OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 14
Reichenbach wrote to Schuh: “Now it’s enough; you must come. You must convince yourself of the significance of my discoveries. It would be a betrayal of science if you didn’t come. Since you don’t want to meet Hermine, come today—Hermine is busy at the Schönbrunn Palm House and will be absent all day. I’m sending Severin with the carriage.”
The carriage stood at the door. Schuh’s longing allied with Reichenbach’s wish—oh, just to be in the rooms Hermine inhabited once more, to follow the traces of her quiet, eccentric, shy life, and to speak with Ottane, to hear about Hermine.
Reichenbach received Schuh with open arms like the prodigal son. “And no more foolishness!” he said. “Let’s leave the womanizing aside. Whenever science stumbles, it’s always womanizing that trips it up.”
He paused, reconsidered, and cleared his throat awkwardly. It was good that Schuh didn’t know how little right he had to preach such things.
First, Schuh had to report. Yes, he had made great progress with his light images; now he could make two images transition into each other—he first showed one, then veiled it with a mist from which the other emerged. He had achieved far more than his predecessors, but it still wasn’t the right or final result; it depended on the optics of his device, and Schuh was in negotiations with Voigtländer for new, especially sharp, light-strong, and achromatic lenses. But there he was stuck. Such lenses cost a sum Schuh couldn’t currently raise. Yes, to realize all his plans required far greater means than he had at his disposal. In the autumn, he wanted to re-emerge with his work and then leave Vienna, perhaps to bring back some money.
Reichenbach listened thoughtfully. “How much do you need?”
“Pardon?”
“It would be a pity,” said the Freiherr, “if you couldn’t perfect your device. Money shouldn’t be an obstacle. Your cause is good; I know it, I believe in it. So, how much do you need?”
Schuh still isn’t sure if he heard correctly. It seems Reichenbach has offered him money. For now, he just stares at the Freiherr, unable to fit this novelty into his mind.
“I’ve considered it,” the Freiherr continues, “I consider it my duty to enable you to continue your work. Moreover, I am indebted to you in many ways. You’ve assisted me with my galvanoplastic and optical experiments, and besides, it’s just a favor in return.”
“I will, of course, involve you in the profits,” Schuh believes he should suggest, “if you could give me… say, three thousand gulden…”
Reichenbach dismisses this magnanimously. “Dear friend, no talk of profit-sharing! Do I want to do business with you? If you insist, you can repay me with five percent interest—I think that’s fair. And now, let’s go to dinner.”
There are only three at the table: the Freiherr, Schuh, and Reinhold, who grumpily and sullenly forces down his food. Ottane is absent, and Schuh misses her greatly. Is Reinhold supposed to tell him about Hermine now? Isn’t that mainly why he came—to get news about Hermine? But he doesn’t dare inquire about her whereabouts; he has the impression that Reichenbach, who offers no explanation for Ottane’s absence, might be uncomfortably affected by such questions. And Reichenbach himself now appears to Schuh in a different light. He is a forceful man, certainly, with his quirks—fine, he opposes an unsuitable match for his daughter and has God-knows-what ambitious plans for her, but there’s nothing to be done about that; he’s a real man, that much must be granted. This offer to Schuh is generous, showing trust and truly elevated sentiment.
After dinner, as Reichenbach and Schuh sit on the terrace in front of the garden hall with coffee, Schuh sees the Freiherr’s yellow carriage with Severin on the box beside the coachman arrive. Three ladies step out.
“My three sensitives are here,” said Reichenbach, “yes, dear friend, now you must also let yourself be shown how far I’ve come. You must give your opinion.”
Frau Hofrat Reißnagel almost didn’t recognize Schuh; she looked very ill, her eyes darting restlessly, her pale lips trembling as if shaken by inner storms. Schuh learned that the tall, lanky blonde was the wife of Police Commissioner Kowats and the short, freckled one was the schoolteacher’s wife, Pfeinreich, from Gutenbrunn.
“Let’s go to the darkroom right away,” Reichenbach suggests, “otherwise it’ll get too late.”
Schuh assumes they will now climb to Reichenbach’s study on the second floor, but no—Reichenbach leads them a few steps cellarward, then down a long, gloomy corridor to the opposite wing of the castle. A door opens silently; the Freiherr pulls back a thick loden curtain, opens a second door, parts another curtain, and pushes Schuh through a third door into complete darkness.
“Hold on to me,” Reichenbach instructs Schuh, “and follow me; the ladies are familiar here and will hold onto you. We’re only in the anteroom of the darkroom; it’s not dark enough yet.”
Schuh finds the darkness quite sufficient, but he reaches behind him, grabs a woman’s hand adorned with rings—likely the Hofrätin—and is pulled along with the entire chain pulled forward. Two doors squeak on their hinges; the heavy folds of two curtains slap him in the face.
“We’re here,” announces Reichenbach, and his voice echoes louder, as in a large room. “This is the darkroom. We have a sofa here and a table in front of it. Take a seat, Schuh; the ladies know the routine. But stay seated; you might bump into various objects standing around. What I want to show you today are light phenomena—it’s the Od light. But first, the effects of daylight must be completely erased from your eyes so you can perceive the infinitely weaker influences of the Od light. You’ll need four hours of patience.”
