The Dedalus Book of German Decadence (25 page)

He closed his eyes.

There was something like the beating of a seagull’s wings:

‘Come, oh come!’

Something like the shimmer of a whispering, soundless lightning:

‘Come, oh come!’

Something was embracing his heart with fine, tender hands, caressing it, kissing it:

‘Come, oh come!’

A sobbing, yearning cry burst from his breast:

‘I am going, I am going!’

And there in the depths of the dark avenue of chestnut trees. He thought he could see her gleaming figure between dark tree trunks.

And there in the gloom of damp churches, where the sarcophagi of kings and princes brooded. He could still feel her heart trembling, her hot breath, the pulsing of her veins, the flush that covered her face when they once met in the dark cloisters.

Ah, in the depths, there in the town of wonders he had rocked her in his arms like a child, dragged her violently to his breast, and then he had carefully laid her to rest, whilst her golden hair streamed around her.

He threw himself on to the floor and lay there for a long time, until the pain ceased, and it became still within his heart with the calm before the Creation.

Peace, oh peace!

The seas had died, the pulse of the earth had ceased; the burned tops of dead palm trees reached the skies, and over the vast dead expanses of the sea of ice lay the fearful harvest of the scattered bones of primeval animals  …

Stillness, dumb stillness!

With extinguished beams the moon joined with the earth and there was no hand to pluck a chord from these dead strings, the earth opened her gaping womb, but there was no light to fructify her  …  Terrified stars were hanging in the airless infinity, hanging motionless like cold brass globes, and the sun, black as coal, expired, consumed by its own conflagration.

And in this hideous silence desire was born in him again, an unspeakable longing for her whom he had once possessed, then lost, the one whom he had awakened from the earth of his soul, waking to life, pouring in her the blood of his life, giving her his will as her backbone  …

He should have created her from his Adam’s rib, but he could not do it.

With his whole strength he longed for the one whom he would never see here on earth. The night of wonder which he had spent with her spread to an eternity, he had lived with her for an eternity, an eternity of endless joy.

And he spoke unto her:

‘Oh thou mine eyes. How often has my soul not poured into thy dark depths like a star which plunges into the depths of the ocean. Suck up my misery, my pain, may they sink in thy mouth like the light of invisible stars in the empty wastes of eternity. Oh thou mine eyes! Oh thou my precious mouth! How often has its silent woe wandered on my breast, bit its despair into my flesh and its magic sated my soul with the sweet poison of unspeakable desire  …  How often has it not opened in gasping moans of love, in foul ululation and wild blasphemies! Oh thou mine eyes! Oh thou my beloved head! How often have I not pressed thee to my heart, how often did thou not sink on my shoulder in my wild embraces, throw thyself back, seared by the flame of my passion, falling senselessly in wild convulsions of love upon the pillows  …  Once more I bury thee in my lap, and pour the starry glory of thy hair over me! Oh thou my beloved head, oh the golden cascade of thy richness!’

The blackness of night was brooding at his feet, only a tiny light flickered like the last spark of a dying torch.

He no longer despaired. For he knew that he was going to her, would become one with her in the womb of eternity from which he and she had arisen.

No desperation, only a sick, senseless longing for these eyes which dipped their pupils into the depths of his soul in such an agony of love, for the hands which engraved the thousands of fateful lines into his face, for that sad smile which haunted her lips with a brooding heaviness  …

Let it be!

He and she should return to the primeval womb to become one holy sun.

They should become one and indivisible.

Seeing all secrets naked and free with their eyes.

In divine clarity to see all causes and goals and to direct them.

To command all worlds, all Being.

In the god-feeling: He – She!

Androgyne!

The radiance of her fine white hands flowed around him, and the scent of her body suffused him, and in his soul there rejoiced the yearning, tempting whisper:

‘Come, my beloved, come!’

And he walked with the powerful triumph of death in his heart where the seven-armed lake was shimmering in the moonlight, he walked still and tall, saying only, time and time again, in an infinity of love:

‘I am going, I am coming!’

