Hermann Bahr:
The School of Love
The Dandy
Rocking back and forward in
his armchair while he manicured his fingernails, he found it pleasantly
titillating to imagine the girl - she had not even told him her name -clinging
to him under the blossoming apple trees as a gentle breeze wafted over them, or
in the evening, gliding homewards over the water, her quivering body pressed
against his in the narrow boat. 'Tant pis pour elle', he said as he stood up,
throwing the nail-scissors in an arc towards the table. 'I'm not running after
her. There are plenty more like that.
In fact, it was a piece of
luck. Good-natured as he was, and with his inability to resist any mood, the
most that would have come of it would have been some banal entanglement. The
one thing that was certain was that she was not his style
No, she was not his ideal
woman, not even a distant cousin a hundred times removed. Now, as he threw off
his dressing gown and settled down in front of the mirror, legs spread-eagled
over the cushion, to work on the masterpiece of his toilette, carefully
twisting his locks into dreamy curls, drawing out the proud lance of his
Vandyke, long, very long, with much brilliantine, and subjecting himself to a
loving and satisfied scrutiny, now, once again, his ideal appeared before him
with almost tangible clarity, so imperial and junoesque; and then this shy,
innocent swallow beside her, the image of Gerard's Psyche, yes, really, even -
he remembered - the same ringlets in her hair, at the front, falling down over
her forehead. No, there was no comparison; she might well be very sweet, for
modest requirements, but he, unfortunately, was already spoken for, sorry and
all that.
He lingered for a long time
among these pleasant images because, in accordance with his bad habit, he
lingered for a long time in front of the mirror, until his mane was finally
tamed and his elaborate cravat, with its multicoloured, fluttering points, was
tied in its artistic knot. He burst out laughing when he saw from the clock
that he had once again wasted two hours prettifying himself - like a cocotte,
his friends said, only she makes a profit out of it. They could not get over
his vanity.
But no, his was not the
common vanity they imagined. Yes, he loved dressing up, and he was happy if he
could wear something different, something out of the ordinary, striking and
amusing. Yes, he did have a luxurious lace shirt with a soft, broad, turn-down
collar, with glorious embroidery such as would have made old d'Aubrevilly green
with envy. And yes, he did have a pearl-grey sombrero with a huge brim, such as
only the proudest Andalusian picador would wear, so that some people took him
for a porter from les Halles. But he did not wear them to please the crowd, nor
did he calculate on attracting women's glances. It was just that he was
tormented by the desire to differentiate himself from the rest in his external
appearance, just as he knew how incomparably different he was in his inner
being. He was different from the rest, why should he not appear so? And every
day he needed this reassurance, this confirmation, to counter his pressing
doubts as to whether he really was one of a kind and did not belong to the
mass. How else could he ever perfect
his art?
Ennui
Moody they called him. Yes,
why did they not leave him alone, why were they always interfering with him,
and why did everyone try to mould him, and everyone want to change him, and
everyone want to force him to follow their own prescription, why was no one
happy with him as he was! Then of course he ended up losing all his sang-froid
and beating his wings against the floor and ceiling, bemused, fluttering round
in circles by fits and starts, staggering about in mortal fear of the constant,
unceasing drumming and hammering against all the bars of the cage, an infernal
din. Why could they not leave him as he was -truly, a modest desire - why not
let him follow his own nature, listen to his own wishes, obey his own
intentions, why could they not let him be? This was what had spoilt him, this
alone and no fault of his, that everywhere - tyranny of the outside world,
nothing other than this eternal tyranny, stupid, coarse, imperious, was lying
in wait for him in a thousand ambushes, now attacking him like a brigand with
open violence, now treacherously camouflaged in flattering counsel, garbed in
sympathy and friendship, but unyielding in its daily attacks; no wonder he had
finally succumbed to this persecution mania with which he tormented himself and
others, bewildered, distrustful, suspicious of the whole world.
* * * *
Bondage and service - that
was what they all demanded, and from everyone. This craving to find themselves
in another, to subjugate and appropriate foreign territory, to create a new
field for their own will in a second body, foreign flesh for their own soul;
this greedy, consuming hunger devoured every other desire, and they called it
friendship! And he, who was fainting with this nameless longing for a real
friend, he who, instead of always wanting only to take, would have surrendered
to a friend and enriched his soul instead of pillaging it with fire and sword,
like some insatiable vampire!
