by Unknown
There she was standing before me. She. A dim candle burnt almost all the way down to the wick still scantly lit the room, from which the unpleasant odours of sweat and fat wafted towards me. Dressed in a filthy unbuttoned blouse and a dark petticoat, she stood there at the edge of the bed, hardly surprised, so it seemed, her unwavering glassy gaze fixed upon me.
I had obviously stumbled into her room by mistake. But I was so taken aback, so frozen in my tracks, that I did not utter a word of apology, but did not leave either. I was filled with revulsion, I know; but I stayed. I watched as she stepped over to the table, shoved aside a dish of scattered leftovers of a dubious dinner, removed the clothes from a chair and invited me to sit down. With a quiet voice, she simply said: ‘Come, sir!’
Even the sound of that voice revolted me. But I obeyed, as though following some unknown force. She spoke. I don’t know about what. She sat down and all the while remained seated on the edge of the bed. In the dark. I could only make out the pale oval of that face, and intermittently, when the dying candle flickered, those big eyes. Then I got up. I wanted to go. The latch on the door resisted my efforts. She came to my assistance. There – right next to me – she slipped and fell, and I had to pick her up. She pressed herself against my breast and I felt the proximity of her hot breath. An unpleasant sensation. I wanted to pry myself free of her grip. But her eyes stared so intently into mine, as though their gaze wove an invisible web around me. She pulled me ever closer to her, ever closer. She pressed hot wet kisses on my lips … The candle went out.
The following morning I awakened with a heavy head, a backache and a bitter tongue. She lay asleep on the pillow beside me. Her pale, sunken face, her gaunt neck, her flat, naked bosom instilled terror in me. Slowly I sat up. The damp air weighed heavy on me. I looked around: the dirty table, the worn thin-legged chair, the wilted flower on the window-sill – everything evoked misery and atrophy. Then she stirred. As though in a dream, she placed a hand on my shoulder. I stared at that hand: the long, thick-knuckled fingers with the filthy, short, thick nails, the skin at the fingertips brown and pierced with needle holes … The sight of her filled me with revulsion. I leapt up, tore open the door and ran into my room. There I was able to breathe more easily. I also know that I slid shut the latch on my door – as far as it would go.
One day followed the next in much the same way as before. Once, maybe a week later, when I had already lain down to sleep, I accidentally hit my elbow against the wall. Realizing that this unintentional knock was immediately answered, I remained perfectly still. Then I fell asleep. In my half-slumber, it seemed to me as if my door were being opened. The next moment I felt a body pressing up against me. It was her beside me. She spent the night in my arms. Many times I wanted to throw her out. But she peered at me with those big eyes, and the words withered on my lips. How awful it was to feel the warm limbs of this creature next to mine, this ugly, prematurely aged girl; and yet I simply could not find the strength to …
Sometimes I met her on the staircase. She walked past me, as she had the first time – as if we did not know each other. Very often she came to me. Quietly, without a word, she entered and kept me riveted with her look. I was unable to say no.
Finally, I decided to put an end to this business. It seemed to me to be a crime against my bride to share my bed with this woman who clung to me with such desperate insistence, and who could not even – lay claim to the licence of love!
I returned home much earlier than usual and immediately locked my door. At the stroke of nine, she came. Since she found the door locked, she went away again; she might have supposed I was out. But I was careless. I shoved the heavy desk chair somewhat precipitously back against the wall. This she surely noticed. The next moment there was a knock at the door. I remained silent. Again. Then frantically and incessantly, the knocking continued. Now I heard her sobbing – a long, long time … She must have spent half the night at my door. But I held firm; I felt that this perseverance had finally broken the spell.
The next day I met her on the staircase. She moved very slowly. When I came up close, she opened her eyes. I panicked: what a frightful glint and menace in that look … I laughed at myself. Fool! To think that I could be afraid of such a girl! And I peered after her as she clumsily tackled the stone steps, hobbling down …
That afternoon, my boss needed me, so I had to skip my customary visit at Hedwig’s. That evening, when I returned to my room, I found a note from the father of my bride which astonished me no end. It read:
… under the given circumstances, you will well understand that, much to my regret, I am obliged to annul your engagement with my daughter. I thought to entrust Hedwig to a man who had no other commitments. To spare my child any such discoveries is a father’s duty. You will, honoured sir, well understand my path of action, as I too am convinced that you yourself would in time have informed me of the way things stand. I remain, sincerely yours, …
It is difficult to describe how I felt. I loved Hedwig. I had already made myself at home in the future which she had so charmingly painted for me. I could not imagine my future without her. I know that I was at first overcome by a heavy pain, which made tears come to my eyes, before I could even bring myself to surmise the cause of this curious rejection. For it was definitely curious, of this there could be no doubt. I knew Hedwig’s father, who was himself the very epitome of conscientiousness and fairness, and I knew that only a momentous occurrence could have led him to take such a course of action. For he respected me and was too fair-minded knowingly to do me wrong. I did not sleep the entire night. A thousand thoughts shot through my mind. Finally, towards morning, I was so tired that I was overcome by sleep. Upon waking, I noticed that I had forgotten to lock my door. In the meantime, she had not come to me. I heaved a sigh of relief.
