OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
But one day, Therese Dommeyer was there.
She sat opposite Reichenbach in the blue room on Kobenzl, but she wasn’t cheerful at all. She wore a raincloud face, and it was clear she had been deeply affected by something.
“Why haven’t I come? Look, Baron, you’re a serious man, and that’s precisely why one should be able to laugh when with you. And I’ve had little to laugh about all this time, my soul! not at all.”
She played with the tassel of a cushion lying next to her on the divan. “What’s been going on? Better not ask. All sorts have happened, nothing good or beautiful. Nothing but trouble and sorrow. Bitter disappointments! You can’t rely on people. Especially not on those you’d sworn by, least of all on them. That hurts when you’ve built on someone and then discover their falseness. And then one easily becomes unfair to one’s true friends, the real ones, neglects them, and feels ashamed afterward.”
She looks up suddenly, and the divine’s unexpected glance shoots a flame into Reichenbach’s soul. There sits Therese Dommeyer, lamenting her woes, very melancholic, and to Reichenbach’s surprise, he finds her melancholy suits her almost better than her exuberance. And perhaps, his heart beats, this might be a turning point where what seemed impossible becomes possible.
He takes Therese’s dangling hand: “You would make me indescribably happy if you would trust me. What is it that weighs on you?”
She looks at him sharply for the blink of an eye and shakes herself: “Oh, what,” she laughs forcedly, “I’ve got debts, that’s all. Everyone at the theater has debts—why should I be the exception?”
She has debts! Certainly, Therese has debts, Reichenbach doesn’t doubt that. But it’s not just the debts that are at stake. In any case, it will be good to engage with that.
“And you only remember now,” says Reichenbach, “that you have a friend in me?”
“Should I perhaps let you pay my debts? You know how it is at the theater; if someone pays a actress’s debts, they usually expect something in return.” She pulls her hand back as if offended and insulted.
“Are your daughters at home?” asks Therese, and this is clearly a change of subject.
Yes, Hermine and Ottane are at home, but why does Therese pull her hand back—is it perhaps uncomfortable for her when the Freiherr holds it?
“Uncomfortable?” marvels Therese, “why uncomfortable? Oh, I see! It must be something odic. You’ve driven the whole city mad with your Od for a while now. And are you angry with me for saying it’s uncomfortable?”
“No? God forbid, no, it’s a scientific observation. And this?” The Freiherr now takes Therese’s left hand with his right.
“How must that be, odically?”
“Coolly pleasant!”
“Yes, really, it’s coolly pleasant,” Therese lies, “like a gentle breeze.” She’s heard something about this breeze and is curious about what comes next.
Reichenbach jumps up excitedly; his gaze searches the room, spots the tassel of the cushion dangling, grabs it, and pulls out a silk thread. “Take the thread in your right hand, like this… and now, what do you feel?”
He has taken the other end of the thread between two fingers of his right hand and looks at Therese almost standing.
“What am I supposed to feel?” asks Therese.
“Fräulein Maix says she feels a burning cut.”
“Ow!” says Therese, letting the silk thread from the cushion tassel slip and shaking her fingers. It’s not really an “ow,” of course; she just wants to see where this is going and enjoys applying a bit of her acting skill to feign something unfelt. Perhaps she overacts, blowing on her fingers as if seriously burned, and Reichenbach stammers excitedly: “Was it that bad?”
He brings a variety of objects—glass rods, crystals, sulfur pieces—has Therese file a piece of iron, slowly tear a sheet of packing paper, and speaks in between of odic conduction and friction Od. Sometimes Therese gets it right, sometimes not; then Reichenbach explains the sources of error, and finally, just as Therese begins to find it boring, he announces the overall result. He says, breathing deeply: “You are a highly sensitive.”
“Maran atha,” Therese exclaims convincingly with great shock, “how terrible!”
“Not terrible at all,” the Freiherr enthuses, “it’s not a disease. But you must allow me to conduct experiments with you often; there’s something different about you—I need to figure out how it works.”
