Part I: An Overview of Alchemy’s History and Theory
Chapter 3: The Golden Treatise of Hermes Trismegistus, Part 5
Introduction: Hermes guides us deeper into the alchemical art, revealing the transformative union of the universal essence’s principles. In this section, we explore the marriage of the crowned king and red daughter, forging the philosopher’s stone through fire and light.
Section Four (Continued): The Alchemical Marriage
Hermes describes a sacred union: “When we marry the crowned king to our red daughter in a gentle, harmless fire, she conceives a son, conjoined and superior, who lives by our fire.” The “crowned king” (the active, radiant principle, or Sulphur) and “red daughter” (the purified, passive Mercury) unite in a controlled process, birthing a new essence—the philosopher’s stone. This “son” thrives through the alchemical fire, distinct from common flames, as a subtle, creative force.
He continues, “When you send fire upon the foliated sulphur, the boundary of hearts enters, washing away impurities until the tincture remains red, like flesh.” This “foliated sulphur” (the essence’s active light) is refined, its impurities cleansed, yielding a vibrant, flesh-like tincture. Hermes notes, “Our king-born son takes his tincture from the fire, and death, darkness, and waters flee.” The purified essence, now radiant, overcomes mortality, emerging as the stone’s transformative power.
Hermes exclaims, “The dragon, guarding the crevices, shuns sunlight, but our dead son lives. The king emerges from the fire, rejoicing in the espousal. Occult treasures open, and the virgin’s milk whitens. The vivified son becomes a warrior in the fire, supreme over the tincture, bearing the philosophical matter.” The dragon (the raw essence) yields to the purified “son,” who, through the fire’s gentle nurturing, becomes the stone, a treasury of transformative light.
He urges, “Sons of Wisdom, rejoice! The reign of death is over, the son rules, adorned in the red garment and purple robe.” This triumphant image signifies the stone’s completion, its radiant essence fully manifest, ready to transform other substances.
Hermes declares, “The stone says: Protect me, and I’ll protect you. Give me my own, and I’ll help you.” The stone, now perfected, offers mutual protection and reward. He adds, “My Sun and beams are hidden within me. My Moon, my light, surpasses all others. My gifts—joy, glory, riches—outshine all. I freely give, rewarding the wise with divine understanding.” The stone’s inner light, both solar (active) and lunar (passive), holds unparalleled power, granting wisdom to those who seek it.
He hints at a cryptic code: “What philosophers conceal is written with seven letters: Alpha follows Yda and Liber, and Sol follows, but to guard the art, join the son to Buba, Jupiter’s hidden secret.” These “seven letters” symbolize the stages of transformation, with “Yda,” “Liber,” and “Buba” as veiled references to the process’s mystical phases, uniting active and passive principles.
Hermes advises, “Use judgment. I’ve demonstrated this with subtle investigation. The matter is one, but few inquire rationally. Nothing comes from unlike species—man begets man, not an ox. If creatures mix, the result resembles neither.” Rational meditation is key to understanding the unified essence, avoiding confusion from unnatural combinations.
Venus, personifying the essence’s light, speaks: “I beget light, not darkness. If my metal weren’t dry, all bodies would desire me, for I liquify and cleanse their rust, extracting their essence. Nothing is more venerable than I and my brother conjoined.” Venus represents the purified Mercury, dissolving impurities and uniting with the Sulphur (her brother) to create the stone.
The king, supported by his brethren, declares, “I am crowned, adorned with a diadem, clothed in the royal garment, bringing joy. Chained to my mother’s substance, I hold my essence together, making the invisible visible, revealing the occult.” The king (the stone’s active principle) unites with the passive Mercury, manifesting hidden truths and generating all the philosophers’ secrets.
Hermes urges, “Hear these words, keep them, meditate on them, seek nothing more. Man arises from nature’s fleshy principle, not elsewhere. Reject superfluities.” The stone’s essence mirrors human life, rooted in a universal source, requiring focused inquiry.
He clarifies, “Botri is made from the Citrine, extracted from the Red, and nothing else. If it’s citrine, that’s your wisdom. Don’t seek the Red if you’re not anxious for it.” “Botri” (the stone) emerges from the citrine (yellow) stage, derived from the red tincture, emphasizing the unified process.
Finally, Hermes instructs, “Burn the brazen body with great fire, and it will grant you the grace you seek. Make the volatile fixed, so it cannot flee the non-volatile. The fiery flame that rests on the fire, corrupted in the boiling heat, is Cambar.” The “brazen body” (raw essence) is purified through intense fire, fixing the volatile Mercury to create the stone, with “Cambar” as a veiled reference to the purified matter.
Section Five (Beginning): The Hidden Vessel
Hermes continues, “All is to be understood ethereally, according to the principles laid down. Venus personifies the central light of nature, hidden in its generations, especially in metals due to their density.”
Closing: Section 4 completes Hermes’ vision of the alchemical marriage, uniting the crowned king and red daughter to birth the philosopher’s stone, a radiant essence that overcomes death and reveals divine truths. Section 5 begins, hinting at the hidden vessel of transformation. The journey toward the stone’s perfection continues in our next post, unveiling further alchemical mysteries.
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Despite all this recognition, Schrötter argues, one must confront Reichenbach where he has strayed into a realm governed by imagination and whim.