Stanislaw Przybyszewski:
Androgyne.
In
De Profundis
und andere Erzählungen.
Ed. Michael Schardt und
Hartmut Vollmer. Igel Verlag, Paderborn, 1990.

The date of Erich von Lüttwitz’s Feast of Death approached without my having encountered him again. We had nothing more to say to each other and did not wish to argue about our recent differences. Yet to exclude any doubt that our relationship was now of a purely formal nature Erich wrote to me again and asked me to accept his invitation; there was also an echo of our former warmth in these lines.

When I set off the evening was wet, cold and even wintry. A biting northwesterly drove dense masses of fog before it. The streets around the Gewandhaus were even more deserted in their bleak uniformity. One scarcely saw a blurred figure groping its way along the edge of the pavement where wan circles of sulphurous yellow light formed around the lampposts.

The extensive garden, whose last autumnal leaves hid the villa from view, was also deserted, but the subdued sounds of an orchestra told me that the party was in full swing. The windows were, as usual, carefully concealed by shutters so that only a few gleaming shafts of light fell across the gravel path.

I had to ring the bell before I was admitted, but then I was standing immediately in the dazzling light of the foyer which was separated from the vestibule by lavish draperies. A flunky led me to the cloakroom where all sorts of overcoats, top-hats and mufflers were already piled on top of each other. I was, apparently, one of the last to arrive.

Then I could hear the music quite clearly coming from the first floor. They were playing Berlioz’s
Symphonie fantastique
: the final notes of the last movement, the ‘Songe d’une nuit du Sabbath’ were just dying away. And the musicians certainly seemed up to the task: the shrill notes of the witches’ orgy raged round and round with a passionate wildness and fervour. No sooner had the symphony come to an end than another band struck up in another room: presumably a gypsy orchestra from the sound of the violins, which started to play Hungarian rhapsodies. And then, as soon as I entered the vestibule, a babble of voices and the laughter of the guests who were mostly in the upper rooms mingled with the music.

Many gentlemen were lounging upon the round sofa, strangers, all wearing dinner jackets with white waistcoats but all of them differing in various degrees. I couldn’t find Erich or anyone else who was familiar to me. So I first made myself known to these gentlemen and excited their liveliest curiosity when they discovered that I was a friend of Erich Lüttwitz. They wanted to know what I thought of the whole business, whether or not Erich would in fact carry out his intention of killing himself or whether they should regard it as a prank. I could, and indeed only wanted, to give imprecise information, yet my laconic utterances, remarkably, succeeded in satisfying them. At any event, they fully intended to amuse themselves splendidly. None of them, and only very few of the remaining guests, were acquainted with Erich at all: they were simply a disparate collection of snobs from literary and artistic circles, cashiered army officers, aristocrats with various neuroses, foreigners and
bon viveurs
from abroad who had come to the party of their own accord.

I grew tired of the raucous animation of the gentlemen on the sofa and climbed the winding staircase to get hold of our host at last.

Upstairs most of the guests were crowding in high spirits around the buffet tables, the fire places and all the precious
objets d’art
which this luxurious part of the house offered in the radiance of gleaming candlelight. There must have been something like a hundred people, the female sex only sparsely represented, but certainly not without charm. Each of the girls was in some pretty fancy dress costume, and all of them belonged to the upper classes. They were all entertaining the gallant gentlemen, in a relaxed but modest manner. I spotted Thusnelda, Elvira and Amaryllis amongst them. Amaryllis greeted me in a most tender manner and asked me to be her partner: I need, she said, not worry about Erich, who had given them all freedom to do as they liked that evening. I promised to do as she wished as long as she would show me our host. She drew my attention to a crowd of youthful nymphs from whom he was trying to extricate himself in order to greet me.