Alone, alone - why would they
not leave one alone? Was there not pain enough without one having to suffer
this cruel, merciless torture, all life through, this bitter, tormenting nausea
at those around one? But their meddling fingers tore him apart, and he could
see no hope and despaired, and often they spoilt even animals for him, even
things, in fact everything that was not a product of his mind.
Yes, finally all this had
brought him to a state where he hated everything that was not of his own
imagining. He could not bear it. And he remembered that insignificant things,
ridiculously insignificant things had unleashed a rabid fury within him - a
tune whistled in the street that stuck in his ear, frightening away his own
thoughts and resisting all his attempts to shake it off, to drive it out; or a
longed-for letter which just would not come with the post, even though it had
long since arrived in his imagination; or when he was held up by the crush of
people at a counter, while in his mind he had already completed the business;
all these endless, loathsome memories, every day, so that he was never alone,
was never free.
Then sometimes he was
overcome with the feeling that he wanted to smash everything to pieces, all
around, to lay waste to every sign of life with fire and sword, to raze to the
ground like the Vandals all traces of others, just to put an end to this
perpetual, insupportable ordering about by people and things, to create a
desert around him, a still, silent desert.
The Artist
Alone, alone - somewhere high
up in the ice or deep down on the bed of the bellowing sea, where none of the
insistent noise of everyday life could reach him and he would be safe from the
coarse, grasping claws of others! Ordinary, common people - yes, they might be
able to put up with their selfbeing stolen and replaced with an alien, they did
not need their self. But the artist-how could he live without this tool of his
craft?
Clearly it was the artist,
the artist within him, from which all this suffering came. This comforted him
and awoke within him an almost cosy mental image in which he wearily wrapped
himself up on the heavy, wide, luxurious divan, above which his wild Japanese
masks looked out with their mocking grins, their shaggy horsehair moustaches
and twisted mouths. It comforted him because it could not be called suffering
if it was a sign of art. Yes, clearly,
the artist within him, the artist . . . he never tired of repeating it in order
to reassure himself. Of course others did not have this sense of self, so
fervent and boundless, nor this dogged defiance the moment anything tried to
approach it, nor this mortal fear, breathless and feverish, of losing it. They
did not care whether they possessed it or not, because they never made use of
it, could easily do without it and not even notice. They could be happy. But
the artist!?
True, it was a comfort
because it satisfied his pride, but he could not conceal from himself the
logical conclusion that this meant his suffering was unavoidable, without help,
hopeless, not mere chance, which might change, but necessary, unalterable fate,
if it came not from the malice of the world, but from himself and his art. And
that again annoyed him, not the fact that it was so, but that he knew it. That
took the heart out of him, all his power of decision and even his cheerful
hatred of mankind and the world, which at least provided, mingled with hope and
sorrow as it was, some pleasant exercise for the soul. As long as he deceived
himself about the truth, he could blame fortune and have confidence in the
future. Now the clouds of madness were closing round his mind.
But it was one of his
unfortunate habits, which he could never escape however many resolutions he
made, to spend whole days on the sofa, swinging up and down on the trapeze of
his thoughts, to dizzier and dizzier heights, and to insist on poking round in
his brain, probing deeper and deeper, right down to its hidden roots. This
curiosity about himself was something he had had since his youth, and of course
it was the artist again, always the artist, who never tired of thus hearing his
confession every day and of exploring every corner of his conscience. But how
else could he have any hope of eventually discovering the great mystery that
was sleeping and would not wake, somewhere deep down in the depths of his soul.
So he explored, explored
within himself, scanning himself with a lamp, as if it were not himself at all
but some
strange monster that he had
been commanded to guard. Holding his breath and leaning forward in
concentration, he listened, to see whether the miracle would happen and it would
finally show signs of life. In the meantime at least he recorded every detail
of what he found, in order to assure himself that he really was an exceptional
individual, a superior nature, an homme d'elite.
Thus he put his soul in front
of the mirror, combed it out and groomed it.
The Girl
It was too late to start
anything before dinner.
Reading: nothing but obscenities and idiocies;
he knew them off by heart.
Up and down, to and fro.
