profit. Nothing is better today than producing railway tracks.”

It’s a tip that could mean a fortune, one that could restore a faltering fortune.

The Hofrat has taken a few days’ leave and traveled with the Freiherr to Ternitz to inspect the ironworks, and Reichenbach has taken up the matter with fiery zeal and his old vigor, completely restructuring the operation and converting it entirely to railway track production.

Now they are heading home, and Reichenbach has been very silent for the last stretch of the journey. He makes mental calculations about the cost of the conversion. It will require an enormous sum of money, and the estates are in the red, the bank accounts exhausted—they will need to borrow. Mortgages will have to be placed on the estates, but it’s such a sure venture that everything must be done to get it going.

The carriage stops before the Hofrat’s house on Kohlmarkt to drop him off. “Come up to my place,” says Reißnagel. “Let’s go over the matter again.”

Reißnagel wants to discuss the matter again, particularly to find out how much the tip he gave Reichenbach is actually worth to him—expressed as a percentage of the net profit.

On the stairs, they encounter Reinhold, who greets the Hofrat politely but only nods casually to his father. Reinhold has taken a position as a chemist in a factory; he now lives year-round in Bäckergasse. He and his father rarely see each other, meeting most often at Hofrat Reißnagel’s, where they pass each other with stiff legs. The father finds Reinhold’s visits to Frau Hofrätin too frequent—much too frequent—and Reinhold secretly accuses his father of harming Frau Pauline’s fragile health and mental state with his Od experiments.

Even today, the Hofrätin sits beside him distracted and absent-minded, and Reinhold has failed to draw her out of the gloom of her mood.

She remains distracted and absent-minded during Reichenbach’s greeting, giving incoherent answers to his questions. In the midst of reorganizing his ironworks, some new experimental setups have occurred to Reichenbach, and now, sitting across from the Hofrätin, they suddenly seem so important that he wants to start immediately.

But Frau Pauline is not in the mood to engage with this.

“She has a fiery ball in her head,” she complains of herself in the third person, “she has waterfalls in her ears.”

After watching for a while, the Hofrat remarks that the Freiherr will likely struggle in vain today and invites him over to discuss the matter.

The Hofrätin is left alone; she sits idly in the growing darkness, staring at a distant point. The fiery ball spins faster and faster, and the waterfalls roar. Then a moan rises from her chest; her limbs stretch and stiffen, the sparking in her brain fades, the water’s rush ceases, and nothingness takes over—the great darkness.

The woman stands up; her movements are strangely angular. She walks through the dark room without bumping into anything, opens a wardrobe, and takes out a dress. It’s a black mourning gown from her father’s death, which she puts on. From a jewelry box, she retrieves a pearl necklace, a gold brooch, a cross on a chain, and a bracelet. She adorns herself as if for a celebration, though she wears a mourning dress, and leaves the house silently, unnoticed and unstopped by anyone.

She walks through the streets, somewhere, passing many people, one or two of whom glance at her curiously because something about her gait and posture strikes them, though they can’t quite pinpoint what it is. The Herrengasse, the Freyung, the Schottentor—ever onward—until she reaches a large building with a wide, open, illuminated gate, into which she enters.

The hospital porter sees a slender woman in mourning clothes; it’s evening now, not visiting hours, and he should technically ask her destination, but he refrains. The woman is in mourning attire, without a coat—odd enough for a chilly early spring evening. So many people in mourning pass through this gate; the porter has a kind heart and can’t bring himself to stop her.

A dark courtyard, then another, a staircase, bare, whitewashed corridors with many doors—and then one opens, and Ottane, propelled by the momentum of her professional zeal, nearly collides with the Hofrätin.

“What’s wrong with you, gracious lady?” asks Ottane.

The Hofrätin appears ill; she has an immobile, almost fixed stare in her eyes that seems to see nothing.