I had prepared myself for a disturbing sight, yet I was shattered to see the facial expression which had blighted those features which had once been so noble. The muscles lay, slack and bloated, beneath the greasy skin; his eyes were glazed and wide open, as if he expected a stroke at any minute; his nostrils quivered convulsively, and the brittle, pale lips were set in a petrified grin. But I saw in everything – and it was this which convinced me – an absolute determination, forced, frantic and insane. Yet the wretched man came towards me in an extraordinarily animated manner, with boisterous gestures. He was about to embrace me, but controlled himself and shook both my hands, laughing wildly.

‘We are friends, Just, are we not? We’ve always been friends.’

I was close to forgetting myself, losing control, bursting into tears, lashing out, or rushing from the room. I stammered weakly something about, ‘I hope it’s all a bad joke  …  keep on drinking  …!’, or something similar. But he wasn’t prepared to listen to me at all but started indulging in reminiscences.

‘Do you remember, old chap, how we stood by the stove in Naples and how we got to know each other because we were freezing? And our journey then! I really owe you so much, the pleasures of artistic experience, the beauty of the body  …  education  …  so many manifold interests  …  so very much!’

‘No, Eric, don’t say that  …’ I was overwhelmed by a feeling of genuine, of bitter regret, ‘Don’t say all that. On the contrary, if we had never got to know each other you would perhaps have stayed in the civil service, you might have made a successful career, the career for which you were prepared and you might never have entertained that dangerous desire for a way of life that you are not up to.’

At that the pride of his race flared up within him:

‘I am as I
had to
be!’ he cried, stamping. ‘That is: I am ruined! But I would a thousand times rather live the life that I understand, that I have sampled and can then smash to pieces than drag a yoke through life like some ox who is driven by someone else.’

He had already started to attract the attention of the bystanders who were beginning to sense that something interesting was happening. But at that minute the nymphs arrived and pulled him into their midst.

I felt a painful sadness as, deserted, and tormented by useless apprehension, I found myself alone in the crowd which unthinkingly devoted itself to the unusual pleasures of this night.

And, indeed, they experienced something quite remarkable, and in the grand style. All the senses were satisfied simultaneously – in the manner of Huysman’s des Esseintes and his principle of accumulated gratification – with the most exquisite delicacies. Whilst the two orchestras played dances, overtures and pot pourris, and young soloists from the Conservatoire gathered small groups around them, the lovers of the fine arts feasted their eyes on the paintings, china and draperies which stood arranged beneath the electric lights, intimately and casually grouped together in the boudoir. Everything that was mediocre was now avoided: Eric had known how to gather together only the finest items, studies and collections from the most talented artists. One saw oil paintings by Liebermann and Exter, sketches by Greiner and water colours by Ludwig von Hofmann, also glass ware by Koepping and embroidery by Obrist.

The buffets had been arranged with exquisite taste and
expertise: one dined whenever one wished, with whom one wished, at small, triangular tables which stood beneath exotic, scented flowers, behind palms or tapestries: all was seductive, uninhibited. I must admit that my spirits rose as I treated myself to a glass of champagne with some pheasant which was stuffed with quail and swimming in red wine: my appetite was good. I could also not resist those pieces of toast which were spread with three delicacies – truffles, lark pâté and white caviar.

It was only then, when I was looking for somewhere to sit, that I was delighted to find Dimitri Teniakovsky who was also serving himself to the food whilst an Italian composer was serenading him with variations on a theme by Orlando di Lasso. This artist, a charming gigolo scarcely twenty years of age, got up from the piano and introduced himself. We then sat down together for a communal meal. The orchestras also took a break, and it was delightful for me to be spared the ear-shattering and nerve-destroying benediction of the instruments.

Quite naturally, our conversation soon turned to our host’s intention to kill himself, an intention which the Italian held as a prank, but which Dimitri took more seriously than I had expected. ‘Whatever happens’, he said, ‘we shall certainly have to lament his loss. It’s a great pity, he was a fine man. Five years earlier we might have been able to win him over.’

‘We should put him under lock and key’, the Italian cried, frivolously, ‘then have him admitted to a hydropathic establishment where they could douse him in cold water.’

‘Fortunately nobody has the right to do that any more’, I said; ‘You don’t cure broken lives in that way.’