OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 16
Reichenbach has paid little attention to his large ironworks in Ternitz, just as little as to the one in Eaja, and since the estate on Reisenberg is in poor shape and the other holdings in Galicia and Moravia—where the stewards have also lined their own pockets—are no better, the Freiherr is very grateful to Hofrat Reißnagel for a hint concerning the ironworks.
Hofrat Reißnagel works in the state property administration, mockingly called the State Domain Squandering Office by malicious tongues. There are very sharp minds in this office—men who understand business and get wind of many things before others, making them able to offer valuable tips.
“The railway system is now to be expanded with all urgency in Austria,” hints the Hofrat. “Numerous new lines are planned. Nothing is more timely today than producing railway tracks—a business, dear Baron, that will yield a secure profit, an extraordinary profit. Nothing is better today than producing railway tracks.”
It’s a tip that could mean a fortune, one that could restore a faltering fortune.
The Hofrat has taken a few days’ leave and traveled with the Freiherr to Ternitz to inspect the ironworks, and Reichenbach has taken up the matter with fiery zeal and his old vigor, completely restructuring the operation and converting it entirely to railway track production.
Now they are heading home, and Reichenbach has been very silent for the last stretch of the journey. He makes mental calculations about the cost of the conversion. It will require an enormous sum of money, and the estates are in the red, the bank accounts exhausted—they will need to borrow. Mortgages will have to be placed on the estates, but it’s such a sure venture that everything must be done to get it going.
The carriage stops before the Hofrat’s house on Kohlmarkt to drop him off. “Come up to my place,” says Reißnagel. “Let’s go over the matter again.”
Reißnagel wants to discuss the matter again, particularly to find out how much the tip he gave Reichenbach is actually worth to him—expressed as a percentage of the net profit.
On the stairs, they encounter Reinhold, who greets the Hofrat politely but only nods casually to his father. Reinhold has taken a position as a chemist in a factory; he now lives year-round in Bäckergasse. He and his father rarely see each other, meeting most often at Hofrat Reißnagel’s, where they pass each other with stiff legs. The father finds Reinhold’s visits to Frau Hofrätin too frequent—much too frequent—and Reinhold secretly accuses his father of harming Frau Pauline’s fragile health and mental state with his Od experiments.
Even today, the Hofrätin sits beside him distracted and absent-minded, and Reinhold has failed to draw her out of the gloom of her mood.
She remains distracted and absent-minded during Reichenbach’s greeting, giving incoherent answers to his questions. In the midst of reorganizing his ironworks, some new experimental setups have occurred to Reichenbach, and now, sitting across from the Hofrätin, they suddenly seem so important that he wants to start immediately.
But Frau Pauline is not in the mood to engage with this.
“She has a fiery ball in her head,” she complains of herself in the third person, “she has waterfalls in her ears.”
After watching for a while, the Hofrat remarks that the Freiherr will likely struggle in vain today and invites him over to discuss the matter.
The Hofrätin is left alone; she sits idly in the growing darkness, staring at a distant point. The fiery ball spins faster and faster, and the waterfalls roar. Then a moan rises from her chest; her limbs stretch and stiffen, the sparking in her brain fades, the water’s rush ceases, and nothingness takes over—the great darkness.
The woman stands up; her movements are strangely angular. She walks through the dark room without bumping into anything, opens a wardrobe, and takes out a dress. It’s a black mourning gown from her father’s death, which she puts on. From a jewelry box, she retrieves a pearl necklace, a gold brooch, a cross on a chain, and a bracelet. She adorns herself as if for a celebration, though she wears a mourning dress, and leaves the house silently, unnoticed and unstopped by anyone.
She walks through the streets, somewhere, passing many people, one or two of whom glance at her curiously because something about her gait and posture strikes them, though they can’t quite pinpoint what it is. The Herrengasse, the Freyung, the Schottentor—ever onward—until she reaches a large building with a wide, open, illuminated gate, into which she enters.
The hospital porter sees a slender woman in mourning clothes; it’s evening now, not visiting hours, and he should technically ask her destination, but he refrains. The woman is in mourning attire, without a coat—odd enough for a chilly early spring evening. So many people in mourning pass through this gate; the porter has a kind heart and can’t bring himself to stop her.
A dark courtyard, then another, a staircase, bare, whitewashed corridors with many doors—and then one opens, and Ottane, propelled by the momentum of her professional zeal, nearly collides with the Hofrätin.
“What’s wrong with you, gracious lady?” asks Ottane.
The Hofrätin appears ill; she has an immobile, almost fixed stare in her eyes that seems to see nothing.
“Are you looking for our Doctor Semmelweis?” Ottane asks again. It could be that Frau Hofrätin has something to ask Doctor Semmelweis; many women arrive here so distraught, with such a glassy gaze, that The birth of a new person sometimes has a strange effect, heralding doom like an omen.
“Come to my room,” says Ottane. “I’ll notify Doctor Semmelweis right away.”
It’s a simple room into which Ottane leads the Hofrätin—a metal bed, a washstand, a wardrobe, a chair, a picture of the young emperor, and a crucifix on the wall, nothing more.
Ottane seats the Hofrätin on the chair and hurries off to fetch Semmelweis.
But when she returns with Semmelweis after barely a quarter of an hour, the chair is empty, the room is empty—the Hofrätin is gone. She’s already wandering back into the descending night, heading further into the suburbs. Trees trap clumps of darkness in their bare branches, forming avenues, then the woman leaves the wide paths, wandering along narrow trails through thickets.
A stream rushes nearby.
The Prater is very lonely at this hour and in this remote area.
But then, suddenly, two shadows appear—one large and stocky, the other small and hunched—emerging from the bushes to block her path. In better light, one might have seen that the large, broad shadow belongs to a man with a cap and a heavily embroidered jacket resembling a fantastical map, and that the other shadow is a stooped old man with a floppy hat, his coat so long it flaps around him, forcing him to roll up the sleeves. But even the brightest light wouldn’t have helped the woman; she sees nothing, driven forward by some force, and now she can’t proceed because the man with the cap has grabbed her elbow and holds her fast.
“Beautiful lady,” says the man in forced high German, “why so alone?”
He gets no response. “Don’t be afraid,” he continues, “we won’t harm you. We’re from the police.” Then both men laugh at the well-executed joke.
But when the woman still gives no answer and doesn’t move, the man with the cap grows irritated. Does she think she can plant herself like some Urschel? He, Ferdl Latschacher? “Come on, shine some light here,” he orders, and the hunched old man pulls something from his oversized coat, flipping open a small lantern. Suddenly, there’s light, and the old man raises the shaded lantern, illuminating the woman’s face.
“Well,” he crows gleefully, “this is an old acquaintance. It’s the Princess Metternich from Mariahilferlinie.”
Now the man with the cap recognizes her too—yes, it’s the woman from Mariahilferlinie who slipped through their fingers back then. But today is different; she won’t escape them again. She’s adorned with a lot of jewelry again, and if not for the black dress, one might think she’s heading to a court ball, perhaps one down at Praterspitz—haha! And besides, she’s a still-young, pretty woman; she seems only mute, since she says nothing— all the better, all the better.
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