“Look, at least one good thing comes out of it,” sighs Therese, “I’ve forgotten my troubles and misery for a while.”
Reichenbach stands before her, regarding the now doubly precious woman with a thoughtfully furrowed brow. “If it were only the debts, Therese, then as your friend, I demand that you allow me to help you.”
Therese’s eyes spark with barely restrained mischief: “I don’t think Od can help with my debts.”
“Seriously, Therese, trust me—how much do your debts amount to?”
She calculates in her head, and it looks utterly charming when Therese does mental arithmetic—it’s an unusual task, but even mathematics suits her delightfully. “Well,” she says finally slowly, “it must be around ten thousand gulden.”
Reichenbach dismisses this trifle with a casual gesture of his hand, then says with a slightly faltering voice: “And besides, Therese, your entire existence should… yes, I mean, so to speak, on different foundations… if your heart…”
But before Reichenbach can elaborate on what Therese’s heart has to do with different foundations of her existence, Ottane enters—very untimely, Reichenbach thinks with annoyance.
Ottane had no idea Therese was still there; otherwise, she certainly wouldn’t have come, but now she can’t just run off again. She braces herself with cool detachment. Therese becomes all the more affectionate, embracing Ottane, and Ottane barely avoids a kiss. “Oh, my dear child, be glad you have nothing to do with the theater. We were just speaking with your father about the theater. It eats you up, hollows you out inside; it’s a poison that first puffs you up and then slowly kills you.”
Ottane has nothing to say to this confession.
“And the worst,” Therese continues, “is that everyone thinks an actress must be a frivolous woman. No one believes in our decency. And yet, in so-called good society, there are women and girls who behave much worse than us. But they know how to do it; they present a hypocritical face to the world—no suspicion dares touch them. Until suddenly a little scandal breaks out, and then everyone asks: ‘What? How is that possible? Her?’”
Reichenbach listens in wonder at the direction Therese has given the conversation; it seems to him this isn’t exactly a continuation of what came before.
“Well, I must go to rehearsal,” says Therese, “next week I’ll play Maria Stuart again. You’ll come to the theater, Ottane? Come, you must distract yourself a bit; always staying home isn’t good for a young girl. It’ll do you good—tell her, Baron, that Ottane looks a bit peaked. She shouldn’t have worries or troubles or anger; she should look better.”
Certainly, if one looks at Ottane more closely, it’s undeniable that she’s grown a bit thin lately and has a tired face with a dull complexion. It’s true, as if, despite Therese’s assurance, she harbors a secret sorrow. She stands facing Therese, pale, with pressed lips, only her eyes flashing strangely and piercingly.
And now Therese plants a surprising kiss on Ottane’s forehead, then nods to Reichenbach and leaves behind a sweet smile as her final impression.
Ottane rubs her forehead so vigorously with her handkerchief that a red mark appears. She straightens the cushion, which still bears the impression of Therese’s body, and intends to leave without a word.
But Reichenbach, who has been pacing the room with his hands behind his back, stops and raises his lowered head: “Stay, Ottane, I need to speak with you.”
Obediently, Ottane pauses at the door.
“I have made a decision,” says Reichenbach, and the words seem to come to him with some difficulty, “a decision. I’m no longer a young man, that’s true. But I’m not yet old enough to forgo all the happiness life offers. How deeply the loss of your mother affected me, you’ve likely seen—or perhaps you didn’t fully understand because you were too young. That was many years ago, and my life since has been nothing but work…”
“Father,” interrupts Ottane, and her eyes flash as brightly and strangely as before—almost combatively, one might say, “Father, I will never tolerate that.”
“Tolerate?” Reichenbach retorts. “Tolerate? Are you speaking of tolerating? What won’t you tolerate?”
“I will never tolerate,” says Ottane quietly but with great determination, “I will never tolerate that person coming into our house as your wife.”