“Are you looking for our Doctor Semmelweis?” Ottane asks again. It could be that Frau Hofrätin has something to ask Doctor Semmelweis; many women arrive here so distraught, with such a glassy gaze, that The birth of a new person sometimes has a strange effect, heralding doom like an omen.

“Come to my room,” says Ottane. “I’ll notify Doctor Semmelweis right away.”

It’s a simple room into which Ottane leads the Hofrätin—a metal bed, a washstand, a wardrobe, a chair, a picture of the young emperor, and a crucifix on the wall, nothing more.

Ottane seats the Hofrätin on the chair and hurries off to fetch Semmelweis.

But when she returns with Semmelweis after barely a quarter of an hour, the chair is empty, the room is empty—the Hofrätin is gone. She’s already wandering back into the descending night, heading further into the suburbs. Trees trap clumps of darkness in their bare branches, forming avenues, then the woman leaves the wide paths, wandering along narrow trails through thickets.

A stream rushes nearby.

The Prater is very lonely at this hour and in this remote area.

But then, suddenly, two shadows appear—one large and stocky, the other small and hunched—emerging from the bushes to block her path. In better light, one might have seen that the large, broad shadow belongs to a man with a cap and a heavily embroidered jacket resembling a fantastical map, and that the other shadow is a stooped old man with a floppy hat, his coat so long it flaps around him, forcing him to roll up the sleeves. But even the brightest light wouldn’t have helped the woman; she sees nothing, driven forward by some force, and now she can’t proceed because the man with the cap has grabbed her elbow and holds her fast.

“Beautiful lady,” says the man in forced high German, “why so alone?”

He gets no response. “Don’t be afraid,” he continues, “we won’t harm you. We’re from the police.” Then both men laugh at the well-executed joke.

But when the woman still gives no answer and doesn’t move, the man with the cap grows irritated. Does she think she can plant herself like some Urschel? He, Ferdl Latschacher? “Come on, shine some light here,” he orders, and the hunched old man pulls something from his oversized coat, flipping open a small lantern. Suddenly, there’s light, and the old man raises the shaded lantern, illuminating the woman’s face.

“Well,” he crows gleefully, “this is an old acquaintance. It’s the Princess Metternich from Mariahilferlinie.”

Now the man with the cap recognizes her too—yes, it’s the woman from Mariahilferlinie who slipped through their fingers back then. But today is different; she won’t escape them again. She’s adorned with a lot of jewelry again, and if not for the black dress, one might think she’s heading to a court ball, perhaps one down at Praterspitz—haha! And besides, she’s a still-young, pretty woman; she seems only mute, since she says nothing— all the better, all the better.

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Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

“You, what’s wrong with you?” he asked hoarsely. 

“Nothing, nothing!” She tried to smile, but it failed. “What… what… what’s wrong with you?” He began to understand. 

At that moment, the bell rang sharply. 

He flinched, unable to comprehend what the sound was. “You, it’s ringing. Don’t open it, don’t open it,” she pleaded fearfully. But he ran out. 

She groaned. Now he was coming, she knew it. It was him. Now… oh God, it was all the same. 

“Oh, this is wonderful, simply splendid, we were just about to write to you.” Mikita could hardly contain himself. “Now, Isa, Falk is finally here.” He tried desperately to control himself. 

“I’m glad; believe me, I’m glad. Well, you know, Erik… this is nice… 

We’ll have a cozy evening… What do you want? Wine, schnapps, beer… Hey? You can have anything…”

“Do you want to see my paintings?… Good God—the stupid paintings—what’s there to see? Go out into life—yes—go out on the street, those are paintings! … What’s the point of this stupid daubing… Oh God, what’s it all for? … Didn’t you say yesterday that you can’t attract a woman with it?… Yes, yes, go out on the street, no! go to a night café, there are paintings! Splendid, you know… a painting like the one I saw yesterday, no one could paint that… Do you know what I saw?… I was in a restaurant, yes, a restaurant, not a café, by the way… and, yes, there I sat. Across from me, a man with two women. He was courting one of them and doing telegraphic exercises with his feet under the table. He was eating sausages, you know, Jauer sausages, I think… Then suddenly: it was a moment…” 

Mikita laughed hoarsely, barely intelligible. “A moment! You rarely see something like that. 

