Anarchistbanjo's World

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“It’s like this,” explains Reichenbach, not the least bit offended, “that every emotion—sorrow, anger, laughter, all things of the soul—produces changes in human Od light and intensifies the glow. Can you also see what I’m doing?”

“You have something curved in your hands,” says Frau Pfeinreich, “from whose free end a luminous smoke rises.”

“It must be the horseshoe magnet,” adds Frau Kowats.

“Correct, I have the horseshoe magnet, and you see the Od streams from its poles.”

Schuh’s laughter has faded since he no longer feels protected by the darkness. How can the women have seen that he laughed, and how can they see what Reichenbach holds in this hellish blackness?

“And what do I have now?” Reichenbach continues.

“Something round, in which the Od light from your left hand converges into a red glow.”

Important—it’s the large lens that collects the Od light. “And now?”

The two women fall silent; they have no answer.

“Do you see it, Frau Hofrätin?” Reichenbach asks again.

The Hofrätin’s dull voice, which had not been heard until now, emerges slowly from the depths of the darkness. “You have dipped your right hand into the water basin; the goldfish are swimming excitedly around your fingers.”

“The odic forces are not the same in all people,” the Freiherr explains, “Frau Hofrätin is my strongest sensitive.”

It’s strange, more than strange, what’s happening here. How can Schuh explain that these women see things in the dark that remain hidden from him? If it’s not an outrageous fraud, then It seems we are evidently standing before a hitherto undiscovered mystery of nature. But can Reichenbach be trusted to confirm the statements of his sensitives if they aren’t truly as they describe? Schuh notes to himself that he feels excited.

The experiments continue. Schuh learns that human fingertips emit Od light; when two hands approach each other, the Od beams first lengthen and narrow. As they come even closer, the flames retreat from each other, widen, and are pushed back around the fingertips by mutual repulsion. When Reichenbach rubs one piece of wood against another, Od light flashes. Schuh learns what the Heliod is—it’s the Od light of the sun, conducted into the darkroom via a wire from outside, making its end in the darkness so transparently clear, as if it were made of glowing glass.

“And do you see any of this yourself?” Schuh can’t help but ask.

Reichenbach hesitates with his answer for a while. “No,” he finally says, distressed, “I’m unfortunately not the least bit sensitive.”

He wants to resume the experiments, but the Hofrätin has begun to moan and requests the session’s end; she is too overwhelmed, already suffering from stomach cramps and chest tightness.

“Very well,” says Reichenbach, “that may be enough for the first time to form a judgment.”

And then a miracle occurs, a true miracle. Suddenly, Schuh sees too—he perceives a glimmer, a fine, bluish glow above his head, a pure ray of light, calm, blissful, refreshing, fragrant. The darkness brightens; the room fills with silver dust. Schuh glimpses the outlines of the Freiherr, the three ladies, the room, the equipment present. He sees the potted plants in the corner, the aquarium with the goldfish—everything merely suggested and blurred, yet bathed in this inexplicable, magical sheen.

“What is that?” he asks, baffled. “I can see now.”

“Oh,” replies the Freiherr with a hint of mockery, “that’s not Od light you’re seeing now. I’ve opened the ventilation flap in the ceiling.”

It’s the return of daylight that has caused the miracle that has enchanted Schuh.

They leave the darkness, and Schuh stands utterly dazed in the jubilant roar of the cascading light masses, which almost painfully overwhelm him.

“Well, what do you say?” asks Reichenbach, his gaze anxiously and eagerly probing Schuh’s eyes.

Schuh examines himself carefully. He checks whether, in what he feels compelled to say, he might be speaking to please Reichenbach. Whether, perhaps because Reichenbach is offering him money, he feels obliged to be dishonest. But no, setting all that aside, complete honesty of conviction forces him to a confession.

“I don’t know if one can accept your explanations,” he says, “but there do seem to be real facts at hand.”

“Seem?” the Freiherr rears up abruptly. “No, they are facts, dear Schuh. You will have to admit that. And one more thing… do you think this… these phenomena could be daguerreotyped?”

“Let’s at least try the experiment,” Schuh agrees.

The conversion isn’t complete, but one thing is certain: Saul is on the path to becoming Paul.

---

And then something entirely unforeseen happens. It happens that Hermine suddenly stands before Schuh.

The Freiherr has withdrawn with his three sensitives to the study to record the protocol of today’s session in his diary.

Schuh has settled into the golden evening sunlight on the terrace in front of the garden hall, on the bench beside the cast-iron dog, trying to make sense of his impressions from the darkroom.

And now Hermine suddenly stands before him.

Something has driven her home. She has suddenly become restless and abandoned her work at the Schönbrunn Palm House. Upon arriving home, she has only thrown off her coat and hat; she hasn’t even taken the time to change her dress. She moves through the house like in a dream, stepping out onto the garden terrace—

“Good day, Hermine!” says Schuh, rising. He extends his hand and then pulls it back. Then he says something utterly foolish: “Are you back already?”

“I finished my work earlier than I expected,” Hermine claims.

“Oh… oh! Still botany. Still so diligent?”

“I, I have worked hard,” says Hermine casually, “my treatise on the thylli is nearly complete.”

Schuh keeps looking at Hermine. She seems less burdened and timid than before; it strikes Schuh that she appears stronger, as if her nature has hardened—perhaps she has endured something internally that has burned away her softness.

Schuh glances toward the house. “I’d like to suggest,” he says hesitantly, “that we take a walk. The evening is so beautiful.”

Hermine understands immediately. The father could come out of the house, and then it would be over; then they couldn’t speak freely—assuming there can be any talk of ease with the inner pressure each of them feels. Hermine grasps this very well, and she agrees without hesitation—yes, it’s necessary for them to be alone for a while now.