I rushed to get dressed and, excusing my absence for a few hours at the office, hastened to the home of my bride. I found the door locked and when, upon my repeated ringing, no one appeared, I thought that they must have gone out. The concierge could easily have been occupied in the yard, where he could not hear the sound of the bell. I decided to come by at the usual time that afternoon. And so I did. The concierge opened the door, was surprised to see me and said that I must surely know that the family had gone on a trip. I fell into a panic, but acted as if everything were in order and merely asked to speak to Franz, the old butler. He then told me in detail how everyone, but everyone, had gone away, after yesterday afternoon when a curious scene had taken place.
‘I stood,’ so he said, ‘in the hallway, polishing the silverware, just as a strange woman made her miserable entry and begged me to take her to Miss Hedwig. Naturally, I did not accede to her request – I’ve got to know ’em before I let ’em in …’ I nodded impatiently. A thought came to mind … ‘Well to cut a long story short,’ the chatty old gent continued, ‘she made such a scene and screamed and yelled at my refusal to accede to her request, that my honoured master came out. She pleaded with him to hear her out and swore she had important news. He took her into his office. She stayed in there for a whole hour. A whole hour, can you imagine, sir! Then she came out and kissed my master’s hand …’
‘What did she look like?’ I interrupted him.
‘Pale, haggard, ugly.’
‘Tall?’
‘Quite tall.’
‘Eyes?’
‘Black, like her hair.’ The old gent kept babbling on. I knew enough. Every word of that terrible letter suddenly became all too clear to me; a bitter rage welled up in me. I left the servant abruptly and went bounding down the front steps. I ran through the streets all the way home. At my front door there were a few people milling about. Men and women. They spoke heatedly and quietly with one another. I gruffly shoved them aside. Then, three steps at a time, I bounded up the steps, without taking a single breath. I had to get to her, to tell her … I had no idea what I would say, but I felt that the right words would come to me at the right time …
&n
bsp; On the staircase I passed men. I took no notice of them. Once upstairs I tore open the door. I was struck by a potent odour of carbolic acid. A curse curdled on my lips. There she lay on the grey linen of her bed dressed in nothing but a nightshirt. Her head was twisted back, the eyes shut. Her hand hung limp. I came closer. I did not dare touch her. With gaping lips and bloodshot eyelids she looked altogether like she’d drowned. I shuddered. I was alone in the room. The setting sun cast a cold light on the filthy table – on the edge of the bed … I bent down to that woman. Yes, she was dead. The colour of her face was bluish. She emanated a foul odour. And I was overcome by revulsion …
The Island of Eternal Life
1943
Georg Kaiser
The ambitious young reporter Flanagan is seated before his mighty boss, the newspaper magnate Warren. He complains of the monotony of his work, that reporting no longer satisfies him. Always the same catastrophes: fires, earthquakes, scandals – political and private. Always the same sensations. Warren asks Flanagan: what subjects would he prefer? Flanagan would like for once in his life to depict the opposite of all that – to be sent on an assignment to a place where nothing happens. Where time consists of nothing but silence. Just then the captain of a schooner, a relative of Warren’s, drops in at the office to say goodbye. And Warren suggests to Flanagan that he join the captain on his slow sailing ship on which nothing ever happens. Nothing but waves – more wind, less wind. Flanagan accepts and boards the vessel, hoping to experience nothing.
But he experiences the greatest adventure of his life. For a long time the schooner sails quietly. Nothing happens. It really appears as if the lowest level of experience has been reached, a coefficient close to absolute zero. Then one day a storm breaks and rages out of control, wreaking havoc with the helm. The ship is a toy ball, a plaything of the crashing waves. Finally the storm settles. But the captain does not recognize these quiet waters. The tempest has driven his vessel far off-course. Now in any case the helm needs fixing and other damages must be attended to. The work takes time.
In the distance, the rocky coast of an island rises into view. Flanagan is bored of waiting and wants to visit the island. The captain counsels against it: the steep cliffs make a landing dangerous. Still Flanagan persists and rows himself ashore in a little dinghy.
He never returns. After completing the repairs on the masts and rudder, the captain waits a little while longer before he finally gives up hope and declares Flanagan a victim of the cliffs. He gives the order to set sail. Later in New York he breaks the news to Warren: that the young reporter failed to return from his visit to a rocky island. Warren mourns the loss of the promising young man.
Thirty years later a luxury liner crosses those same waters in which the schooner lost its way. Armed with binoculars, curious passengers study the rocky coast – and as to their question, what sort of an island this might be, the captain can give no answer. A magnetic disturbance set his pilot off-course, he is unfamiliar with the island and unable to locate it on any of his charts. Suddenly a passenger spies a dinghy approaching from the island. The captain halts his engines and awaits the arrival of the lone oarsman. It is Flanagan, the lost reporter, who promptly climbs aboard.
