JAN KO PO LI C KAMOV
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ful story to tell my lover' I am so ve ry thirsty. I will sca re he r so badl y th at
she will be te rrifi ed and di e o f anemia. My wo rds will fea r fo r her and
drink her bl ood . Life is a bl oodsucke r.
Th e fo res t is bl ac k. Th e lamp throws feeble li ght; th e dusty path , like
a night ghos t, white between th e dense layers o f trees and darkn ess. Even
the powerl ess sky expec ts a crime. Oh ,
to
look at her now! In her white
dress! And to bloody th e whiteness o f he r cl o th es, her soul and her youth .
And she's no t th ere. She doesn' t answe r m y ca lls. In va in' I ca ll ed , I
looked , I ye ll ed . Th e darkn ess swall owed m y vo ice and m y gaze. If I could
only find her now. N ow, th at she has made me so irritabl e, so angry , now
that she has provoked me. N ow , in the solitude and darkn ess. N ow that Ill y
father has se t me o n fire, has warmed m y blood . To w hom wo uld I answer
fo r m y crime? N o t to m y fa the r, he is dying . Wh ere would th e crime lead
Ill e? Certainl y no t home.
I walked down th e main stree t loo king fo r her. I wa lked to her win –
dows. Th ere she is, at th e window. Will she come down? Sh e apologizes .
We wa lk down th e lo ng tree-lin ed path . She is chattin g away. I' m no t li s–
tening. We go farth er and fa rth er, wh ere th ere is less li ght , fewe r lamps.
How many times I could no t dec ide o n such a step : to sedu ce an excel–
lent girl and a virgin with o nl y o ne goal- to leave her. Considerati o n and
respect fo r human virtue was no thing but th e belittlin g and despi sin g o f
Ill y nature and m y
be li e f~ .
My upbringin g was in th at case stro nge r than
Ill y instin cts; m y famil y stro nge r th an m y individuali ty. All of it- Ill
Y
father's ho rribl e nets. Hi s goodn ess, po liteness and kindn ess prevented me
from such a step, w hi ch in hi s eyes wo uld be ev il , vul ga r and cr iminal. But
hi s dribblin g, large, white lips, th e ho les in hi s throa t, th e stench of bl ood
and n esh, the desperate, un consc io us, an imal grip o f hi s hands-hi s in con–
siderati o n o f m y senses, di srespect o f m y feelin gs and belittling o f Ill y
literary wo rk- had no t all o f th at fin ally set me free? My good , ni ce and
kind fa th er un covers himse lf in front o f hi s yo un ges t son and all ows w ith
a cl ear consc ience hi s youn ges t child to to uch w ith hi s eyes, hi s nose and
hi s fin ge rs the uglin ess and crudeness o f th e body.
I come to and look at Anka . Sh e brought me bac k. [ squeeze her hand
angril y.
"Where are yo u go ing?" (Sh e resists.) " Why are you going back?" Sh e
looks at me suspi ciously and retreats:
"Yo u have been so qui et. Yo u are so rude today."
" Forgive me. I was los t in th o ught. My fa ther is dyin g. Wh at I sa id was
stupid ." Sh e was surpri sed :
" And yo u , yo u left yo ur fa the r." I hated her with a vengea nce. I took
her hands and whi spe red:
"Shut up. Shut up. N ot a word . Ueca use of you . Yo u understand ."