Smoking, smoking. At least tobacco kept its promises, that was one thing that
was still honest and true - smoking, smoking.
Start again from the
beginning, that breathless trek through his thoughts?
Must he always, always be
thinking? Those rosebuds outside, they had no thoughts. But they gave off their
scent and they would bloom.
A woman, a woman! Whatever
Marius might say. It was all very well for him to advocate cocottes, a
different one every night, never the same one twice - yes, when one had reached
the same stage as him! But he was nowhere near that, thank God... unfortunately.
A woman, a woman!
Then he would have peace,
would have some rest. That would be bliss, bliss!
Work, as long as the mood
flowed. Then, when it came to a halt, away with the paints on the spot to go
out with the little woman, out, one day into the country, the next dancing, but
always finding oblivion.
Sometimes he was so tired of
the eternal struggle, so sick of his eternal cravings. He longed for the bliss
of a quiet, undemanding friendship. And most of his socks had holes in them, as
well.
Bliss, bliss!
The only snag was the
beginning, until everything was running smoothly: looking round, searching,
taking trouble, wavering, deciding on one, then deciding on another.
It was a nuisance that she
had not come back with him. But to wait for a week and then rush to a
rendezvous that, perhaps, she had already forgotten by now - well, perhaps if
he were head over heels in love!
But he could write, it
suddenly occurred to him; he would write to her as he had promised. A long,
detailed letter that would fill in the hour that he still had before it was
time for his absinthe. A crazy love-letter. Was he still up to it? One didn't
forget that easily how to lie.
It amused him. He chose the
most delightful declarations and sought out the most precious gems of language.
From these he composed such a beseeching prayer to his guardian angel, of such
fervour and humility, that when he read it he was moved to tears of pity for
himself. Let him see one of those novelists do that, and they were paid for it!
He really had the gift, though only on paper. Face to face he was awkward and
embarrassed; it put him off that they would not keep quiet and let him work
himself up into the right mood, gradually, from one sentence to the next.
The letter contained a lot of
flattery and a lot of passion. He described to her how he saw her now, in the
yearning of his loneliness, as a heavenly nymph, the first pleasant, alluring
vision on this sullen, miserable day. And as he read out the words to himself
again, savouring their delicate flavour, he was astonished that she was so
beautiful, and that he liked her as she was; it was only now that he realised
it.
Expectation
But at the end of the month,
when he had seen her every Sunday and then, during the last week, accompanied
her home from work every evening, when that week was over, on the last day,
something happened. He waited for her in vain, at the corner, beneath the
crooked lamp, in the wind. She did not come, nor the next day, nor on the third
day.
From the unutterable fear that
struck him - was she ill? was she unfaithful? - and from the way the volcanic
letter erupted from his lacerated soul, he realised it was not the problem that
concerned him, it was love. But no answer came to his letter. In the store
where she worked they knew nothing. 'She no longer works here.'
On the fourth day, at the
tenth hour of the morning, as he was wrestling with his wild dreams, there was
a gentle knock at the door, like an embarrassed beggar, or a model looking for
work, then another, and after he had repeated his surly grunt and was already
preparing a crude rebuff, then, after a while, she came in, tiptoed up to his
bed, her bemused gaze stumbling inquisitively over the jumble of dingy
bibelots, and, after she had given him a hearty kiss, sat down on the edge and
said, a little timidly and despondently, 'You see, I've left my cousin's,
because I can't live without you ,... it was the most sensible thing to do ...
last Saturday.
Then he let out a howl, like
a hungry beast that has finally caught its prey, and tore her to him and threw
himself onto her and ran his trembling fingers over every inch of her and
rolled back and forth with her, giving short, shrill, hoarse whistles of
ecstasy and covering her whole body with biting kisses, as if he wanted to tear
her to pieces.
But she twisted out of his
arms. for she was wearing her new hat, the one made of black lace with a spray
of roses and anemones hanging down at the back, very crushable, very fragile.
And sitting in front of the mirror, smoothing herself out and putting up her
hair, she said, 'You always wanted to go out into the country ... just look
outside, today, the sun.
