The Dark Domain

by Stefan Grabinski

  In truth, I am happy and proud because of this. I do not possess the vain ambition of those who like to irritate others with a glimpse of their own happiness. I do not desire to flaunt her before the world. On the contrary – this secrecy, this furtive element in our relationship, has an inexpressible charm. Odi profanum vulgus … .

  * * *

  Finally Saturday arrived. Throughout the morning I paced about aimlessly. My friends at the office laughed at me, maintaining that most surely I was in love.

  ‘That Szamota is really crazy,’ muttered the theatre reporter. ‘For some time he’s been completely mad. One can’t speak to him.’

  ‘A skirt! Cherchez la femme!’ explained a very old reporter. ‘Nothing else. Believe me.’

  Punctually at six in the evening I entered her bedroom through the half-open door. Jadwiga was not yet present. On a splendidly laid-out table there was a cup of hot chocolate; a pyramid of pastries rose beside the cup, and a green liqueur glittered nearby.

  I sat down facing the adjoining room and reached for a trabuco cigar from a chrysolite box. Suddenly my glance fell on a piece of paper placed between the cigars. I recognized her handwriting; it was meant for me.

  Dear! Excuse my lateness. I went to town and will return in half-an-hour. Till then!

  I kissed the note and concealed it near my bosom; then I drank the fragrant chocolate. After my first glass of liqueur, I felt somewhat drowsy. I lit up a new cigar, mechanically fixing my eyes on the wall opposite me, where a brilliant Greek shield, with Medusa at its centre, hung. The shield’s shimmering chest had something strangely magnetic about it that arrested the eyes, fettered the will.

  Soon my attention was completely focused on one bright spot, on the snake-haired Gorgon’s blazing eye. I couldn’t draw myself away from this hypnotic centre. Gradually, I drifted into a peculiar state. My surroundings retreated to a never-ending distant background, to be replaced by gorgeously rich colours, an exotic fairyland, a tropical fata morgana … .

  Suddenly I felt a pair of warm, soft arms about my neck and a sweet, lingering kiss on my lips. I roused myself from my absorption. Next to me stood Jadwiga, smiling seductively. I took her by the waist, pressing her to my chest.

  ‘Forgive me,’ I explained, ‘I didn’t hear you come in. That shield holds one’s attention most strangely.’

  She responded with a silent smile of indulgence.

  Today she was even more beautiful. Her statuesque loveliness, framed in Greek attire, exuded marvellous enchantment. Under wonderful brows looked out proud black eyes, smouldering with the flame of desire. Oh, what a joy to move those marble breasts with a wave of passion, to chisel out of the face of a haughty Juno her cool serenity!

  Leaning her against my arm, I cast a hungry look at her, sating for a long moment my thirsty eyes on the vastness of her beauty.

  ‘Oh, how beautiful you are, my sweetheart, oh, how beautiful! But where are your tresses, your violet-scented tresses?’ I demanded passionately, attempting to push away from her forehead the soft, immaculately white veil that covered her head tightly today. ‘I want to stroke your hair, just like that first time – remember? I want to spread out that ambrosial mantle over your shoulders, and kiss you forever. You didn’t deny me on that first evening. Remove this wrap.’

  She held back my hand gently, but firmly. On her lips blossomed a mysterious smile, and she shook her head.

  ‘Not today? Why?’

  Again silence and that same prohibitive head movement.

  ‘Why are you silent? Do you know that so far you haven’t exchanged a word with me? Say something! I want to hear your voice – it has to be sweet and resonant like the sound of expensive crystal.’

  Jadwiga said nothing. A deep sadness had spread over her entire face, chilling the entrancing moment. Was she speechless?

  So I stopped insisting, and in silence I was already taking in her divine body. Today she was even more passionate than at our last meeting. Every so often a lustful spasm seized her – her eyes misted over with swooning, her face turned a deathly pale, her delicate, silky skin twitched, her pearly teeth grated painfully. Then, terrified, I would let her go and try to revive her. But all of this was just a momentary occurrence; her paroxysm would pass quickly, and a new wave of passion – young, impulsive, totally unrestrained – would plunge us into the depths of frenzy … .