Reichenbach can hardly believe his ears; he wants to interrupt the speaker immediately, point to his meticulously kept protocols, but he restrains himself.
On what evidence, Schrötter continues, is this entire Od hypothesis based? On the testimony of nervous, weak, or sick individuals—whom the Freiherr calls sensitives.
Frowns and disapproving looks ripple through the assembly. Schrötter has conjured a shadow—the shadow of Hofrätin Reißnagel. Reichenbach feels it distinctly, as this shadow swirls out of the hall and passes over him.
Such people, Schrötter suggests, are easily excitable in their imagination, especially when, as Reichenbach does, one deals primarily with women, and one need only tell them what to feel or see for them to believe they truly do.
“Can you say,” Reichenbach cries indignantly, “that I influence my sensitives?”
Schrötter dismisses this with a shake of his head. “Have you ever been able to confirm odic phenomena from your own perception?”
“I’m not sensitive myself,” Reichenbach shouts. “Must a doctor who describes the symptoms of a disease have experienced it himself?”
“Childbed fever!” says a voice from the back rows—the same voice that interrupted earlier. It gains some success again; heads turn, and a smirk spreads across the enlightened listeners’ faces. Yes, Semmelweis—that’s a similar case; it’s an excellent interjection, highlighting the intellectual kinship of these two men who have entangled themselves in untenable claims. But then the amused faces force themselves back into the seriousness and dignity of the assembly.
“What Baron Reichenbach calls Od,” says Schrötter, jabbing his index fingers into the air, “is entirely subjective in origin. And even if that weren’t the case, the assumption of a previously unknown natural force is entirely superfluous; these so-called odic phenomena can be explained partly by magnetism, partly by electricity…”
Reichenbach can no longer hold back: “Magnetism is something different,” he shouts, “electricity is something different, and Od is something else entirely.”
Professor Schrötter shakes his head again, gently and admonishingly. This kind of outburst, like a tavern brawl, is entirely against the customs and traditions of this distinguished assembly. Here, people are accustomed to letting each other finish, weighing arguments and counterarguments with care and deliberation—a basic tenet of scientific decorum.
“Certain phenomena can also be explained by the known animal magnetism,” Schrötter begins again. “Even Mesmer…”
But in Reichenbach, all regard for the distinguished assembly has collapsed. He feels himself in a state of self-defense. “Mesmerism is merely a special case of Od,” he thunders angrily.
Now Professor Schrötter can go no further. No civilized debate is possible with this shouter, who lacks all sense of good manners. Schrötter withdraws his arm from his coat tails and sits down.
But another rises in his place—a gaunt clerical figure with a sallow face and a hawk-like nose. He gobbles like a lean turkey and drags invisible wings behind him on the floor. “I would like,” he says, “to emphasize from the Church’s standpoint, with all due rigor, that we strictly condemn the superstitious notions of spiritualists, and that we are averse to all mysticism. The Od doctrine of Herr von Reichenbach is mysticism of the darkest origin and stands in opposition to the teachings of the Church. And when Herr von Reichenbach speaks of spirit appearances…”
Reichenbach shows no reverence even for the Church’s vote; he dares not let even a cleric finish. The battle is as good as lost; he no longer fights for victory but only for an honorable retreat. “I am a physicist, Eminence,” he interjects, “and as a physicist, I tell you that all corpses of dead animals emit Od light. —And perhaps,” a new idea strikes him, “one can even derive the word ‘corpse’ from the term ‘light.’”
It’s a blunder that linguists and Germanists, present today, immediately catch. This is their domain, where they’re at home, and something unheard of happens in these sacred halls—a burst of laughter erupts, an unrestrained, gleeful laughter at this misstep.
Then the voice from the back rows speaks again. It shouts, louder and more defiantly than before, a single word into the hall: “Swindle!”
A whip crack stuns Reichenbach; he flinches. Now he has finally spotted the interrupter, crouching behind the backs of those in front, who has been spitting venom at him. It’s Doctor Eisenstein—Doctor Eisenstein, that nobody, that sycophant he dismissed for overstepping his bounds. A base, pitiful revenge has claimed Reichenbach as its victim. “Gentlemen!” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow, “this is a word has been cast that attacks my honor and sullies my name. I stand too high above such accusations to settle publicly with their author. Let his own conscience pronounce judgment. I have by no means worked only with women; I see men in this assembly whom I have involved in my experiments and whom I call as witnesses to testify to how it was conducted—men from your own ranks, whose word you will find beyond reproach…”
His gaze sweeps over the rows of seats, picking out individuals—the physicist Natterer, the botanist Unger, the anatomist Ritter von Perger. They were present, are somewhat sensitive themselves, and can vouch that Reichenbach stands with clean hands, that his experiments were conducted with utmost care. Now one of them must rise and honor the truth.
Silence. They remain seated, shrinking awkwardly, squirming under his gaze, but they dare not confess. They don’t want to be exposed as gullible followers of a man already half-outcast before the Areopagus of science.
Sweat pours in streams from Reichenbach’s forehead. It’s over; they have abandoned him. “Gentlemen,” he says, and his pride rears up even in collapse, “I remind you only of a word from Schopenhauer. The solution to every problem passes through three stages until its acceptance: in the first, it seems ridiculous; in the second, it is fought; and in the third, it is taken as self-evident. You, gentlemen, have not yet spoken the final word; you haven’t even reached the second stage because your capacity for understanding doesn’t extend that far. I confidently leave the decision to the future.”