His first impulse was not to
let her go before he had tasted of her flesh, that glowing, quivering, rosy
flesh, the overpowering, sultry scent of which he was greedily sucking in with
wide-stretched nostrils like some exquisite oriental spice; not before his
thirsty embrace had sipped of her blood from the lips, breasts and loins he had
already gnawed; not before this unutterable craving to devour her, to drink her
dry, to enjoy her with each separate sense, was finally, finally satisfied. But
he pulled himself together and let her be. He realised he did not want to spoil
the bliss that had finally arrived. No, now was the time to prove that he knew
how to enjoy happiness by not hastily swallowing it in large gulps, but by
savouring its sweet berries on his palate, slowly, deliberately, letting them
seep into his every pore, jealous of every drop, so as not to lose the least
atom of its full flavour. He wanted to tend his bliss, methodically,
systematically, so as to gather in a lush harvest.
He would spend the whole day
imagining it, the whole, long, summer's day, filling his mind with detailed
images. The whole day he would sleep with her in his mind, constantly assuring
himself, through kisses and embraces, that that night he would sleep with her
body. The whole day he would luxuriate in the rapturous certainty that in the evening
he would finally luxuriate in the rapture which had for so long been uncertain.
He kept fondling her in his mind with such tireless antitheses, just as he kept
fondling her with tender, lustful, fumbling fingers. And he would have wished
the day everlasting and eternal, spread out over aeons, without end, because
already he was filled with fearful doubts, which, however, did not dare moan
out loud; already he was afraid of the fulfillment: could it, could it ever
match up to his expectation?
Fulfillment
As protection against the
cool evening air, he threw his coat round them and they each enveloped
themselves in the other, their two bodies growing into one. He had his arm
round her neck and could feel the warm buds of her breasts. And everything she
said, every word, was like the heavenly music of happy angels, and he was most
astonished, for the first time he realised what spring was. He would have
liked to have stayed sitting on the rock and died.
Slowly, very slowly, after
their meal in the little garden by the river - surrounded by buds; a
nightingale sang -they returned home up the Seine, through the brightly
coloured flames of the Exhibition. It was even more beautiful than he had
expected. Slowly they walked along the boulevard to his apartment.
He lit the light, she tied
the flowers into a large bouquet and put them in water. As she undressed, he
smoked one more cigar and drank in the odour of the flowers and of her flesh.
Neither spoke a word, she just softly hummed an old air from the Auvergne as
she sat at the mirror releasing her tresses. Then, as if they had long been
accustomed to it, they went to bed. And it was with a sudden shock, almost
horror, that he realised he had made love to a virgin.
Stuttering and stammering,
overcome with confusion, he raised himself to his knees, 'Oh, you ... how then
... You didn't mention that... is it... can it really...?
She sat up, buttoning up her
bodice again, her gaze fixed on the far distance, as if seeking help against
some inconceivable danger, and with quivering lips, 'You thought I was one of
those?!' And she turned to the wall and cried, cried bitterly. But soon sleep
took pity on her.
But he, in a feverish
turmoil, could not find peace. He tossed and turned, looking for coolness in
the sultry pillows. His throat was burning.
He jumped out of bed, craving
water, took a deep draught, wet his eyes and plunged his face into the bowl; he
wanted to swim out into the wide ocean until this parching, choking thirst was
cooled. And then, closing the curtain round the bed so as not to wake her, he
lit the light and walked and walked, breathless, if only he could have climbed
the mountains, straight up into the ice, if only he could escape somewhere. And
he wondered what all this could be.
Yes, it was bliss, his reason
could prove it. It was bliss, ultimate bliss. It was just that he was not yet
used to it.
* * * *
Outside, dawn was breaking
and the trees were shaking themselves. Gently he pulled back the curtain of the
bed. She was breathing softly. He knelt down and placed an ardent kiss on the
rosy-pink sole of her foot, which was peeping out of the bedclothes. And thus,
in the attitude of prayer, he fell asleep.
Blessing or Curse?
