by Ray Furness
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.
Kurt Martens: A Novel from the Age of Decadence.
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 thi
s 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.’
‘Well, then for God’s sake why doesn’t he take up a bohemian existence? He seems to have artistic tendencies.’
Dimitri nodded sadly in my direction. ‘Because he might have done everything, he became nothing.’
‘But only because he believed that everything was too late for him.’
‘Yes, but this erroneous idea is necessarily tied in with his destiny. Even if he started work now he would only collapse into the most lamentable mediocrity.’
Towards eleven o’clock a fanfare called us down to the vestibule where armchairs were ranged in a semicircle before a curtain. Behind this curtain the rooms had had certain walls removed to form a wide stage.
The play was Oskar Panizza’s The Council of Love, performed in a lavish fashion. This had recently been confiscated by the public prosecutor and the author himself had been found guilty of blasphemy on ninety-nine charges and given a jail sentence. When an actor stepped forward and announced the play in a salacious prologue the audience burst forth in loud and demonstrative acclamation.
The author could not have found a more appreciative audience for his work than these overheated drones, drunk with indulgence and lubriciousness and desirous of draining the last tingling drop of this piquant distillation. As soon as the curtain rose, and the dainty cherubs had excelled themselves in blasphemy and lustfulness the hall reverberated with gusts of shrieking laughter and wild bursts of applause. When God, the Virgin Mary and Jesus appeared a tremendous cry of ‘Bravo!’ was heard which rose to a wild tumult when the eternal mysteries were caricatured. The second act, which represented an orgy in the papal palace to the strains of the Missa solemnis with puppet-show and a ballet of naked courtesans, whipped up the passions of the spectators to a paroxysm of frenzy. Roaring and screaming they imitated the actors’ performance; chairs were overturned as ladies fled the room. The more devoted members of the audience objected to this interruption and feared that the performance might be terminated: the farce, however, continued unabated. The lascivious titillation remained at its peak; only towards the end, when Syphilis, with mask and make-up, was sent by the devil for the welfare of the human rabble, did a breath of foreboding and horror steal through the exquisite company.
After the curtain had closed over this divine tragedy the wildest bacchanal broke out upstairs, the actors participating. I heard that Dmitri had suddenly been called away, and would have preferred to run away myself had not the thought of Erich’s demise not held me back. Fortunately I found myself amongst an elegant collection of beautifully bound books and poems by Swinburne, Mallarmé and Hugo von Hofmannsthal. The latter, I learned, was the poet of those lines which Erich had praised before me and Amaryllis some while before.
Each room was filled with diabolical uproar. Beneath the cacophony of the instruments which endlessly blared out dance music there was roaring, screaming and people dancing the can-can. Nobody knew where Erich von Lüttwitz was hiding. Some thought they had seen him during the performance; others claimed that he was lying, totally inebriated, before a picture of Venus. A search for him began, in all the corners, under all the tables, first playfully, but then with mounting horror.
Gradually the house became quieter: the musicians were ordered to stop playing. Small groups gathered, whispering and conferring. Only a few concealed the unbridled thrill they experienced at the prospect of an imminent and terrible surprise, just as the rabble in Rome had anticipated the last fight of the gladiators. Then the rumour spread: Erich Lüttwitz had shot himself at two o’clock before his mirror with two small pistols. ‘Where? Where?’ was the anxious question. ‘Probably in his bedroom, or in the dressing-room.’ ‘Upstairs, then? On the second floor? Someone should go and look.’
Now they were all very sober and abashed. A few of the girls burst into tears and demanded to be taken home. Other figures made their uncertain way surreptitiously to the door. I sat alone, bathed in sweat and unable to move my limbs, watching the scene. I was listless, in the sober knowledge that the drama was now over and nothing could hinder the unknown catastrophe. Whatever the details might be did not concern me; I would rather not know. Envoys, servants and guests came back from the rooms on the second floor. Nothing extraordinary had been found. They searched the whole house meticulously for about an hour. Erich Lüttwitz had disappeared without trace.
It was empty, silent and dark. The guests departed without a word. One of the last, I stepped over into the fog of the streets.
Extract from Kurt Martens: Roman aus der Décadence Berlin, 1898, pp 247–257.
Georg Heym: The Autopsy
The dead man lay, alone and naked, on a white table in the large room, amid the oppressive whiteness, the cruel austerity of the operating theatre, which still seemed to tremble with the screams of unending torments.
The midday sun was spread over him like a sheet, awakening the cadaveric lividity of his forehead; it conjured a bright green from his belly, blowing it up like a huge water-bag.
His body resembled the gigantic, iridescent cup of a mysterious flower from the Indian jungle which someone had shyly laid beside the altar of Death.
Magnificent blues and reds grew along his loins, and in the heat the great wound below his navel slowly burst like a red furrow, giving off a dreadful odour.
The doctors entered. Two amiable men in white coats and gold pince-nez, with the duelling scars of the student fraternities.
They went over to the dead man and looked at him, with interest, dis
cussing medical matters.
Out of the white cupboards they took their dissecting instruments, white boxes full of hammers, bone-saws with strong teeth, files, horrible cases full of forceps, little holders full of huge needles which looked like curved vulture’s beaks, eternally screaming for flesh.
They began their horrible task. They resembled hideous torturers; the blood streamed over their hands, and they thrust them even farther into the cold corpse and took out the contents, like white cooks drawing a goose.
The intestines twisted themselves round their arms like yellowish-green snakes, and the faeces dribbled down their coats, a warm, putrid liquid. They slit open the bladder; inside, the urine shimmered like yellow wine. They poured it out into great bowls; it had a pungent, acrid smell, like ammoniac.
But the dead man slept on. Patiently he allowed himself to be tugged this way and that, to be dragged by the hair this way and that; he slept on.
And as the hammer-blows thundered against his head, a dream, one last scrap of love, awoke within him, like a torch shining out into his darkness.
Outside the window a huge, broad sky opened up, filled with little white clouds floating in the light, in the quiet of the afternoon, like little white gods. And the swallows circled high up in the blue, quivering in the warm July sun.
The black blood of death ran over the blue decay of his forehead. In the heat it evaporated to form a ghastly cloud, and the decomposition of death crept over him with its colourful claws. His skin began to disintegrate, his belly turned white, like that of an eel, under the greedy fingers of the doctors, who bathed their arms up to the elbows in the moist flesh.