It Cannot Be Stormed by Ernst von Salomon & Martin H. Ggkvist

Author:Ernst von Salomon & Martin H. Ggkvist
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: Fiction, Classics, lit_guide
ISBN: 9781907166129
Publisher: Arktos
Published: 2011-02-27T00:00:00+00:00

Undoubtedly it was Helene who drove her playmate to leave the narrow confines of a garden with her, tore the laggard from his home with stinging words, demanding absolute courage when his half-bold boyish passion kept him hesitant; just as it was she who ended the relationship as soon as she realised it had become untenable.

She was expecting a child by the man whom she could no longer love, whom she could no longer respect, from whom she felt estranged; bound to him only by a memory, which she accepted and acknowledged, but no longer bound by the ardent force which had created the child that was growing within her. So she got rid of it. She did not put herself into the hands of a doctor. In black despair, though fully aware of what she was doing, she went to a woman, whose action, denuded of the hygienic magic of a professional operation, could in no way gloss over the enormity of the crime. She willingly exposed herself to the danger of death, with the desire to destroy in herself something more than the child. In token of this destruction, yielding to a pitiless anarchy, she drove herself on; an insatiable empiricist, content in the strong conviction that she could not fall, but always submitting this conviction to fresh tests of strength; sullied, but purified by excess of pain; she never gave way and could not tolerate the thought of giving way; armed with an unquenchable pride, she set about living where she could live independently. Thus she was never corruptible, embarrassingly exacting, searching beyond and through every circumstance, never forgetting for a moment, in misery or in triumph, that somewhere at her command the complete, the only and the real task was waiting for her. After a wild period of unrest, she found it; she met the painter.

He was sitting in one of those beer-houses where artists and writers meet together, to enjoy from their high altitudes a little colleaguely sociability without too far demeaning themselves. He sat neglected in the midst of the smooth-tongued, quick-witted, elegant crowd, a broad-shouldered, countrified figure, his greying hair straggling untidily over his brow, his dark eyes gleaming through his glasses, a figure of fun, elbowed to one side with light jests, like a dishevelled old owl sitting on a branch, belonging more to the night than to the day. Helene saw him and compared. With timid glances, hunched shoulders, his hands clasped together, resenting yet attracted by her overwhelming presence, he broke through his crust of reserve. He plunged into the conversation, with wild, coarse anecdotes, the impact of his words resounding hollowly; his awkward gaiety rebounded on the chain of quick sentences, a metallic prefiguration of some future subject of his brush. The stories he told in his strong, rolling dialect, seemed to have no point or interest. His listeners were probably laughing more at him than at his words, in their embarrassment encouraging him with a semblance of amusement. Helene listened and compared.

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