Anarchistbanjo's World

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 23

When little Karl Schuh was two years old and already a very independent gentleman, Frau Hermine decided it was finally time to introduce him to his grandfather.

He marched stoutly through all the rooms on his chubby legs, and if someone tried to take his hand on the street, he’d swat it away and say, “All by myself!” He climbed onto every chair and recently pulled the crocheted cover off the dresser, along with vases, clocks, glass eggs, porcelain lambs, and other knickknacks, then tried to excuse himself for the mess. He dipped his finger in stove soot, smearing the walls with wild drawings, and held hour-long conversations with himself—in short, he was such a wonder that his mother could no longer justify withholding him from his grandfather.

She had planned a visit to Kobenzl soon after settling the ugly lawsuit business, where the father now lived permanently after selling his Vienna house. But with a small child, it was a cumbersome affair, and when they might have managed, the Freiherr was traveling abroad.

It was said he had conducted experiments on sensitivity and Od in London at Lord Cowper’s house, Palmerston’s stepson, then traveled to Berlin for an extended stay. The university there had even provided him two rooms, but the Berlin scholars had been utterly dismissive, impossible to convince. They either didn’t attend his demonstrations or, when they did, sniffed, nitpicked, and criticized so much that nothing fruitful came of it.

Karl Schuh sometimes brought home newspapers with mentions of Freiherr von Reichenbach. They recalled the Freiherr who, years ago, made waves claiming to discover a new natural force called Od, asserting the boldest claims about it. He had locked his unfortunate victims in a darkroom until their eyes began to glimmer in the gloom. Science had long moved past this quirk of an otherwise distinguished man, but the Freiherr kept the learned world on edge with his fierce attacks. The fiery old gentleman lashed out like a berserker, and his polemics, flooding the public, were as notable for their lack of logic as for their excessive tone. Yet all this couldn’t gain recognition for his Od, and recently the Berlin scholars had unequivocally rejected Herr von Reichenbach and his supposed force.

Schuh brought the papers to Hermine but didn’t comment further. “Whatever may be said of the Od,” Hermine remarked, “I think it’s unnecessary to mock such honest endeavor!”

Karl Schuh shrugged.

“There might be a force, invisible rays, so to speak, carriers of the soul’s faculties in people.”

Hermine received no response to this either.

“And I find it petty and mean when they hint here that Father lost his fortune and now owns nothing but the Kobenzl castle. I’ll finally visit him in the next few days. You don’t mind, do you?”

No, Schuh had no objections. Hermine could go and take the boy. He himself would hold back; he couldn’t be expected to make the first move, having been so gravely insulted. The Freiherr would have to come first.

The Freiherr had long since returned and was hurling invectives against his adversaries from his study. Hermine planned week after week to visit her father, but something always intervened—bad weather, little Karl’s cold, a big laundry day. As a housewife and mother, she couldn’t just leave at will.

Then came that letter from Italy, from Venice. Such letters from Venice didn’t arrive often but came at intervals, so Hermine was never too long in the dark about Ottane’s fate. She now knew Ottane’s story but hadn’t initially dared to share the truth with her husband.

Schuh, when he finally learned, showed much understanding and heart. He stood on a higher plane, with a broad view of the world; his notions of morality weren’t so narrow. They had arranged things—fine, he wasn’t appointed Ottane’s judge. He only asked once, “Why don’t they marry?”

Hermine passed the question to Venice and received a reply after some weeks. Ottane felt she should no longer conceal how things stood with Max Heiland. He was at risk of going blind—or perhaps, it wasn’t clear from her letter—he was already blind, and he resisted binding Ottane to him with an indissoluble bond. As long as her heart urged her to stay with him, he accepted it as heaven’s grace, but he didn’t want her free sacrifice turned into a rigid duty.

“He’s actually a damned decent fellow,” Schuh said after reflection. “I wouldn’t have expected that from him.”

The envelope of today’s letter from Venice bore not Ottane’s handwriting but that of a stranger. An unknown wrote on behalf of Herr Max Heiland, prevented by his eye condition from writing himself. He wrote that he regrettably had a deeply sorrowful message to convey, which he received with resignation to God’s will. Fräulein Ottane von Reichenbach had died after brief, severe suffering, comforted by religion’s rites, from typhus. Unfortunately, the undersigned, a German doctor, had been called too late, after the Italian colleagues declared themselves unable to save her. A few lines were enclosed for comfort, and it was noted that notices had also gone to Freiherr von Reichenbach and Professor Semmelweis in Pest, the undersigned’s esteemed teacher, whom the dying woman had wished notified.

