by Ray Furness
* * * *
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 handsome, younger or more amusing lover, but for a vulgar monster, a blacka-moor, 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 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 ‘the 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-go-lucky temperament; especially when he talked about his ‘little tart’ who had run off with a ‘blackamour’, how very fin de siécle. 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 Fougère, 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.
Arthur Holitscher: The Poisoned Well
There are certain individuals who pass through the crowd like a whiplash. They dart like a tongue, painful and shrill, they gash, insult and incense as they pass, and leave behind wounds which only close with difficulty. They themselves seem to have no awareness of the powers which they possess; they are like instruments lying upon the workbench of some higher Master, obedient to his will, a Master who will use them according to inscrutable laws. Their constitution encourages a compliance with the Master’s wishes, they are good, reliable tools in his hand – perhaps he created them himself with materials whose essence and origin are known only to him.
A young woman who turned up towards the beginning of March in Monte Carlo in the year 188- called forth similar observations in those who were able to distance themselves from the hurly-burly of frivolous and numbing distractions by entering a more profound excitation. Her appearance was such that many whose path she had crossed suddenly, and with lightning clarity, believed that they were able to discover the closer affinities between men and the tropical forms of nature around them; those who had been driven to Monte Carlo out of boredom suddenly gazed into the world with cheerful animation; the frivolous became melancholy, the melancholy frivolous, and there was certainly not a man in the place who could resist the enchantment which her personality radiated like a mysterious power, animating and attracting all things. She always appeared – in contrast to the fashion which prevailed at the time, preferring faded colours and delicate half-tones in which the society that prescribed them began to give expression of its own lassitude – in a dazzling white silk dress and a large Florentine hat surrounded by white feathers, and strolled up and down the avenues of brown-black pines and olives, of purple magnolias and lush green cacti, against the deep blue background of the sea and the Italian sky. Her tall, indeed very tall, figure stood in gleaming contrast: she seemed almost extended above her true height, white as all the colours of the South together, almost bluish, like a threatening flame. The only splash of colour was provided by her luxuriant, copper-coloured hair that was so rich and heavy that it seemed as if it would pull the slim body backwards, her blood-red lips and her beautiful, expressive eyes whose colour no man could determine with precision because none could tolerate her gaze long enough. These eyes also changed colour according to her moods, from the tired blue of the turquoise to the drunken azure of the sapphire. A posy of brightest anemones and lilac was stuck in her white leather belt, flowers whose intoxicating perfume rose like wishes both passionate and silent. A white Russian greyhound never left the young woman’s side, a graceful creature answering to the name of Only. It was easily discovered that she was called Désirée, that the letters she received were written by a man and had a German postage stamp and that her chamber maid spoke the purest Parisian French. More than that it was difficult to assess. She had her meals in her room, always went out alone and even the most daring of men caught his breath at the thought of approaching her. She was surrounded by a powerful magnetic field of unapproachability, but outside this circle passions raged wherever she showed herself.
[…]
One day – it was early autumn – the French maid entered the boudoir holding a visiting card in her hands which had just been left with the porter. Désirée took it, read its name, and looked at it again. She looked at the maid for a moment, who lowered her eyes. Then she ordered the stranger to be admitted into the Grey Ro
om. The card bore the name: ‘Sulzwasser, Doctor of Chemistry’.
Sulzwasser gave his hat and cane and followed the groom, a pretty pubescent boy dressed in a black livery and ballroom slippers, through the antechamber into a high, circular room whose light was received through a dome-shaped roof of translucent glass. As he walked through the room he noticed that the walls, from top to bottom, were concealed by old Flemish Gobelins with illustrations portraying in a light and simple manner the legend of the fountain of youth; the tapestry showed the young climbing out of the spring on the right and moving like an hour hand through all the phases of life until they reached the other side, senile and decrepit, staggering towards the spring again.
The youth lifted the tapestry which portrayed the fountain itself and Sulzwasser found himself in a spacious, oblong room which likewise seemed to be bathed in grey light. He noticed first of all a splendid, life-size portrait in a deep blue frame which took up one side of the narrower wall opposite. It showed an elderly, alert man in a white nightshirt and blue cap, stepping energetically towards the viewer from an orange background; undoubtedly the work of the Scotsman Whistler [sic]. Through the wide window of the left-hand wall, half-covered with curtains of light-grey Indian silk and before which stood a Steinway grand piano, one could see the English Garden’s ancient plane-trees whose foliage, in variegated autumn hues, thrust against the panes.
But on the right-hand side, flanked by a large bejewelled ebony Buddha, into whose base a portable, triptych altar by van Eyck had been inset, and a worm-eaten Queen Anne cabinet whose cut-glass panels revealed a plenitude of priceless bric à brac (Italian musical instruments, Greek lamps, old French books of devotion with richly coloured binding, statuettes of jaspis and gold, ceramic fetishes of peoples long dead, worn away in monstrous rituals, Rococo fans and swords from Toledo covered in patina, an hour-glass by Cellini with softly sifting sand) there stood a narrow Gothic throne on three steep, purple steps. It only had one seat, supported by slim columns and crowned by a narrow pointed baldachin; it stood there, the strict rectitude of its form accentuating in a mysterious way the eroticism of the room.