Listen: one of the girls…” Mikita kept interrupting himself with nervous, unpleasant laughter… “grabs the plate of sausages and throws it in the guy’s face… That was a sight, worth a hundred of my paintings… The sauce dripped down… you know, that chocolate-brown slop they pour over every dish here in Berlin… The sausages flew everywhere… What a sight that guy was!…” Mikita doubled over with laughter… “That was a painting!” 

Falk couldn’t understand what was wrong with Mikita. He looked at Isa, but she was lying on the chaise lounge, staring at the ceiling. 

Probably another intense jealousy scene. 

“Do you know what the guy did?” Mikita nervously twisted the buttons on Falk’s coat. “Nothing! Absolutely nothing! He calmly wiped the sauce off his face… Yes, that’s what he did… But the woman he’d been playing footsie with laughed herself half to death… Her erotic feelings were done for… Do you know why? – Do you know?” Mikita let out a short scream. 

“Because he became comical, comical! And when you become comical to a woman, it’s over…” 

Falk felt uneasy. He thought of his farewell yesterday. 

“Do you understand what it means to become comical to a woman?… But, but…” Mikita stammered… “you don’t become that for everyone… There are some for whom you don’t, women who love, who love!…” He calmed down… “You see, those women forget themselves and everything around them; they don’t see that you’re comical—they don’t think, they don’t observe…” He flared up again… 

“Hey, Isa? Am I not right? You’re a woman!” 

Isa tried to salvage the situation; it was outrageously awkward. He was completely crazy… She laughed. 

“Yes, you’re probably right… the sausage story is quite amusing. What happened next?” 

Mikita stared at her piercingly. 

“Yes, next—right. So the comical man was completely calm, even though everyone was collapsing on the tables with laughter… His fine high collar had turned into a dishrag, and his stiff dress shirt could’ve been wrapped around a matchstick… 

The culprit, you know—the woman for whom you can never become comical—was pale, and I noticed she was trembling. She looked just like a dog. That’s how Goya saw people—yes, the magnificent Goya, the only psychologist in the world. He saw only the animal in people, and animals they all are: dogs and donkeys… 

But that girl had temperament, she had sexual verve, she loved him, yes, she loved him…” 

“What? That doesn’t interest you? That doesn’t? Doesn’t a jealous feeling that turns you into a criminal interest you? One throws Jauer sausages at his head, another becomes a vitrioleuse. But it’s the same feeling! It’s strong, it’s powerful, it’s life and love! Huh?… For one, it comes out this way, for another, differently… My mother had a maid who read novels day and night… Don’t you think a colossal Bertha von Suttner was lost in that girl? Right? Right?” 

Falk grew restless; what was wrong with him? 

“You see, man, why bother looking at paintings?…” 

“Yes, right, the punchline… The guy left the restaurant with the women, calm and dignified. But suddenly on the street… you should’ve seen it… that’s the stuff of sensations… with a jolt, the girl flew into the gutter from a hefty slap… But she got up, went to him, and begged for forgiveness… He pushed her away, but she ran after him, wailing and pleading.” 

Mikita grew more and more agitated. 

“Do you know what I did? 

I went up to him, took my hat off to the ground, and said: Allow me, sir, to express my highest admiration.” 

Yes, you know—Mikita was disturbingly excited… 

“But what’s wrong with you, for God’s sake, you’re sick… what’s the matter?” Mikita interrupted Falk sharply. 

“Me? Sick?… Are you crazy? But you see, that man did it right! Didn’t he? You have to subdue the woman, with your fist, with the whip… Force, you have to force love…” 

He stammered and suddenly fell silent. An awkward silence followed. 