“So these wretched papists botched the poor thing,” Schuh said angrily. He channeled his grief into furious rage, railing against Italy, its doctors, the climate, and life there—but at bottom, he raged against fate for inflicting such incomprehensible cruelty on the person, after Hermine and his boy, he loved most.

Hermine battled her pain for two days, while little Karl cowered under the table, uncomprehending why his mother wept ceaselessly and his father cursed.

Then Hermine said, “Tomorrow I’ll go to Kobenzl to see Father. I imagined my first visit with him differently, bringing the child. But perhaps the boy will be some consolation and joy to him.”

When she and the child prepared to leave the next day, Schuh opened his wardrobe and began dressing too.

“Not going to the factory?” Hermine asked.

“No, I’m coming with you,” Schuh grumbled. He had the right to use the factory carriage but rarely did. Today, however, he’d ordered it; it waited outside, and they drove off together into the blissful summer day, full of sun and colors. For little Karl, the ride was a journey to fairyland—wonders followed one after another; he crowed endlessly with delight. Over his blond head, the parents exchanged glances; they understood each other, full of confidence. However sadly and incomprehensibly cruel some decrees were, there were consolations bringing light even to the darkest soul.

The access roads to Reisenberg were far from good, torn up by deep ruts where the carriage jolted forward, sometimes throwing their heads together with a sudden lurch. The mulberry trees the Freiherr had planted stood wild along the roadsides. There were now enough leaves for armies of silkworms to gorge themselves, but where were the silkworms, where was the careful husbandry of the estate’s model days? It was clear Reichenbach had sold the estate, and the creditor to whom it was transferred cared little for it, thinking only of further sales.

The castle itself showed Reichenbach’s neglect. It wasn’t just the subtle signs of decay but an indefinable air of cold, surly rejection that made Hermine uneasy. It no longer gazed freely and cheerfully into the landscape; it lay closed off, ill-tempered, like a sullen fortress. And the great cast-iron dog on the terrace, the Molossus from Blansko’s foundry, with its grim face, seemed now the true emblem of the house. Little Karl was transfixed by the iron beast, standing before it as if waiting for it to suddenly bark.

Meanwhile, Schuh pulled the bell at the entrance by the garden hall, now boarded up with weathered planks in the middle of summer. It took a long time before anyone came, and even then, the door opened only a narrow crack, as far as an iron chain inside allowed. One might think the woman whose head appeared in the gap had modeled her expression on the cast-iron Molossus.

“The Herr Baron isn’t home!” she grumbled with blunt certainty, without waiting for an explanation.

“Just announce us to the Herr Baron,” said Schuh, irritated by this broad face with coarse cheekbones and thick lips.

“You’ve heard he’s not home,” the woman snapped.

“Tell him his daughter Hermine is here with her husband and child.”

The woman pulled a brazen, mocking grimace that Schuh would have loved to smash with his fist. “Even if the Emperor of China were here, he’d have to turn back. The Herr Baron wants to see no one… and you least of all, got it?”

Schuh’s patience ran out. He shoved the woman in the chest and tried to wedge his foot in the door to force entry. But the chain held, and the woman, a broad, solid, heavy figure, threw herself against the intruder, pushed him back, and slammed the door shut.

There stood Schuh and Hermine, staring at each other, at a loss for words. What kind of gatekeeper had the father hired? The house was indeed a fortress, guarded by a woman with the devil in her.

“Aren’t we going to Grandfather’s?” asked little Karl, finally tearing himself from the dog.

“No, not today,” Hermine said in a choked voice. “Grandfather isn’t home.”

They went to the carriage waiting on the road. On a terrace bench overlooking the city sat an old man.

“That’s Severin,” said Hermine. Yes, Severin—he would lead them to her father, he’d muzzle that Cerberus.

Severin nodded with an enigmatic smile and rose slowly, leaning on a stick beside him.

“What kind of fury do you have at the door?” Schuh asked, still furious.

“Oh,” Severin chuckled, “she’s got hair on her teeth!”

“Take us to Father,” Hermine pleaded.