  We parted company late at night, at about one. Upon our farewell, she pinned a small bouquet of violets to my person. I raised her hand to my lips:

  ‘Again in a week?’

  She nodded her head.

  ‘Let it be so. Good-bye, Carissima!’

  I went out.

  While putting on my coat in the antechamber, I remembered the cigarette case I had placed on the console table. I immediately returned to the room to retrieve it.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I began, turning to where I had left Jadwiga a moment ago.

  But the phrase died on my lips. Jadwiga was not in the bedroom. Had she already gone to the adjoining room? Yet this did not seem possible, for I had not heard the sound of a door opening.

  ‘Hmm, peculiar,’ I muttered, putting away my cigarette case, ‘most peculiar … .’

  And slowly, lost in thought, I went down the steps and out onto the street.

  * * *

  My relationship with Jadwiga Kalergis has now gone on for several months, still wrapped in complete secrecy before the world. No one imagines that I am the lover of the most beautiful woman in town. So far no one has seen us together in public. I would even suppose that people know nothing of her return. At least that’s the impression I’ve received from chance conversations with my circle of acquaintances. This is a little strange, but it seems Jadwiga had returned stealthily, not desiring that it be known at all. Perhaps she has some hidden reason, which she does not wish to reveal to me. I do not press her on this matter and know how to behave discreetly.

  In general, my mistress is a strange woman, and she likes to surround herself in mystery. I still have to get used to her whimsicality and accommodate her eccentric habits; I continually find in her behaviour something incomprehensible. Though we have been with each other for half a year, as yet I haven’t heard her voice. In the first few weeks I repeatedly insisted on a reason for this. In answer came letters the day after our meetings requesting that I do not ask her about it, that I stop unnecessarily tormenting her, and so on. Finally I gave up. Maybe she had suffered some injury and has really lost the ability to speak? Now it’s an embarrassment to her, and instead of acknowledging her disability, maybe she prefers to leave me in doubt as to its cause?

  We still see each other only once a week and always on a Saturday – she doesn’t receive me on any other day. Here I must mention the strange beginning of every such visit.

  When I enter the bedroom, I do not always find her there. Sometimes I have to wait a long time before she comes out to greet me. And she always does this so unnoticeably, so quietly, that I never know when and from where she emerges. Usually she stops right behind me and kisses me on the neck. Her kiss is delightful, sweet – but terrible as well. Besides, I have a feeling that I am never in a completely normal state at that moment. What type of state it is, I am not able to say – maybe some light reverie or entrancement?

  In any event, whenever Jadwiga keeps me waiting a long time, I feel an overpowering urge to gaze at the Greek shield. A thought comes to me, from where I do not know, that the shield was placed there deliberately to draw attention to itself and fix one’s eyes on its brilliant circles. Who knows whether it is not, in fact, the cause of that strange state into which I sometimes fall?

  Later, after this prelude, everything proceeds along normally: we are eager for each other, we caress each other, we even play tricks and jokes on each other. But the beginning is always as I have described it – a little strange … .

  One other circumstance doesn’t completely satisfy me – actually something quite minor, yet unwelcome. Jadwiga
likes covering her head to excess with a type of Greek veil of a dazzling white, close-knit fabric. I detest this veil! If she would merely cover her hair and the back of her head – but, besides this, she repeatedly covers her alabaster forehead, she jealously hides a portion of her face, conceals her lips, her eyes … .

  When I want to remove this milky veil, she seems to get angry and escapes to the far corner of the room. What obstinacy! But it is said that beautiful women are like chimeras. One has to know how to accommodate them. Yet sometimes I cannot control myself. Irritated the last time by this rather eastern custom, reminiscent of a masquerade, I grabbed her as she tried to slip away. My movement was rough and clumsy: I tore her costly snow-white peplos, of which a large section remained in my hand. I put it away for a memento and always carry it with me.