Falk grew restless. His eyes darted back and forth between Mikita and Isa. But deep down, he had to admit the scene pleased him. Shameful! 

Isa suddenly sat up and said slowly: 

“You could’ve quoted Nietzsche perfectly here: ‘Don’t forget the whip when you go to a woman!’ Otherwise, what you said sounds almost like plagiarism.” 

There was something deeply dismissive in her voice. 

Falk looked at her, astonished. Was it a break?—with Mikita?… This hatred… 

Mikita snapped out of it and laughed suddenly. 

“Damn, Nietzsche said that well, devilishly well… But what’s with you two?… You’re getting downright solemn… I’m completely crazy too.” 

He became very friendly. 

“Don’t hold it against me that I’m so worked up, but I really think I’m delirious—I was drinking with that guy all night… It doesn’t do me good… My uncle died of the finest delirium specimen that can grow in a human brain. His delirium was lush like a palm tree, like a great palm tree, under which you can’t walk unpunished, as our intellectual heroes like to sing.” 

He wandered around, fiddling with the paintings. 

“Good God, what are paintings? A man who has enough of himself and the whole world should be content with that and not daub… 

So you want to see paintings… well, you’ll have to come back tomorrow when there’s light… Yes, I need light, millions of square miles of light in each eye, to see what no one sees. Yes, no one… what I haven’t seen… what I still have to see, yes, must!…” 

Falk had never seen Mikita like this. This wasn’t normal… “But what’s wrong with you? Why are you playing this comedy with me?” 

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me? I’m happy! Happier than ever!” “Then you don’t need to scream!” 

“Yes, damn it, I have to scream, because sometimes you get a funny look around your mouth, as if you don’t believe me… What, Isa? Aren’t we happy?!” 

But Isa had had enough. Now he’s prostituting their entire relationship… No, it was too much… 

She stood up, got dressed, and without a word, left the studio. 

Mikita watched her, uncomprehending. 

He was shattered. Then he turned to Falk. 

“You go too! Go, go! I’m too worked up, I need to be alone… Go, go!” he screamed at him. 

Falk shrugged and left. Downstairs, he caught up with Isa. 

When Mikita was alone, he bolted the door, stood in the middle of the studio, and suddenly ran his head into the wall. 

The pain sobered him. 

So I’m really going mad. 

He staggered to the sofa. His head ached. Suddenly, everything went black before his eyes, a dizziness seized him. 

It was horrific! He had violated the defenseless woman, taken her against her will. She gave herself because she had to, out of duty, out of… out of… 

And he screamed with all his strength: “Pig, you!” 

His unrest grew beyond him. He felt every fiber in him trembling, a growing rage built up inside; he felt as if he were falling apart, as if everything in him was dislocated, and a terrible fear gripped him. 

Things are bad with you, things are bad with you, he repeated incessantly. 

He clutched his chest with both hands. 

A defenseless woman violated, one who felt only disgust for him! Why did she give in? Because he asked her? Because—because… Good God! She gave in out of kindness. 

And a thought shot through his brain: Now she’s giving herself to Falk because he’ll ask her, because she wants to see him satisfied, because—because… 

He whinnied with laughter, writhed on the chaise lounge, and then suddenly broke into convulsive weeping. 

He heard himself crying. 

And again, the unrest surged into his brain, he gathered himself, he had to bring her back so Falk wouldn’t take her. 

Mechanically, he grabbed his cap, tore open the door, rushed down the stairs, ran through the streets to her house, and then inside: racing, trembling… 

“Is Fräulein Isa at home?” “No!” 

He stood outside the house. Everything collapsed within him. He wanted to go, but his feet wouldn’t carry him. 

He surely couldn’t take a single step. What now, what now? he repeated mechanically. He stood there, unable to think of anything. 

Then he read across the street: Restaurant-Café… 

Aha! Café… Yes, into the café—then sit, right?… Sit on the sofa, drink coffee… read newspapers…

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