Anarchistbanjo's World

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“It can’t go on like this,” says Reinhold, quite indignant. But then he startles and suddenly looks utterly helpless: “The father—”

“No, no,” Schuh reassures him, “he won’t find out.” And he adds with a sly wink: “We know how to keep quiet, Reinhold.”

Reinhold nods briefly to him and slips into the next booth alley, following his friends.

“They’ll keep trampling on Viennese good nature,” remarks Schuh, “until even that gets fed up with it.”

Shadows fall over the Christmas market. “We must go,” Hermine urges, “we must fetch Ottane. It’s getting dusky.”

It’s getting dusky, and Max Heiland lays down his brush.

“I must stop,” he says, “the colors and forms are blurring for me.”

Now Ottane can release the inner tension that is always in her while the master paints. A gentle weariness softens her, and a sweet anxiety comes over her. It’s sweet and unsettling; the blood sings; now things all draw closer and envelop her with their twilight folds.

“Where can Hermine and Schuh be staying so long?” Ottane says quietly, so as not to tear the delicate fabric. “They’ve never been away this long.”

“They have it good,” a bitterness sounds in Heiland’s voice, “they can go off together whenever and wherever they want. Tell me, Ottane, is Schuh courting your sister?”

Before this question, Ottane is startled. She has never thought about it—Hermine and Schuh, no, that seems unlikely to her; Hermine has other things on her mind, goodness knows, love stories don’t suit Hermine at all, not to mention the father. But actually, she hasn’t given it any thought at all.

“I don’t know,” she says anxiously. “I don’t think he’d have any luck.”

“It’s luck enough,” says Heiland harshly, “always being able to be with the woman one loves.”

He looks up, and Ottane thinks he will now light a lamp. But Heiland doesn’t light a lamp; he paces the room, stops suddenly with a jerk in front of Ottane, who sits on the Turkish divan, as if he wants to say something. He says nothing and wanders on silently, and this silence is oppressive. He bumps his foot against a breastplate lying in the way. With a kick, he sends it clattering aside, and a great two-handed sword leaning against the wall crashes down with a thud over it.

Ottane pulls a shawl shivering over her bare shoulders.

Perhaps Heiland noticed, for he takes a beech log, throws it into the flames of the open fireplace, and stokes the glow. Lights dance; Heiland stands dark against the fire, staring into it, one arm propped against the mantelpiece.

“Yes, I’m finished with your picture,” he says, “it can’t get any better now; I can only ruin it.”

Why does he say that so reproachfully, almost angrily? Whom is he accusing? Yes, now he is done with the picture, and Ottane can’t help it that a tender regret seeps into her soul. She must say something. “Are you satisfied with your work?” she asks.

Heiland spins around. “Satisfied? No, not at all. There’s something veiled in you, something unresolved, which I couldn’t capture. A—what shall I call it—a hidden treasure. I know of it, but it’s like with many treasure hunters. One reaches out, and it sinks back many fathoms deeper.”

He throws himself into an armchair and covers his face with his hands. Between his fingers, he peers sharply at Ottane, watching what she will do next. The flickering lights of the fireplace play on her features, and Heiland sees how tormented, uncertain, and unsettled Ottane is by his words. An uncontrollable hunger for this fresh, blooming girl is in him, a longing for her possession; Max Heiland almost believes he has never before been possessed by such a desire. But he also knows that the means he usually employs to win women must be used with the utmost caution here. Naturally, the surest way to success is to show passion to awaken passion. This time, however, it’s not enough with mere pretense; it’s not a matter of reaching a mutual agreement in the belief of passion to justify everything. He knows he must dig deeper within himself, draw more from himself; this time, his seductive arts must, so to speak, be in earnest.

He watches Ottane through his fingers and sees her rise and approach him.

“What’s wrong with you, Master?”

He gives no answer. Should he groan now? Yes, he groans softly.

“What’s wrong with you, Master?” Ottane asks again and places her hand on his shoulder.