It’s outrageous, the audacity this arrogant man displays. He dares to criticize the comprehension of this highly esteemed assembly, questioning the jurisdiction of this scientific tribunal over his own matters. Now order breaks down; it’s no longer possible to hold back. A murmur of voices surges against the pale, sweating man at the lectern.
“Oh ho!”
“That’s an insolent overreach!”
“You can’t expect our clear-sighted century to take such fantasies seriously.”
“Yes, yes, leave it to the future.”
In these sacred halls, where the spirit of tolerance and consideration usually prevails, never has it been so chaotic as today. And it scarcely needs the heckler to remove the last inhibitions.
He shouts: “‘Speak of the devil, and he appears!’”
The reference to earlier events isn’t entirely clear, but the word doesn’t miss its mark. Reichenbach himself used it before; they remember, they don’t pause to consider if it fits or not—it allows all interpretations and triggers laughter. Laughter slaps Reichenbach in the face; laughter buries him and his Od.
Amid the tumult, Reichenbach gathers his papers together and leaves. He walks through the rows of seats with his head held high. He scorns the idea of slipping out through the small exit behind the lectern; he departs through the front, straight through the hall, exiting via the main entrance.
Schrötter hurries after him; he doesn’t want to be misunderstood. He wants to make clear to the Freiherr that it was no personal attack but a deliberate defense of scientific objectivity that compelled him to contradict. But the Freiherr is already down the stairs; it’s evident that attempting to appease him now would be risky. With a touch of regret and thoughtfulness, Schrötter remains upstairs and lets the Freiherr go.
It’s strange how, amid inner darkness, the feet seem to find their way on their own. One walks and walks without accounting for it, and suddenly one stands before a destination, realizing they sought it without knowing.
Suddenly, Reichenbach also stands before the stage door of the Burgtheater, facing the poster and reading behind the wire mesh: “First Reappearance of the Heroine Therese Dommeyer as The Maid of Orleans.” And that, indeed, is the answer to the question Reichenbach meant to ask when his feet carried him here unbidden.
So she’s back; she has completed her guest performance tour and resumed her activities in Vienna.
That was the question he came to ask, and here stands the answer behind the wire mesh of the poster board.
Groups of actors and actresses mill about the stage door, chatting and smoking. He threads through them, holding his breath, and knocks on the sliding window of the stage porter.
Where might Madame Dommeyer be found?
The stately guardian of the Muses’ temple looks down at the stranger. Madame Dommeyer is in the house, occupied with rehearsal.
So! Good! Thanking him, Reichenbach steps back; the carriage has followed slowly and stops before the Burgtheater. Reichenbach signals Severin to wait and settles into a small inn, from whose window he can keep the stage door in view.
What would the Herr Baron like—perhaps a glass of young wine and a goulash or some beef?
It doesn’t take long; the wine and beef sit untouched before him when Therese Dommeyer glides out of the stage door. Someone inquired about her, the stage porter reports; the carriage over there seems to belong to him.
Therese Dommeyer nods indifferently; since her return to Vienna, many older gentlemen have been pressing themselves on her. It’s as if these old men have a keen sense, knowing the moment Therese steps back onto Viennese soil that the path is clear. Yes, even the strongest feelings of joy fade; the exuberant dearest joy of passion dulls with habit. As long as there are obstacles, as long as the struggle persists, all that is desired is crowned with heavenly roses; one feels they might perish if the longing endures, but unrestricted fulfillment breaks the spell. Who truly knows their own heart? Such is life.
Freiherr von Reichenbach hurries out of the small inn. Ah, so the Freiherr von Reichenbach is the old gentleman—truly, he has become an old man; just a few months ago, he was better preserved.
He requests the honor of driving Therese home in his carriage.
Why not? She sweeps into the carriage, spreads her skirts, nods to her colleagues—well, hardly has she arrived, and she’s already being picked up in a carriage.
Only a meager spot remains for the Freiherr beside her. He makes himself small, presses into the corner, inquires about her destination, her successes.
Oh God, Therese remembers she promised to send him greetings from her journey. Naturally, she didn’t; she completely forgot there was a Freiherr von Reichenbach. He shouldn’t remind her of it—she’ll give him an answer anyway.
Therese is sullen and mistrustful, reporting her successes only sparingly—perhaps they weren’t even up to par, falling short of what she believes she’s entitled to claim.
“I have a request for you!” says the Freiherr.
Oh, is that it again—this same story? Well, Reichenbach will be astonished by what he’s about to hear. She leans back in the carriage, bracing herself for defense.
“Go ahead, speak,” she says, not exactly encouragingly.
“It’s like this… it concerns the Od, my scientific reputation. You must know that my research has been questioned. I must muster everything to crush my opponents. I’m preparing for the final battle.”
My God, the Od—this tedious Od—hasn’t the Freiherr tired of this harebrained nonsense yet?
“My witnesses have abandoned me; my sensitives have withdrawn, especially now. If you were to step forward—you, who stand at a widely visible height and are known throughout the city… if you were to vouch for me and say, ‘This is how it is,’ then people would listen. They would take the matter seriously again. You are highly sensitive, though even with you, some things remain unclear and contradict other findings…”
“I believe it,” Therese laughs outright.