Often when, the morning rays
saluting her, covering her hyacinth flesh with golden scales, she sat upright
in front of the mirror braiding her hair, his desire flickering round her, and
slowly, with plucking fingers that gleamed like swift snakes, gently and
insistently pulled at her tangled lashes, her recalcitrant brows, damped and
shaped them, her lips pursed in a silent whistle whilst her restless tongue
flickered out quickly and darted back in with a soft smacking, and then, lids
closed, bending forward as if in prayerful humility, softly, carefully,
tenderly she wiped the powder puff - her little nose, fearful of the dust,
twisting to the side - over her lowered cheeks, assiduously, many times and
with a very serious, solemn, sacred expression, as if performing an act of
worship; or at other times when, going out on an errand, she left him alone in
bed, among the traces of her smell in the sultry hollows from which clouds of
delightful images rose up, intoxicating, ecstatic shapes; or in the peace of
the evening, as they were waiting for night, as, slowly, the soft memory of
light faded, and conversation was already asleep and only a song from some
childish game flitted shyly across her lips - then, sometimes, he could have
soared up to the stars in exultation, with boundless joy, because he felt so
unutterably happy.
But at other times,
immediately after, abruptly, he felt the urge to throttle her, to whip her, to
tear her apart, his fingers ripping into her hated flesh, until she was gone,
eradicated, in his anger, fury and disgust; and he could not have said what the
reason was, there was no reason, the urge just came to him, no idea where from,
it was a turmoil which overcame him, alarming, irresistible, at the mere sight
of her, catching him unawares, sometimes at moments when his happiness seemed
complete.
So he never knew where he was
with himself, because it was like a sickness which kept reappearing with
different horrors, and he did not know what to do, he could not settle to a
constant, reliable feeling towards her and was ever anxious and apprehensive as
to what might happen next, the next moment, and never, through all his eager
curiosity, was it settled whether it was a blessing or a curse.
The Sign of the whip
No, it meant nothing, there
was no need to get worked up. It was just one of Fifi's dreadful habits - he
knew them well enough by now - that she could not sit still for a moment, but
took every opportunity to be jumping up and down, now looking in the mirror if
a bow were coming undone, or going to fetch water, salt, vinegar, or the
newspaper to read the theatre reviews - and her ringlets bobbed up and down,
and her hips swayed, and her fingers clicked. And out in the street she could
never quietly walk straight along the pavement, but had to look in every shop
window; she always walked down both sides of the street at the same time, as
Marius put it; across, back, an incessant zigzag.
And then, she just wanted to
tease him a little.
Probably.
Because of the lecture he had
given her about table manners, about the way she used to eat things with her
knife.
That was it.
She wouldn’t forgive him for
that. Very prickly.
She couldn’t stand it when he
reminded her of her lowly origins, that she hadn't been brought up properly.
Took her revenge.
She was doing it
deliberately.
But he wouldn't fall for
that. It showed just how little she knew him!
On the contrary. She amused
him, with all her vain stratagems, which he could see through straight away.
Barking up the wrong tree!
Just grin and bear it. Don’t
react. The two men were already at coffee. That would make her the one to look
silly.
He'd have a good laugh at
her.
No he wouldn't, he still felt
sorry for her, after all that fuss about the knife, which was really all
nonsense. And how charming she was, the way she was pulling the leaves off the
artichoke, dipping them, tasting the sauce, with those roguishly innocent eyes.
Why torment her? Have
patience, educate her - and love, lots of love.
You have to treat women like
children.
More sweets than the whip.
And it was better for him,
too, better for his digestion.
The two swells had finally
left and gone into the smoking room.
Make it up. Take her to a
grand theatre to see the latest play. And buy roses. She couldn't resist
flowers. Everything would be back to normal.
And then, just as he was making
these noble resolutions, she was away, jumped up, knocked her chair over, dress
streaming out behind her, and took the three steps down into the salon in one
leap.
Like a bird taking off.
Like a shooting star.
And she was gone. All that
was left was the echo of her giggle.
Music, of course. She got
carried away, her legs simply took over.
It was a little inconsiderate
towards him, though. After all, he was her lover!
Then why didn't he dance,
ever? His own fault. Him and his idees fixes.
She was not the kind of girl
who would be silly enough to let that ruin her life. There was nothing like a
lively waltz.
So there she was, jigging
about the floor with 'Twisted Nose' while 'Iodoform' played the piano.
He fell into such a rage that
he smashed the bottle of cognac.
Rushed out and tore her from
'Twisted Nose's' arms, so violently that he went tottering across the floor.
If he had said one word, one
single word of protest!
Nothing but cowards, the
whole lot of them. Just stared in amazement. And women fall for such pathetic
specimens!