But it is the unchanged Flanagan, the way he was thirty years ago when he rowed off from the schooner. He has not aged at all, his clothes are perfectly intact. He is in precisely the same condition – perfectly preserved, as it were.
Flanagan soon realizes the secret of the island: it is the island on which people never age, the island of eternal life. Flanagan keeps the secret to himself, revealing not a shred of it to the passengers of the luxury liner, who are stunned by his old-fashioned clothing and ignorance of recent events.
In New York, Flanagan enters the office of his since-aged chief, Warren – and offers him the greatest sensation the world has ever known: the island of eternal life has been discovered. Warren immediately grasps the unique significance of this discovery and wants to buy it off Flanagan. The stakes get higher and higher. Warren finally accedes to Flanagan’s outrageous demands and invites him over that evening to clinch the deal – says he’ll send his private limo to pick him up. And that very evening, Flanagan is found murdered in the back seat – his notes are filched. He is the first to fall victim to the island of eternal life.
Having laid his hands on Flanagan’s notes, Warren issues them as a serial in his paper. The success is phenomenal. Warren grasps his new-found power: he alone knows the location of the island, he holds the deed to eternal life. He receives fantastic offers for plots of land. But he takes his time. The suspicion arises that it’s all a big swindle. A commission comprising incorruptible individuals is assembled – and, following extensive investigations, their findings are that the ground of this island contains chemical substances that forestall the process of decay and that a thousand-year life expectancy in such a place is a distinct possibility. But Warren himself derives no benefit from their favourable findings. He was found dead in the prison cell in which he was held on suspicion of fraud, pending the return of the commission. Visited in prison by the ghost of the murdered Flanagan, he committed suicide.
Now the notes and chart indicating the location of the island belong to the United States government. It is decided: no one will be able to purchase a plot on this island, on which, in any case, there is only room for a few hundred. A plot of land there and the gift of eternal life will be accorded as the highest honour only to the most meritorious. All countries are hereby requested to submit the names of their most notable representatives – an international committee will decide the worthiness of each candidate.
But what does it mean to be worthy? What merits mark a man as a true representative of his nation? What does it mean to be a hero? Opinions clash. It is impossible to come to an agreement. Human attitudes are simply too diverse. Hatreds smoulder. The world is on the brink of war. Chaos threatens.
The international committee decides: the island of eternal life will be the eternal hotbed of unspeakable evil. The longing for endless, deathless life must release instincts that reduce man to a beast shamelessly inclined to devour his neighbour. The last shreds of humanity are lost.
This realization is reached at the final hour and the decision is made to destroy the island. A massive explosion is set off – and the island sinks in a cloud of stones and dust into the ocean depths. No cliffs reveal the spot – no navigational chart recalls the location of the island of eternal life.
In the Penal Colony
1919
Franz Kafka
‘It is a curious piece of equipment,’ said the officer to the travelling investigator, casting a somewhat admiring look at the apparatus, with which he was, after all, well acquainted. The traveller appeared, only out of politeness, to have accepted the commandant’s invitation to witness the execution of a soldier condemned to die for insubordination and disrespect of a superior officer. Nor was the interest in this execution particularly great in the penal colony. In any case, aside from the officer and the traveller, the only other people present in this isolated sandy little vale surrounded by barren cliffs were the condemned, a dull-witted, big-mouthed man with unkempt hair and unshaven face, and a soldier holding the heavy chain, to which the former was attached by little chains shackled to his ankles, wrists and neck, these chains, in turn, attached to each other by connecting chains. The condemned, moreover, looked so docile and dog-like that it seemed as though one could let him run around freely on the surrounding slopes and merely had to blow a whistle for him to come running to his execution.
The traveller had but little appreciation for the apparatus and paced up and down behind the condemned man with barely veiled disinterest, while the officer took great pains to attend to the last preparations, now crawling under the device which was anchored deep in the ground, now climbing a ladder to inspect its upper parts. These were tasks that actually ought to have been delegated to a machinist, but the officer attended to them
with great zeal, either because he was an enthusiastic proponent of the device, or because, for other unspecified reasons, one could not entrust the work to anyone else. ‘Everything’s ready now!’ he finally called out and climbed down the ladder. He was inordinately tired out, took deep breaths with an open mouth and had two dainty women’s kerchiefs stuffed into the collar of his dress coat.
‘These uniforms are much too heavy for the tropics,’ the traveller remarked, rather than, as the officer had expected, asking after the apparatus.
‘No doubt,’ said the officer and washed the oil and grease off his hands in a readied bucket of water, ‘but they remind us of the Fatherland; we dare not lose touch with the Fatherland. But do pay attention to this device,’ he promptly added, wiping his hands in a cloth and simultaneously pointing to the apparatus. ‘Up until recently we had to do it by hand, but now the device works automatically.’ The traveller nodded and followed the officer. The latter sought to offset any possible malfunctions and said: ‘Naturally there are glitches from time to time; I do hope we won’t have to suffer any today, but one has to be prepared. The apparatus must, after all, run for a full twelve hours. But if there are any problems I can assure you that they’re of little consequence and can be promptly repaired.’