“I mean,” the Freiherr continues, somewhat embarrassed, “they are only minor deviations that, upon closer examination, can be reconciled with the other facts. Why shouldn’t you…”
Therese is in no mood to be gentle: “Why? Because your whole Od is utter nonsense!”
A glowing corkscrew bores into Reichenbach’s chest, ripping his heart out with a jerk.
His lips tremble with age; the clatter of the carriage window shatters like the blare of trumpets.
“Yes… and because I’ve never seen or heard the slightest thing of what you’ve asked of me. So, now you know, and leave me out of your damned Od!”
A tear in the curtain from top to bottom, a temple collapse, a tempest of the Last Judgment. Who is this strange woman sitting beside Reichenbach in the carriage?
“Well, no hard feelings… I can’t be part of something like this. And thanks for the ride. I’m home.” She taps on the window; Severin turns, nods into the carriage, and leaps from the box to open the door for Therese. Therese has no idea what a devoted admirer she has in Severin; when the Baron is in the city, he misses none of her performances. He’d gladly lay Persian carpets under her delicate feet. Now, knowing she’s in the carriage behind him, he feels as if he’s transporting the Austrian crown jewels. He’s overjoyed she’s back from her tour and gazes at her, utterly enchanted.
When he turns back to his master, he’s startled by the gray, haggard face resting on the red velvet backrest.
“Are you unwell, gracious sir?” he asks with concern.
“No… no… take me home,” says the Freiherr, his tongue slightly heavy.
Chapter 9: Gnostic Christianity – Jesus, the Heart’s Wisdom, and the Soul’s Victory
Historical Overview: Jesus, Gnosticism, and the Clash of Ideologies
The question of whether Jesus was a Gnostic is complex, rooted in the cultural and spiritual crucible of 1st-century Judea. Emerging from a Jewish tradition, Jesus is traditionally linked to the Essenes, a mystical sect (circa 2nd century BCE–1st century CE) known for asceticism and esoteric practices, as described in the Dead Sea Scrolls (discovered 1947, dated 200 BCE–70 CE). Mainstream Judaism of the period, often described as functionally atheistic, prioritized logic, reason, and communal law over mystical afterlife beliefs, viewing Sheol as a shadowy end rather than a vibrant spiritual realm (e.g., Ecclesiastes 9:10). In contrast, Essene teachings emphasized spiritual purity and divine connection, aligning with organic gnostic roots that celebrated life and soul continuity.
Gnostic Christianity, formalized in texts like the Gospel of Mary (circa 2nd century CE) and Gospel of Thomas (circa 120–180 CE), emerged post-Jesus but drew from earlier traditions—Egyptian, Platonic, and possibly Minoan—emphasizing the soul’s immortality and gender balance. The Gospel of Mary portrays Mary Magdalene as a favored disciple with equal or exalted status, suggesting Jesus’ circle embraced male-female equality, akin to organic gnosticism’s Tantric duality (Ch. 5). However, tensions arose, as seen in Peter’s resistance to female roles in the same text, reflecting patriarchal influences that later dominated orthodox Christianity (Council of Nicaea, 325 CE).
Jesus’ teachings, centered on the heart’s wisdom and life’s celebration (“I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly,” John 10:10), contrasted with Jewish rational atheism’s focus on earthly law and collective good. His emphasis on the soul’s persistence post-death—evident in resurrection narratives (e.g., Mark 16)—aligned with organic gnostic and social enforcer (zealot) beliefs in spiritual continuity but clashed with materialist denial of afterlife. Paul’s conversion (circa 33–36 CE) and subsequent teachings to Gentiles (e.g., Galatians 3:28, “neither male nor female”) introduced Gnostic elements, emphasizing personal divine connection over collective dogma, further splitting Christianity from Judaism. This split empowered organic gnostics but also allowed social enforcers to exploit the “body of Christ” as a worldly power, enslaving weaker egos of Gaia’s native inhabitants.
Mystery School Teachings: Heart’s Wisdom, Soul Immortality, and Patriarchal Tensions
Gnostic teachings, influenced by Jesus’ message, celebrated the watcher self (observer self, Ch. 2) as a soul enduring beyond physical death, rooted in literacy’s cognitive leap (circa 3200 BCE). The Gospel of Thomas (Saying 3) states, “When you know yourselves, then you will be known,” emphasizing heart-centered self-discovery over intellectual dogma, aligning with organic gnosticism’s life-affirming duality (Ch. 7). Mary Magdalene’s role in the Gospel of Mary reflects Tantric balance, where male and female energies merge for soul growth, echoing Egyptian Isis-Osiris unions (Ch. 5).
Rational atheists (mainstream Jews) rejected non-physical realms, prioritizing collective law, as seen in Sadducee teachings denying resurrection (Mark 12:18–27). Social enforcers (zealots), with their mystical bent, embraced soul immortality but risked equating their visions with Jesus’, leading to fanaticism that fueled early Christian power structures (e.g., apostolic authority). This tension—between heart-centered gnosis and patriarchal control—saw organic gnostics’ message of individual soul empowerment co-opted by the church’s collective “body of Christ,” enslaving native inhabitants’ developing egos (Ch. 1).