She just turned very pale,
and bit her lips to stop herself crying out as he dragged her with him, and
held back the tears that came to her eyes because he was hurting her so much.
He did not let go, the whole
way home, but hauled her along like an obstinate calf. She did not dare say a
word, nor cry out loud. She was filled with great fear, and with great love,
because he was strong.
When they arrived home he was
exhausted and trembling, and all he could say was, 'You whore!'
Then her defiance returned,
and she tried to humiliate him, scoffing, 'Well go and find another one, then,
if you can find one who'll take you!'
Then he hit her in the face
with his clenched fist. As she had no other way of defending herself, she spat
at him.
He ripped off her clothes,
tearing them to rags, bent her over and set about her with his dog-whip. He
wanted to scourge her till the flesh fell from her bones, till there was no
trace left of her and he was free. His mind was empty apart from this one
irresistible desire, and he could not stop until it was assuaged.
Just blood, blood. He only
came to himself again when it was dripping down from the weals.
Then he forced her to make
love and chastised her with kisses, while she pushed at him, spat and bared her
teeth.
Until they fell into an
insensible, death-like stupor. Outside, their cat, which had fled, glided
softly over the brightly lit roof, beneath the silent, shimmering sky.
From that day on their
relationship was transformed, under the sign of the whip. Their caresses turned
into blows, and every kiss, like a lash with thorns, tore open stinging cuts,
from which their flesh began to fester, as if from the contagion of their
shame. It was a cruel and depraved torture, insatiable lust, the waves of which
pounded more and more furiously with each renewal, inventive in cruelty,
sensuality that had lost its way and was heading towards madness. They could no
longer find satisfaction unless they were glued together with blood; they had
to dig into each others vitals with clenched fingernails and tear at their
innards just to elicit a response from their deadened, debilitated nerves,
pounded, ridden to exhaustion by so much passion. And again and again, restless
and unyielding, their panting, never-satisfied senses howled 'More, more!'
He worked out a new theory
about it, that they were on the trail of a new kind of love: through torment.
And then that would flush the
new art out of its hiding place.
As if they first had to
destroy their bodies so that their souls could come together, freed from base
flesh and happy.
Yes, strangle each other so
their souls might be resurrected. That was it - more or less, he had not yet
worked it out in detail, only that first of all they had to kill the flesh
which held them imprisoned.
Yes, he was on the right
track: through torment.
First of all he had to
destroy his old consciousness, so that the new love could awaken.
To sink - first of all everything
had to sink, to flicker out, to be extinguished.
First they had to strangle
each other, so they could rise again.
It gave him a mystical,
religious lust - he could not express it in words because it was confused,
beyond language.
They just had to hold out,
they were so near.
They had to blast each other
to pieces. Then they would be able to grasp it, grasp it and hold it.
And hourly he fell upon her
in his butchering rage with some new humiliation and devastated her with some
new atrocity and crucified her on some new perversion.
And when once more he had
crushed her and drained himself dry, so that their pale corpses merely twitched
with dull spasms, then suddenly, at the back of his brain, a bright light
appeared, very bright, with a comforting, faery brightness.
Then again they would brood
for silent hours that limped by, and neither would dare look the other in the
eye, because they were so deep in filth.
Once she said, with horror,
'You will finish by completely depraving me', and shuddered with shame and
disgust.
But he could not give in
because it was his last hope. There was no vice, no murder he shrank from
because it was for art, for its awakening.
Until his body rebelled.
His body drove him away from
her with disgust and horror. His body ejected love like a poisonous infection
which the healthy fluids would not stand.
It was a fever to save his
life.
Ill, for weeks on end, with
sudden, obstinate visions. He felt he was seeping out and draining away, he
could not hold himself together. He was very frightened that his head might
split in two, right down the middle; then he would be two persons and none at
all. He was driven around restlessly by a shrill roaring that grew and grew.
All his thoughts tripped and staggered and rolled into a tangle; they stumbled
along lopsidedly, feeling their way, as if in an obstinate, drunken stupor. He
supported his forehead, which seemed to have been transformed into lead, on his
hands. Dank clouds of dreams hung on his lids, pulling them down; but when he
lay in bed, sleep withdrew and only came in fits and starts, with icy shivers
that ate into the marrow, a ghastly tossing and turning under a cruel glare, as
if there were some inexorable vice pushing the walls of his brain together,
closer and closer, narrower and narrower, tighter and tighter, until any moment
they would meet and crush his mind to a pulp.