“Four hours!” says Schuh meekly, without implying he’s being a bit rude to the ladies.
Reichenbach immediately notices: “Aren’t you delighted to be condemned to four hours of darkness with three such charming companions? Many young people would love nothing more. Yes, I was once in a cave where the great light wonders only dawned on me after the external light had faded. See you in four hours!”
Schuh hears the door close and is alone with his three fellow captives.
“See you,” he jokes, “that’s a bit exaggerated in this darkness.” There’s nothing else to do; Schuh feels obliged to entertain the ladies.
“The soul gathers itself in such darkness,” says the police commissioner’s wife, “it reflects on its own self.” No one told Schuh that Frau Kowats is a secret poetess, but he knows it now. He thinks it might be fitting to discuss literature and brings up Bauernfeld and the theater.
After a while, he hears a suppressed yawn from his other side. “It’s really a terrible waste of time,” someone says, and it can only be Schuh’s other sofa neighbor, the schoolteacher’s wife, Pfeinreich, “if only one could darn stockings.”
Oh, Schuh can also talk about household matters—the servants, aren’t there any decent ones anymore? He enjoys switching the conversation topics and thought circles abruptly, a jack-of-all-trades in that too, soaring high with beautiful souls one moment, then grounding himself with opinions on new stoves, petroleum lamps, and the favorite dishes of the Viennese.
The Hofrätin remains silent. She sits beyond the teacher’s wife in a sofa corner and says nothing.
But then the conversation falters, and Schuh’s mental energy wanes. Four hours are long—hard to believe how long four hours can be. Schuh stands up, navigates around the table, and gropes through the room: “I’ll take a look around,” he says with a final attempt at humor.
Even in the pitch-blackest night, one can see their hand before their eyes; some glimmer of light falls even in the darkest dungeon, but here every darknesses of the world and underworld combined. Schuh feels along a wall shelf; various objects lie around—something that feels like a violin but is strung with only one string. His fingertips have become eyes; they find test tubes, plants in a corner, then his hand dips into water where something moves.
That’s the aquarium with the goldfish, he’s told. A small object slips between his fingers—a short tube with a mouthpiece, perhaps an ark pipe. Schuh puts it to his mouth and blows hard; an ear-piercing, shrill howl erupts.
“That’s the siren,” says the poetess.
“Did you see it?” asks the teacher’s wife.
“Yes, do you see something?” Schuh asks, baffled.
“Not clearly enough yet,” assures the poetess, “we still have too much external light in our eyes. But it’s like a blue flame emerging from the siren… from the moving air.”
Schuh shakes his head, though no one can see him; he must at least shake it for himself.
“My fingers are starting to glow,” says the poetess.
“Mine too,” joins the teacher’s wife.
Then the Hofrätin finally speaks. She says: “You had a birthday yesterday. You took a glass of wine in hand, and it broke on its own. It’s a bad omen.”
Who is the woman suddenly speaking about? Who took a wine glass in hand?
“No, no, don’t say such things,” the teacher’s wife exclaims. “You shouldn’t always dwell on such thoughts; you’re young and in the midst of life.” And only now does Schuh realize the Hofrätin seems to have the odd habit of speaking of herself in the third person.
Schuh has a sudden idea. He’s had enough; he sees no reason to sit in the dark with these three eccentric women for hours. He feels along the wall until his fingers find the doorframe. He gropes the entire door in vain; they are locked in the darkroom—the door has no handle on the inside.
After four hours, which stretch into four days for Schuh, Reichenbach returns. He arrives just in time to save Schuh from a fit of rage. Schuh had been considering wringing the necks of the three geese, but now, with Reichenbach’s arrival, he regains his cheerful composure.
“How are you?” asks Reichenbach.
“Honestly, terribly hungry… I don’t know if that’s an odic phenomenon too?”
Reichenbach offers no reply to this jest; he rummages in the dark and says mildly, like a disciple of Buddha: “I’d like to preface this for you, dear friend, that it’s the nobler, inner organs and the nervous system of humans that generate Od, whose manifold effects include the emission of light. But all other living beings, yes, even the lifeless things—metals, stones, wood, water—become luminous under certain conditions.” He continues rummaging and asks, “Can you see me, ladies?”
“Yes, very well,” replies the police commissioner’s wife.
“What do you see?”
“Head and chest are surrounded by a halo.”
“I also see arms and legs,” adds the teacher’s wife, “though less distinctly.”
“What color?”
“Yellowish, as always, perhaps more yellow than usual.”
“You must know, Schuh,” says Reichenbach, “that the Od light of men differs from that of women. Women glow more pea-green.”
Schuh grins in the dark; he can do so without offending Reichenbach—it’s dark enough for that. The women have it easy, making claims that can’t be verified. The agreement between them and the Freiherr is secured by many prior experiments.
“Do you also see Herr Schuh? Can you tell me what he’s doing?”
“I believe,” chirps the poetess, “I believe Herr Schuh is laughing. His Od glow trembles.”
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