Paul’s Gnostic-leaning teachings, emphasizing personal divine connection (e.g., Romans 8:14–16, “sons of God” led by spirit), bridged organic gnostics and zealots but clashed with rational atheism, amplifying the split by the 2nd century CE. The heart’s wisdom, simplified by Jesus, aimed to empower the watcher self for all, but patriarchal distortions marginalized this, favoring death-centric salvation.
OAK Ties and Practical Rituals: Restoring Heart-Centered Gnosis
In the OAK Matrix, Jesus’ heart wisdom resonates with the true Ego’s resonance (Intro, Individual), integrating Shadow (primal life urges, Radon, Ch. 26, Magus) and Holy Guardian Angel (cosmic harmony, Krypton, Ch. 24) in Oganesson’s womb (Ch. 20). The soul’s immortality aligns with resonant circuits (Ch. 13), requiring physical incarnation for renewal, countering social enforcers’ death worship and rational atheists’ materialism (Ch. 7). This ties to Adeptus Exemptus compassion (Ch. 7, Magus), serving life’s sacredness, and Ipsissimus unity (Ch. 10), merging physical and astral in heart-centered gnosis. Mary’s exalted role echoes Tantrika manifestation (Ch. 5), mixing energies for soul creation.
Practical rituals revive this:
Heart Wisdom Meditation (Daily, 15 minutes): Visualize your watcher self in heart chakra, observing a life-affirming dream. Journal refused Shadow (e.g., fear of death from zealot influence) and aspired HGA (e.g., love’s harmony). Merge in Oganesson’s womb, affirming: “My soul lives through heart’s wisdom.” Tie to Gospel of Mary: Inhale equality, exhale patriarchal spooks.
Gaia Soul Ritual (Weekly): By an oak, touch roots, invoking Gaia’s life force. Offer water, symbolizing soul renewal via incarnation. Visualize watcher self as photon-plasma (Ch. 19, Magus), pulsing through body-aura circuit. Affirm: “I find my soul in Gaia’s heart, not collective chains.” Counter rational atheist collectivism.
Partner Gnostic Exchange: With a partner, discuss heart-centered insights. Men: Share expansive soul visions; women: Grounding acts of love. Build non-physical energy via breath or eye contact, visualizing Tantric union (Ch. 5) for soul empowerment. Solo: Internalize, balancing zealot mysticism and atheist logic in Gaia’s embrace.
These empower organic gnostics to reclaim heart-centered gnosis, restoring Jesus’ vision. Next, explore Cathar dualism, continuing resistance against patriarchal enslavement.
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 15
Max Heiland had actually felt a troubling premonition all day, and it was foolish of him to stubbornly suppress and dismiss it.
This premonition warned him against visiting his lodgings on Kohlmarkt today, and he would have been wise to heed it.
For when he heard Ottane’s light step on the stairs and then her signal at the door, and when he—now with some difficulty—assumed the face of the delighted lover and opened the door, there stood Therese Dommeyer before him.
Damn it all, how could his sharp hearing have deceived him so—now the reckoning was at hand.
“Quite cozy you’ve got it here,” said Therese, stepping in and closing the door behind her.
“Who: we?” asked the master, rather lacking in wit.
Therese went further; she removed the key and tucked it into her fold-up purse. Then she said, “Well, you and your lover.”
Max Heiland deemed it appropriate to react gruffly: “What kind of foolish talk is this?”
“So is this perhaps your new studio? I don’t know much about it, but it seems the light isn’t great. I think I’ll have to shed some light on this for you.”
“So what do you want here?”
“I’d like to meet your lady.”
There was nothing to do but give in a little. “I beg you, Therese, surely you don’t want to cause a scandal!”
“I’m just curious about who comes to see you.”
“Very well… but you must give me your word of honor to cause no scandal.” He choked out the name as an honorable man yielding only to necessity. “It’s Frau Oberstin Arroquia!”
He breathed a sigh of relief. “You understand… a Spaniard like that… what can one do? It’s practically a business matter. Frau Arroquia has connections to court circles, the best connections, and if she ends our friendship and turns the entire nobility against me—well, I’d look pretty foolish. One can’t afford to offend a woman like that.”
Therese hadn’t been listening to the master and was sniffing around the room. “Yes, one mustn’t offend a Spaniard like that,” she said, continuing to sniff. She picked up a silk scarf from an armchair and examined it: “This shawl looks familiar, but I think I’ve seen it with someone else.”
Yes, there hung Ottane’s shawl, and on the dresser stood a prominent, unmistakable picture—Ottane’s daguerreotype, taken by Schuh, with a small vase of roses before it, like a household altar of love. Therese stood reverently before the image and said, “But the Frau Oberstin has changed remarkably lately.”
Good heavens, Max Heiland realized everything was lost—Ottane’s picture was there, and on top of that, he had placed roses before it out of exaggerated chivalry.
“So it’s Ottane,” Therese turned around, “this little game with Ottane, with whom you’ve been cheating on me. Is this also because of court circles and business considerations?”
Now further denial would be pointless, mere waste of time, and there was no time to lose. Ottane’s moment was at hand; she could arrive at the door any second, and what might follow was unthinkable. A confrontation must be avoided at all costs. Max Heiland gave himself a shake and stood up straight: “I’ll tell you the truth. It really is Ottane. And what do you intend to do now?”
“I’ll wait here until she comes,” said Therese, settling broadly into a chair with rustling skirts.