* * * *
And he bathed his fevered
brain in absinthe and drugged himself with sultry, stupefying odours, so that
he lost all consciousness of himself. He neglected himself, like a hated and
useless burden, and was alienated from himself and took no care for himself,
because he could no longer understand nor control himself. And he kept on
thinking that he would divide into two. It was certain it would happen, quite
certain, and one day he would wake up split into two halves. And from then on
he would only be the other one, the new one that came out of the left side of
the brain, and the old one he would throw out, together with her.
Together with her. She was
only a delusion of his damaged mind.
And he felt much better when
he imagined all this, how he would be a new, free man. The man he would be
would know nothing of the past, nothing of her. He would free himself from her.
To free himself from her.
That was the object of his avid longing.
To live in hope, to wait for
the miracle to happen. He could not do it on his own because his strength was
exhausted. It had to come as a blessing from outside.
To free himself from her, to
free himself from all women, and then he would never again have anything to do
with love, for nothing came of it.
To use her to purify himself,
but only as one takes a bitter, nasty medicine, getting rid of it as soon as
the infection is over. The last thing he wanted was love. He had been cured,
thoroughly cured, of the superstition that love might exist.
No, for this generation there
was no such thing as love. Of the old kind they only knew from books and could
not feel it, whatever efforts their minds might make. And the new kind of love
- yes, perhaps later, but it had not appeared yet; they were only deceiving
themselves.
* * * *
Women made one unclean. Being
with them made the soul dirty. His throat filled with phlegm at the mere thought.
Often he had a terrible,
tormenting fantasy. In a spacious hall, that was decorated with bile and
spittle, all the women with whom he had ever slept were gathered together. He
could not count them: there were beautiful ones, with eglantine in their hair
and pearly smiles, cajoling like the starry nights of an Andalusian summer; and
there were aloof ones, who appeared chaste on the outside, with hidden
allurements; and misshapen, hunchback ones whose features revealed the smirk of
rare and poisonous vices; there were curious children and nymphomaniac old
women; some who did it for lust and some to quell their hunger. And all of
them, naked, crumpled from lascivious exercises, thronged round him with
practised gestures and shouted propositions, vying with each other, arousing
him to a turmoil of lust, until, in great fear, he swooned. Then an abrupt fall
woke him, trembling, as if at the roaring of a hot, dry wind, soaked through
from all the turmoil and horror.
If only he could free himself
of her!
* * * *
And so they lived alongside
each other, brooding, turned in upon themselves, preoccupied with their soul's
misery, through leaden, stranded days; rigidly avoiding words and glances, they
gnawed at their hatred. And each was furtively waiting to see if the other
would start, fearing it and craving it. And then, because their life was
unbearable, suddenly, just so that something would happen in the dreadful
desert of their emotions, uttering shrill curses, they would assault each other
with love, with a hurried, wild, grimacing love that made them disgusted with
themselves, and they buried themselves in each other until they were conscious
of nothing, nothing.
Free Again!
At last he was rid of her,
and for good. He was free again. The feeling of oppression left him, the yoke
split, he could breathe a sigh of relief. He was his own man again. He could
devote himself to art once more.
And it had come about through
her, through no fault of his, without his help, without his complicity, the
break had come through her alone; not a whiff of reproach touched him. No one
could accuse him of having rejected her; he had no responsibility, nothing to
repent. It was she who had left him, deliberately and of her own free will.
All that was very nice.
Just as he had hoped in his
wildest imaginings. He could enjoy the gift of freedom with an easy conscience.
It was impossible to regret it, because it was impossible to avoid it.
And that was something else
one should bear in mind, that she had not left him for a more handsome1 younger
or more amusing lover, but for a vulgar monster, a blackamoor, because he was
rich, very rich. It would have wounded his pride if she had transferred her
affections; something like that is humiliating. But she had left him for money,
purely for money; no need to feel hurt about that.
* * * *
So he clung to his work and
began again his wild, breathless wrestling with the brush.
He hammered himself with
ambition and greed and all the stimulants he could find. He boiled his nerves
in poems, in music. He goaded himself with the phantoms of his dead hopes.
Nothing helped.