  * * *

  The other day, on Saturday, I made a strange observation. As usual, when I entered the villa in the evening I did not find Jadwiga in the bedroom. I avoided glancing at the Medusa on the shield and went to the niche separated from the rest of the room by a long white curtain hanging down from a brass rod. Suddenly I noticed that the curtain bore signs of being torn; near the middle was a semi-circular gap. I mechanically took the material in my hand and began to pass it through my fingers. The fabric’s softness and silkiness were somehow familiar. Involuntarily I reached into my pocket and took out the peplos fragment I had concealed as a memento. I compared its shape to the outline created by the torn-off portion of the curtain. A strange thought occurred to me: they seemed identical. I placed the section in my hand to the curtain’s torn edges. Most interesting! The fragment filled the gap exactly! As if it were not torn from the dress but from the curtain, or as if the peplos and the curtain were one and the same.

  Greeting Jadwiga a half hour later, I paid close attention to her dress. Any signs of it having been torn were gone; the garment fell to her feet in immaculate folds, untainted by the slightest flaw. She evidently noticed my observation because she smiled half-playfully, half-mysteriously. I then raised the torn peplos piece and led her to the niche to show her what I had seen. A strange thing, however! The curtain was not there! A funny thought suggested itself: Had she ‘borrowed’ it for her peplos?

  Meanwhile, instead of the curtain, the arms of a sheltered recess opened up invitingly before us. I glanced at Jadwiga. She responded with a smile of bewitching encouragement … .

  * * *

  Not long ago I made an interesting discovery. Jadwiga has birthmarks that are exactly identical to my own. A funny coincidence! The more amusing in that these marks even appear in the same places. A dark-red one, shaped like a bunch of grapes and the size of a nut, on the right shoulder-blade, and the second one, a mole high up on the left groin. The chance resemblance of these physical details intrigues me, the more so as these marks do not have typical features – on the contrary, they have a strongly individualized character. Peculiar, isn’t it?

  I have noticed something else. Her skin, particularly on the chest and shoulders, has a darkish tinge, as if from repeated sun tanning. The same is true of me. I acquired this epidermal feature through many summers of sun-bathing. Can one explain it in the same way for her? I doubt it. As far as I know she avoids the sun and pulls down the blinds in her mansion to bar its rays. I, on the other hand, like the sunlight immensely, and allow it to pass through my window as much as possible.

  * * *

  Jadwiga’s eccentricities definitely exceed all limits. For several weeks she has been receiving me in a half-lit, sometimes dim room and forces me to wait for hours. When she finally emerges from some dark corner, she is completely wrapped in those loathsome veils, so that at times she creates the impression of an apparition. Last week she gazed at me from behind these coverings as if through a narrow slit.

  Yet, at the same time, her passion has increased. That woman is going mad! She has wound herself up in a vicious sexual circle, and she rolls about licentiously, writhing in lustful convulsions. There are moments when I cannot keep up with her satanic pace, and I am left behind dazed, exhausted, breathless. Damn! I hadn’t really known Jadwiga Kalergis!

  On the other hand, I have observed in her figure something quite unique, something that one might define as ‘elusiveness.’ Whether it’s due to those white coverings in which she now carefully wraps herself, or whether it’s a consequence of the inadequate lighting – at moments her figure evades my sight. Interesting illusions and optical surprises arise from this. At times I see her doubly, at other times as if strangely diminished – then again, as if from a distance. Absolutely like a ‘dance of the seven veils’ or a cubist painting. Frequently she looks like a statue not completely carved, in some enigmatic stage of formation – a sort of half-finished project.

  And that ‘elusiveness’ also crosses over into the tactile sphere. Particularly as it concerns the upper portion of her body. Several times I have ascertained with dismay that her shoulders and chest, not long ago so compact and limber, are now strangely limp. Under the pressure of my hand, her dress recedes somewhere inside, and I am unable to feel the former resilience of her body.

  One night, intensely irritated by this and seized by an overwhelming urge, I suddenly decided to prick her. I slowly drew out an opal pin from my cravat and plunged it into her naked leg. Blood squirted out, and a cry was heard – but from my lips: at that moment I felt a sharp pain in my leg. Jadwiga was looking with a peculiar smile at the blood dripping from her wound in large ruby drops. Not a word of complaint came from her lips.

  Returning home late that night, I had to change my clothing, for it was stained in blood. To this day I carry a mark on my leg from that pin prick.