“You won’t do that, my dear.”
“Don’t call me ‘my dear’!” Therese flared up angrily. “You know I can’t stand that.”
“You won’t do that because you don’t need to. It’s entirely unnecessary for you to make a scene. You’ve discovered this… well, this affair at a time when it’s nearly resolved for me. You’ve only hastened its natural end. In a few days, I would have broken with Ottane. I’ve had enough of her.”
Therese raised heavy eyelids with a look that suggested little trust. “Is that true?”
Heiland nodded affirmatively. He had spoken the truth—at least a kind of truth; he had indeed grown somewhat weary of Ottane. Her passion no longer swept him away; he remained more out of politeness and favor than from an inner urge as a tender lover. He had other life goals, other women, and his work; in truth, he was already bored, and Therese’s intrusion into the fading love idyll merely provided the external push to end it. It excused the violent act, to which he hadn’t yet been able to resolve himself out of pity and consideration.
“If I’m to believe you,” said Therese, “then write a farewell letter to her right now.”
“I’m ready to do that,” Heiland conceded, with the seriousness befitting such a moral turn. He sat at the small desk, took paper and pen, and began to write.
“And to make it easier for you,” Therese continued, twirling Ottane’s shawl in the air until it formed a rope, “you’ll come away with me now.”
Heiland looked up in surprise.
“Yes, I’ve been granted leave; I must make a guest performance tour in Germany, and you’re coming with me.”
All respect, one had to give Therese credit—when she did something, she did it thoroughly. “Very well,” said the master after a brief reflection, “I’ll go with you. It might do me good to take a break for a while. I don’t know what’s wrong with my eyes; sometimes it’s like a veil over them, and then I can hardly see nearby things. It will benefit my eyes to not paint for a few weeks.”
He wrote a few more lines and then asked over his shoulder, “And your old man?”
“My old man?” Therese wrinkled her nose. “The Reichenbach? Yes, he’ll have to manage without me.”
Now Heiland even managed his captivating smile again: “But you must tell me how you found out… that we were here…?”
“You’d like to know, you sly one!?” Therese laughed, half-reconciled. “I just have very good connections with the police. The police know everything, and it was an honor for the Hofrat to oblige me.”
Heiland hurried to finish his letter, for now there was no minute to spare.
“Show me!” Therese commanded as he sprinkled sand over the ink. She read it, nodded, was satisfied; and then they didn’t linger any longer. Heiland felt the ground burning beneath his feet—my God, only not another encounter at the last moment on the stairs, in the stairwell, or on the street, an open confession. Heiland wasn’t fond of awkward confrontations; his quota was fully met by Therese. He breathed a real sigh of relief only when they turned the next street corner.
Ottane arrived quite flushed; an urgent operation that Semmelweis wouldn’t perform without her had caused the nearly half-hour delay. As she entered the house, the curtain at the caretaker’s window moved, and then the caretaker emerged, holding a letter.
“Herr Heiland just left with a lady… and I’m to give you this letter.” Rarely had Frau Rosine Knall carried out an errand with such satisfaction. The foolish Doctor Semmelweis had dismissed her—that was an outrage—and her disposition toward him hadn’t improved with the neighborhood joke that she’d been fired on the spot. She knew this young lady was, so to speak had taken her place—this person who took bread from poor women and, of course, indulged Semmelweis in his madness. She included Ottane with fervor in her resentment; it had been a delight to provide information to the police spy when he came to inquire, and now she had lurked behind the curtain of her door window like a hunter on the lookout.
The arrow had been loosed—this letter, she knew, was a poisoned dart. Ottane realized it the moment she received the letter.
“Thank you!” said Ottane and walked away. Only don’t let this woman notice anything, only don’t give those greedy, hateful eyes a spectacle. She walked a few houses down and stepped into a wide gateway.
She knew what the letter contained; she had sensed it coming. Max Heiland’s arts hadn’t been enough to deceive the feeling that something dreadful approached; the hours of passion had been followed by bitterness, a gaze into emptiness, a rise of fear.
Now Ottane held the letter in hands that trembled as they broke the seal.
She read: “My conscience can no longer allow…”
She read: “I cannot bring myself to involve a girl from a first family, so pure and blameless…”
She read: “Under this conflict, my art and the noble purpose of my existence suffer…”
She read: “Though my own heart bleeds from a thousand wounds…”
She read: “And so I depart alone…”
Ottane leaned against the wall; her legs stood in a mire into which they sank. The view of the street through the gateway swung in pendulum motions left and right. Then she heard voices from above; footsteps clattered down the wooden stairs, a child crowed with delight.
No, only don’t let anyone notice, for God’s sake, don’t let anyone notice.
She pushed off from the wall, staggered a little, but then walked out into the life of the street.
“Are you packing?” said Freiherr von Reichenbach, surprised, as he entered Therese Dommeyer’s room.
She stood with her maid amid piles of clothing and feminine accessories, wrestling with a stubborn suitcase.
“Are you traveling?” the Freiherr asked again, faced with these unmistakable preparations.
“Yes, I’m traveling,” laughed Therese. “I’m going to Germany—Dresden, Leipzig, Berlin, and so on, a big guest performance tour…”
“You must be very excited about it?” the Freiherr remarked, distressed.