They walk the forest paths toward the Agnesbrünnl. The setting sun lies on the forest clearings; it looked different here not long ago—much has been logged recently. But that has its advantages; they walk in the sun, and it flows like wine into their blood.

“Your father showed me his experiments in the darkroom today,” says Schuh.

He feels the need to justify his presence, Hermine thinks. And she asks: “And what do you think of it?”

“I’m not yet sure what to think. There are certainly astonishing things. The consistency of the statements is remarkable. Perhaps they really are natural forces we’ve known nothing about until now.” Hermine shrugs. That’s all she offers for her father’s Od research—a doubtful shrug. Yes, something must have happened to Hermine; her unconditional devotion to her father’s superiority seems shaken. They fall silent for a while. Then Schuh asks, “Where is Ottane?” “Don’t you know? Ottane has left the house. There were certain… well, she disagreed with some things the father intends to do. And she has taken up a profession. She’s become a nurse. At Doctor Semmelweis’s clinic, whom you likely know. He’s making quite a name for himself.” She adds with a slight mockery, “Almost as much as the father.” “And your father?” Schuh marvels. “You can imagine: he raged.” Yes, Hermine said her father raged—she said it explicitly, and Schuh couldn’t have misheard. “He was furious; he finds Ottane has disgraced the house, that she has dishonored his name. He thinks it shameless for a girl from a good family to stoop to the level of the common folk, utterly improper to take on work suited only for lowly women. But Ottane wants to stand on her own feet; she says there’s nothing shameful, but rather honorable, in helping poor, sick women, and it would be good if all girls thought that way. She believes women have been kept like slaves or harem ladies long enough and have a right to shape their own lives, and a time will come that recognizes this right. Yes, Ottane has courage.” Admiration shines through these words, mixed with a faint sigh. They have reached a height from which a straight path leads down the slope, and at the end of this path, framed like a picture, lies the valley and a few houses of the village Weidling. They stop before this pleasant sight; Hermine gazes down into the valley and speaks, not to Schuh but beside him, into the landscape, into the evening: “Why have you been away so long?” Schuh takes his time with his reply. “How could I have come? I’ve always waited for your answer to my letter.” “Your letter?” “Didn’t I explain everything? You must have understood me.” Now Hermine slowly turns to Schuh, looking straight into his face; she is completely pale: “I never received a letter from you.” “Never received a letter? But I gave Ottane a letter for you!” “Ottane had a letter for me? Ah… yes, now I understand…” Hermine’s face hardens and stiffens; Schuh never imagined he could see such an expression of cold anger on Hermine. It always seemed as if Ottane carried a secret, as if she wanted Hermine wants to say something, and now she understands what it might have been.

Schuh also begins to suspect: “Do you think your father…?” he stammers, alarmed.

“Yes,” says Hermine firmly, “he probably took the letter from Ottane. He suppressed your letter to me.”

“Is that… is that…?” stammers Schuh, “but surely he must have realized something like this would come out eventually. And he invited me himself… a question to you would have brought it to light.”

“My father overlooks that. He considers his power so great that no one would dare confront him, and that everything must simply be accepted. Surely he also forbade Ottane to mention a word about the letter, and you see she didn’t dare defy him. He’s grown accustomed to despising and belittling people.”

“And he wrote to me that you are so entirely intellect, that your heart has become a secondary matter. That you are wholly masculine in nature, that I shouldn’t bring confusion into your life—I had to assume all this was your opinion…”

A small, sobbing sound interrupts Schuh, but it’s a sound that crashes over him like thunder. Hermine has turned her head away, and her shoulders shake. Something terrible, world-shaking is happening—something unbearable and yet immensely blissful. And Schuh can’t help himself; he puts his arm around her trembling shoulders, and his lips feel that Hermine’s face is wet, and the twilight aids all these overwhelming emotions.

“Didn’t you know it?” sobs Hermine. “Didn’t you know it?”

No, Schuh didn’t know it, but now he does; he holds Hermine in his arms and knows it as an indescribable bliss, and his longing has been so great that he can’t be satisfied immediately.

It’s almost completely dark when they near the castle again. They’ve discussed what to do next and agreed not to reveal everything at once.

The deception perpetrated against them empowers them—indeed, it almost demands caution and cunning. Schuh wants to stand on solid ground with his own affairs first; he wants to show successes, life securities—I ask, that’s how it is, and besides, we are of one mind.

But as they see the lights from the garden hall through the trees, Schuh suddenly stops. “But now I can’t accept the money from him,” he says sadly.

“He offered you money?”

“Yes… to complete my work. I’ll have to give that up. With the money, I could have expanded my device…”

Hermine notices how hard it is for him to abandon this hope; she thinks intently. “You can take it!” she says. “Take it!”

“That we don’t immediately confront him with our love after what’s happened is only natural. But my pride forbids me…”

“What does your pride have to do with our love? Should love have any pride other than fulfilling itself? And does the father give money to Karl Schuh, who loves his daughter against his will? No—he gives it to his work, from which he expects something for science.”

It’s truly strange how Hermine has transformed; she’s become quite a sharp-witted sophist, but her arguments are convincing, and one can accept them—especially when one’s own desires and needs become advocates, and God knows, Schuh doesn’t want the money for himself.

The Freiherr von Reichenbach has been working on his protocol with the ladies until now; he has just escorted them to the carriage and now intends to present his report to Schuh for signature. In the garden hall, he encounters Hermine, who is coming in from outside.

“Have you spoken with Schuh?” he asks.

“Yes, he couldn’t stay longer. He’s gone home. And he asks you to send him the money tomorrow.”

The Freiherr looks at Hermine suspiciously, but her upright, calm gaze makes him look away again, perhaps even with some embarrassment.