Reichenbach bursts into laughter—a bitter, mocking, angry, and slightly uncertain laugh. “Oh, so that’s what you won’t tolerate? Is that so? Did I ask you what you will or won’t tolerate? When I’ve made a decision, you must accept it without objection, understood?”
“A Therese Dommeyer must never stand where our mother stood.”
“So because of you,” Reichenbach snorts furiously, “should I give up my late happiness?”
“Happiness?” Ottane interjects, in a tone that seems to question the very possibility of happiness through love.
“Yes, do you think it’s only science that makes a person happy? All these years, I’ve consumed myself with longing for love; I hunger for love. Have I found love with you?”
“Perhaps you haven’t given us enough? And…”
“Enough,” Reichenbach cuts Ottane off, “I have decided to make Therese Dommeyer my wife.” He intends to add: if she will! But he doesn’t—why should he say if she will, she will want to; today he has received an infallible certainty—or hasn’t he?
Ottane remains unyielding and steadfast; she doesn’t back down: “Father, if that happens, I will leave your house.”
“You will leave my house,” Reichenbach shouts, “fine, you can go right now if you want; I won’t stop you. A child who stands in the way of their father’s happiness is no longer my child.” And then Reichenbach takes a precious, polished glass vase from the cabinet and smashes it against the wall, the shards clattering. He doesn’t And now Therese plants a surprising kiss on Ottane’s forehead, then nods to Reichenbach and leaves behind a sweet smile as her final impression.
Ottane rubs her forehead so vigorously with her handkerchief that a red mark appears. She straightens the cushion, which still bears the impression of Therese’s body, and intends to leave without a word.
But Reichenbach, who has been pacing the room with his hands behind his back, stops and raises his lowered head: “Stay, Ottane, I need to speak with you.”
Obediently, Ottane pauses at the door.
“I have made a decision,” says Reichenbach, and the words seem to come to him with some difficulty, “a decision. I’m no longer a young man, that’s true. But I’m not yet old enough to forgo all the happiness life offers. How deeply the loss of your mother affected me, you’ve likely seen—or perhaps you didn’t fully understand because you were too young. That was many years ago, and my life since has been nothing but work…”
“Father,” interrupts Ottane, and her eyes flash as brightly and strangely as before—almost combatively, one might say, “Father, I will never tolerate that.”
“Tolerate?” Reichenbach retorts. “Tolerate? Are you speaking of tolerating? What won’t you tolerate?”
“I will never tolerate,” says Ottane quietly but with great determination, “I will never tolerate that person coming into our house as your wife.”
Reichenbach bursts into laughter—a bitter, mocking, angry, and slightly uncertain laugh. “Oh, so that’s what you won’t tolerate? Is that so? Did I ask you what you will or won’t tolerate? When I’ve made a decision, you must accept it without objection, understood?”
“A Therese Dommeyer must never stand where our mother stood.”
“So because of you,” Reichenbach snorts furiously, “should I give up my late happiness?”
“Happiness?” Ottane interjects, in a tone that seems to question the very possibility of happiness through love.
“Yes, do you think it’s only science that makes a person happy? All these years, I’ve consumed myself with longing for love; I hunger for love. Have I found love with you?”
“Perhaps you haven’t given us enough? And…”
“Enough,” Reichenbach cuts Ottane off, “I have decided to make Therese Dommeyer my wife.” He intends to add: if she will! But he doesn’t—why should he say if she will, she will want to; today he has received an infallible certainty—or hasn’t he?
Ottane remains unyielding and steadfast; she doesn’t back down: “Father, if that happens, I will leave your house.”
“You will leave my house,” Reichenbach shouts, “fine, you can go right now if you want; I won’t stop you. A child who stands in the way of their father’s happiness is no longer my child.” And then Reichenbach takes a precious, polished glass vase from the cabinet and smashes it against the wall, the shards clattering. He doesn’t not out of blind rage but with deliberation; he means he must not only thunder but also hurl a lightning bolt to give weight to his words. If he even smashes glass vases, these disobedient children must realize how serious he is about his decision.
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