Therese, with the maid’s help, had subdued the unruly suitcase. She jumped onto the lid and held it down with the sweet weight of her body while the maid quickly fastened the straps.
“I’m overjoyed. A chance to get out of the Viennese sausage kettle, see new faces, and earn a bit of money!”
Therese was evidently not the least bit saddened by the farewell; she sat soulfully delighted on the lid, drumming the sides of the suitcase with the heels of her cute shoes.
A shadow of melancholy darkened Reichenbach’s features: “I came to invite you to a session, but…”
“Yes, with the sessions, that’s over now,” Therese waved off. “Now you’ll have to sit without me. And I’m not sensitive anymore.” She leaped off the restrained suitcase and dove into a pile of clothes. “Jesus, Rosa, where’s the blue hat? Haven’t you seen the blue hat? It was still in the bedroom a moment ago.”
The maid slipped out; they were alone for a short while, perhaps only minutes, as Rosa would return soon. Reichenbach hadn’t come solely for the session—the matters needed clarification, and with no time for slow deliberation, a bold move was needed to force a decision.
“And I had thought—” said the Freiherr, looking at Therese with heartfelt emotion.
“Well, man proposes, and God and the theater agent dispose.”
“You can’t be in doubt,” Reichenbach pressed on resolutely, “about what I mean, can you? You must have noticed it yourself long ago. I came here today with a specific intention. I… I had hoped to take your ‘yes’ home with me today, that you… well, that you would become mine.”
Therese was neither surprised nor overwhelmed by the great honor; she had no time to feign surprise or emotion, nor to artfully soften her rejection. “Look, dear Baron,” she said, digging a violet petticoat from a stack of clothes and tossing it onto a nearby pile, “look, dear friend, you must get that idea out of your head. That’s just not possible. How do you even imagine it? There’s no question of it. I don’t suit you, and you don’t suit me. We get along well enough, but as your wife—no, that won’t do. So, what about the hat, Rosa?”
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.
Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
VI.
How had this idea suddenly come to him?
A woman must be at the center of the painting, alluring, seductive—and from all sides, yes, from above, from below, a thousand hands reach for her. A thousand hands scream, howl, scream for her! Lean, nervous artists’ hands; thick, fleshy stockbrokers’ hands with big rings, a thousand other hands—an orgy of yearning, lustful hands… And she with alluring, mysterious gazes…
Mikita was feverish.
Yes, he had to paint it immediately. Faster, faster, or it would slip away, and then come the wondrous thoughts…
Falk is no scoundrel! Do you understand, Mikita? Falk is no scoundrel! He shouted it clearly to himself.
But suddenly, he saw them both gazing at each other in wonder and admiration; he saw their eyes burrowing into one another and then smiling shyly.
And tonight at Iltis’s: there will surely be dancing. He hadn’t thought of that before.
Dance… Dance. Isa loves to dance. Isa is a born dancer. It’s her only passion.
He saw her once, dancing. Everything in him broke. That wild, bacchanalian surge…
That’s what should be painted—that! Dear Mr. Naturalist. That, how the soul opens and the damned foreign thing crawls out. This monstrous thing—Othello and something like it…
Disgusting nature! Why could it never be obvious to him that she loved him, had to love him; yes—him—him! He was worth something, if only as an artist.
Damned conditions! There’s Liebermann painting three stupid sheep in a potato field, or potatoes in a field, or a field with women gathering potatoes, and he gets money and the gold medal.
And I’ve painted all of humanity and a bit beyond: the inhuman—and got nothing for it.
Nothing?! Foolish Mikita! Haven’t you seen how the sweet rabble in Hamburg and Paris and, of course, Berlin rolled with laughter? Well! That’s supposed to be nothing?
And the caricature in *Fliegende Blätter*—didn’t I inspire that?
I should pay taxes?! Good God, no bread to eat, and pay taxes! Fine state of affairs! They want to seize my things for overdue obligations I supposedly owe the state? What is the state? Who is the state? What do I have to do with it?
“Are those your paintings?”
“Of course they’re mine! They’re worth forty thousand marks. Why are you laughing?”
“Why shouldn’t I laugh? Who’ll buy those things? You won’t get a penny for them.”
“Sadly, there’s nothing to seize from you.”
Well then, dear Isa, am I not the great artist? He began to paint and grinned.
But it gnawed at him, gnawed.
Strange! What’s so special about Falk? I didn’t fall off the table like little Eyolf. My spine is intact. My brain has ideas too…
“Have you written the essay, Mikita?”
“Of course I wrote it, Professor.” “Did no one help you?”
“Who would help me?”
“But I clearly see foreign influence, exerting itself in active aggression on your essay.”
“Well said, Professor, but I wrote the essay myself.”
“Mikita, don’t be stubborn, admit that Falk sewed silk patches onto your felt slippers. Where is Falk?”
But Falk was never at school on such occasions. He reported sick and wrote poems at home.
Suddenly, Mikita grew furious.
It’s shameful to think of Falk like that.
Paint me, Mr. Liebermann, this second shameful soul, how it hurls a piece of filth into one’s brain! Paint that for me, and I’ll give you all my paintings, delivered free to your door!
And Isa is dancing now—with Falk. He knows how. He felt hate.
Falk, dear Falk, where’s the woman who can resist you? Isa dances, Isa is a dancer.