Then he suddenly grabs that hand and pulls it to himself. “Don’t you know? Can’t you grasp it? Now your picture is finished, and now you won’t come here anymore. I won’t wait anymore to hear your step on the stairs; you won’t sit over there anymore, and I won’t be able to cast another glance at your face after every brushstroke.”

“Yes, the picture is finished…” stammers Ottane, confused by the fervor that rushes over her.

“It’s finished; they will come to fetch it and carry it to the exhibition, and then the emptiness will be complete. An icy emptiness, Ottane! Strange women will come again and want to be painted. And I won’t be able to turn them all away. They will come and sit where you sat, they will flirt and laugh and coquetry, and a hatred will rise in me because it’s not you sitting there. A hatred against this hypocrisy, because you are the truth; a hatred against this unnaturalness, because you are pure like nature. And despite all truth and openness, still a riddle I haven’t unraveled, while the others act mysteriously, yet with them, it’s all just surface.”

Everything wavers in Ottane; supports collapse; she is swept into a whirlpool, carried away by a wild torrent.

Can it be ventured now? Has it come so far that it can be ventured?

Max Heiland suddenly stands up. “Go,” he says through clenched teeth, “go!” And then he is suddenly at her feet, his arms around her knees, pressing his face into her skirts.

Ottane is beside herself. “I beg you… I beg you… I beg you…” She can say nothing else but this trembling, helpless “I beg you.”

No, not a word now, only no word, nothing but erupting, unrestrained feeling—hurricane, whirlpool, abyss, chaos. Only thus is it possible to cloud Ottane’s clarity, to switch off her resistances, to disarm her self-defense, to numb her vigilance, insofar as there is still something like vigilance in her subconscious. But seized by the well-considered fervor itself, Max Heiland truly flares up; the cool skill fizzles out; he puts on the spectacle of one completely overtaken by the divine intoxication of love; he groans, he burrows in, he clings to Ottane’s knees.

Ottane stands pale and trembling; her soul already lies defenseless in his arms. Max Heiland is a farmer’s son. He has made his way in the city with the tenacious stubbornness of his lineage; he exploits his powerful position at the top with peasant cunning—women perhaps love precisely this strange mix of earthiness and slyness. But Max Heiland also retains the sharpness of a nature-bound peasant’s senses.

And amid all the roaring and crackling of this fireworks art of passion, he does not overlook a light, fleeting step on the stairs.

He pulls himself up, hurriedly creates space between himself and Ottane—not a moment too soon, for now someone, after a brief hint of knocking, opens the door quickly and confidently.

“Ah,” says Therese Dommeyr, “I suppose I’ve come at an inconvenient time? I’m interrupting an intimate twilight hour.”

“You’re not disturbing us at all,” Max Heiland’s voice is very calm and controlled, “my eyes hurt from painting. But we can light a lamp now.”

He fumbles for light and a match, pretends not to find them, mutters irritably, knocks over a vase. It’s about giving Ottane time to compose herself.

Finally, the master can no longer delay.

“Wait, I know where the lamp is,” says Therese mockingly.

“I’ve got it,” and now it becomes light.

Max Heiland has given Ottane time to compose herself, but not enough. He himself shows not the slightest sign, but Ottane still glows and trembles a little. One wouldn’t even need Therese’s keen eye to see that a spring storm has passed over this young soul.

“It seems to me,” says Therese, “our new Paris already knows whom to give the apple to.” Behind the sharply curled mockery shines a threat of a storm.

Heiland ignores the mockery and the threat. “Yes, the picture was finished today.” A weather incantation, yes, the picture is finished, and with that, it’s probably over with the eye-sparkling, thread-weaving, twilight hours, and all that.

Incidentally, fortunately, Hermine and Schuh return from their walk just now. Both fresh and reddened by the cold, Hermine as quiet as ever, Karl Schuh a bit conspicuously noisy. Hermine feels a bit guilty; no, they don’t want to step far into the atelier; they have snow on their soles, and it’s gotten so late—oh, and the picture is finished, yes, a very beautiful picture, very lifelike, strikingly lifelike, but it’s late, one must hurry to get home; the father scolds if one stays out so long.