Then he slumped again and
despaired even of art.
That, too, was nothing but a
sham. He would never be able to achieve Beauty and Truth. And even if he could,
then it was certain that no one would understand him.
What was the point, then?
If he was just common and low
like the rest, then he could not produce art. But if he was not common and low,
then for the rest the art he produced would be incomprehensible and contrary to
all reason. What was the point, then?
* * * *
Be common like the rest, have
money and play baccarat for his digestion - that was it!
And get drunk, thoroughly
drunk, soak his brain until it left him in peace, strangle his nerves until
they were silent.
And after a week the whole
quartier knew of his tempestuous nights in all the dives where there was
nothing but wild carousing with brazen whores. And they just called him 4the
crazy painter' because he 'was such a lot of fun', tireless in his
inexhaustible repertoire of practical jokes They all envied him his crackling,
fizzling, sparkling humour and his happy-g~lucky temperament; especially when
he talked about his 'little tart' who had run off with a 'blackamour', how very
fin de siecle. He always told that story because it cheered him up.
* * * *
When he felt in the crack
under the door that morning, he found two letters there. The first was large,
soft, grey; he recognised those curt insults just from the handwriting:
from his tailor, the fellow
had become insolent lately; and anyway, it was just the same old story about
money. Quickly he tore open the other letter.
'My darling pet rabbit.
Just time for a few hurried
lines, I have still to get dressed, and the chimpanzee is going to buy me some
pictures now, since they made all that fuss about Monet's daub of the Soledad
Fougere, but of course, I wouldn't stand for that, and then I remembered, it
makes no difference to me but it might be your big chance, he's already
promised and will pay anything you ask so don't be shy, make him pay through
the nose, send three or four, whatever you happen to have, but send them
straight away and with as much bare flesh as possible.
Hearty kisses all over - must
dash now - from your ever-loving Fifi.'
* * * *
He was pleased that the
decision had been made for him. He preferred to think of all the money, all the
money in shimmering piles, how it would glitter and chink, bright, cheery ... money,
money ... he sucked at the slippery, slimy words that brought the water to his
mouth and licked at them with all his thoughts.
He set off home to deal with
it straight away, so that it would be done, unalterable, packed up the four
paintings and sent them off that very day. The next day, in the morning,
punctually with the first post, came his price, in clean notes which felt good
to the touch and crackled with soft suggestions as he stroked them tenderly. He
found their delicate blue positively relaxing; now at least he could afford to
give his tailor a piece of his mind.
The first thing, though, was
to turn himself into a respectable human being. He was tired of this gypsy
life: debts and ideals. He suddenly felt - God knows where they came from - powerful
urges drawing him away from all this nonconformity and pushing him towards
conventionality, and they felt good because they were something new; he had
really rather overindulged in the other kinds of feelings on the menu, He
suddenly found himself so reasonable, so mature, so adult, having put away all
his silly pranks, far, far away, and so composed; from now on he was going to
concentrate on reality, on tangible enjoyment, which could enrich both nerves
and senses, on being positive like other people; all that head-in-the-clouds
striving led nowhere.
His new clothes had their
effect. He spent his days rehearsing the new homme de chic. It was only now
that he realised that you really do think differently in patent leather shoes
and kid gloves, the brain is shunted onto another track; it was obviously the
homespun that had caused his former confused idealism, now his feelings came
from finest English worsted, lined with satin.
* * * *
Yes, the school of love
taught true wisdom. You got quite badly mauled, but in the end it did mean you
had all the nonsense knocked out of you. What you learnt there, you learnt for
the rest of your life.
Taking it all in all, there
was no need for him to regret his affair with Fifi. The six months had not been
wasted; they had brought him to his senses. They had cleared away all his
romantic nonsense and turned him into the natural representative of the age.
And now he could live his own
life. He concentrated on his baccarat and, after he had bought himself a pair
of yellow trousers, learnt to ride. So as not to neglect the artist within him
completely, he sometimes composed outfits to wear.
He was firmly resolved never
again to take anything seriously apart from himself
* * * *
Often, as he gazed out on the
declining days of autumn, he thought how agreeable, how relaxing the coming
winter would be, full of well-earned pleasure.
Extracts from Hermann Bahr:
Die gute Schule, S. Fischer, Berlin, 1890.