  * * *

  I will not go there anymore! After what happened at The Lindens on the last Saturday of August, a month ago, life has lost its attraction for me. My hair has turned white overnight. My acquaintances cannot recognize me when they see me on the street. Apparently I was laid up senseless for a week, raving as if in a fever. Today I went out for the first time. I wobble like an old man and support myself on a walking stick. A horrible end! …

  It happened on August 28th, not quite a year since the start of that ill-fated relationship.

  That evening I was late. Some pressing review or literary article occupied me two extra hours: I arrived at eight.

  The bedroom was dark. I stumbled against the furniture a few times, and a little irritated by this, I said loudly:

  ‘Good evening, Jadwiga! Why haven’t you put on the lights? One can break one’s neck in this darkness!’

  I received no answer. Not the slightest movement betrayed her presence. Nervously, I started to look for some matches. Apparently my intention did not please her, for suddenly I felt something cool brush my cheek, as if from a hand, and I heard a soft, barely perceptible whisper:

  ‘Don’t put on the lights. Come to me, Jerzy! I am in the niche.’

  I shuddered, perturbed by an odd sensation. For the first time since we had been together I heard her voice – in truth, her whisper. Groping, I advanced toward the bed. The whisper died and did not return. I did not see her face, for the darkness was almost complete; only some indistinct whiteness was visible. She must have been already in her underclothing. I stretched out my hand to clasp her and encountered her naked hips. A thrill ran through my body, and my blood seethed. In a moment I was already taking in the sweetness of her womanhood. She was insane. The giddy scent of her body intoxicated my senses and incited a craving to possess her completely. The passionate rhythm of her divine hips inflamed my blood and drove me wild. But I sought her lips without success, I tried to enclose her in my arms to no avail. I began to pass my trembling hands about the pillow, to slide them along the length of her body. I met only wraps, veils. She had, as it were, completely enclosed herself in the fire of her sex, withdrawing everything except that. Finally I lost all patience. Feelings of wounded pride, lowered dignity, rose in fervent opposition. I had to have her lips at all cost
s. Why was she denying me them? Didn’t I have a right to them?

  Suddenly I remembered that nearby on the wall was an electric switch. Kneeling on the bed, I found the lever with my fingers and flipped it up. The light gushed, illuminating the room. I looked down and, propelled by boundless terror, jumped out of bed.

  Before me, in a turmoil of lace and satin, lay the bare, shamelessly spread-out body of a woman – a body without breasts, without shoulders, without a head … .

  With a cry of dread, I rushed out of the bedroom; I leapt like a madman down the stairs and found myself in the street. In the quiet night, I hurried along the bridge … .

  In the morning, I was found unconscious on a garden bench.

  * * *

  Two months later, passing The Lindens by chance, I noticed workmen in the park. Roses were being wrapped in straw coverings for the winter. An elegantly dressed man was emerging from an alley, speaking to someone.

  Seized by an irresistible urge, I approached him, tipping my hat:

  ‘Excuse me. Is this the house of Jadwiga Kalergis?’

  ‘At one time it was her’s,’ came the answer. ‘A week ago her family took possession of their inheritance.’

  I felt a strange tightness in my throat.

  ‘Inheritance?’ I asked, straining for an indifferent tone.

  ‘Why, yes. Jadwiga Kalergis has been dead for two years. She was killed in a hiking accident in the Alps. Sir, what’s wrong? You’ve turned pale.’

  ‘Nothing – nothing at all. Sorry to have bothered you. Thank you for the information.’

  Tottering, I went along the shore to the city … .

  THE WANDERING TRAIN

  Feverish activity reigned at the Horsk train station. It was right before the holidays, an eagerly anticipated time when people could take off from work for a few days. The platform swarmed with those arriving and departing. Women’s excited faces flashed by, colourful hat ribbons flapped around, frantic rushing marked every scene. Here, the slender cylinder of an elegant gentleman’s top hat pushed through the crowds; there, a priest’s black cassock could be seen; elsewhere, under arcades, soldiers in blue squeezed through the crush; nearby, workers in their grey shirts tried to make their way in the press.