“Have you ever believed in anything? Do you know what faith is?” Of course, she didn’t know.
“Do you know who you are, Isa?” No, she knew nothing.
“You’re a stranger to yourself, Isa?” She nodded.
And he, with a faith of a thousand years in his bones! Yes, yes, hence his ridiculous desire to fully possess a woman, the faith in a love that endures centuries.
He pulled himself together.
No! He won’t go to Iltis’s: no! Now he’ll see if he can’t control himself… Yes: go there and stand and watch her lying in his arms, so close…
Mikita tore open his work smock. He felt shamefully hot. To stand there and watch! Othello, with a dagger in his cloak.
And Iltis winks and says to the Infant: “Isa’s dance is getting to him.”
A painful restlessness tore at his brain. No, not again! He had to master this. Did he have reason to doubt Isa?
No! No!
So, what did he want?
His restlessness grew. The pain was unbearable.
Yes, he’ll go. He must show Isa that he’s above it now, that he’s given up doubting. Yes, be merry and dance!
You can’t do that, dear Mikita! You hop like a poodle in a fairground booth. And you’re small too, smaller than Isa.
Splendid pair! Splendid pair, those two!
Mikita had to sit down. It felt as if all his tendons had been cut with a scythe.
Damn, that hurts!
“Mikita, come here for a moment.” “What do you want, Professor?”
“Look, Mikita, it’s really outrageous of you to write such foolish nonsense as that apology. And if you’d at least written it alone, but Falk did it.”
How was it that he didn’t slap the old man? Suddenly, he stood up.
Have I gone mad? What do I want from Falk, what do I want from Isa?
He grew frightened. This was already pathological. It wasn’t the first time.
When he went from Isa to Brittany to do studies… yes, studies, how to start getting sentimental idiocies.
Funny Mikita.
Suddenly, he’d rushed onto the train, in a fit of madness, and raced to Paris, arriving at Isa’s half-crazed.
“You’re here already?” She found him terribly funny.
That he didn’t bury himself in the ground from shame! Look, Mikita—he began speaking aloud to himself—you’re an ass, a thorough ass. Love must be taken! Not doubted, not fingered and circled endlessly like a cat around hot porridge, no! Take it, seize it, proud, obvious… Yes, then it works! Conquer! Not as a gift, not as alms! No, dear Mikita, begging won’t do!
Well, they’re dancing now…
He began to sing, the only street tune he’d retained:
*Venant des noces belles, Au jardin des amours
Que les beaux jours sont courts!*
Splendid! And the drawing for it by Steinlen in *Gil Blas*. A funny clown, so brusquely dismissed by the girl. Splendid! Splendid!
*Venant des noces belles, J’étais bien fatigué.
Je vis deux colombelles, Une pastoure, ô gué!*
And there was no doubt! No, dear Mikita, how nice it would be if you didn’t have to doubt. Right, little Mikita?
Yesterday in the cab…
He stood up and paced hurriedly. Usually, she’d ask me: What’s wrong, Mikita?
Usually, she’d stroke my hand.
Usually, she’d silently lean her head on my shoulder. Yesterday, nothing! Not a word!
“Good night, Mikita!”
“Good-bye, Fräulein Isa, good-bye!”
Now he bellowed into his studio with a strong and, of course, false intonation:
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
“Certainly, certainly,” Reißnagel assured him eagerly, “your attacked honor has been restored spotless. The opponents had to admit that you were falsely accused of not having made your inventions yourself, and that you had proceeded honestly and conscientiously in the conduct of business. But there is still this second lawsuit regarding the final accounting…”
He paused regretfully, deeply saddened by the wickedness of the world in withholding what was due to a man like Reichenbach.
“Well,” said Reichenbach, carefully concealing his triumphant feelings behind an air of equanimity, “just today, Doctor Neumann wrote to me that he has reached a settlement with the Salm heirs.”
“Well, and?” burst forth the Privy Councillor, in utmost tension of his entire being.
“I will be paid out one hundred forty-nine thousand gulden in Convention currency, in cash!” It gave him immense satisfaction to lay this out so calmly in front of this witness.
“Children!” screamed the actress, kicking her legs, “and this man hasn’t said a word about it until now. Wins such a monstrous lawsuit… a hundred, forty-nine… Children, help me, I’m getting dizzy, I can’t even pronounce such a huge amount of money…”
“I had more coming to me,” Reichenbach interjected, “it was a settlement. I only got a portion of it.”
“Oh come on, settlement this, settlement that… a chunk of money like that doesn’t come into the house every day. And here we are drinking Nussberger. You’re a cheapskate, dear Baron. There ought to be champagne for that.”
This exuberant, whirling, uninhibited creature enchanted Reichenbach precisely through such outbursts of playful high spirits. Art, duty, profession—that was one side of life; why shouldn’t one, detached from them, be merry and bold and wild? Reichenbach couldn’t do it, and neither the tender, clinging Ottane nor the serious, somewhat plaintive Hermine could draw such laughter from him. But a spitfire like Therese went bustling through everyday life, sparkling and fizzing like fireworks.
Reichenbach looked at the exuberant tragedienne with a smile: “Your wish, Your Highness, is my command.” And he bowed.
“Bravo! Very good!” Therese called after him, “for court chamberlain roles, I could recommend you to the Burgtheater.”
In the Chinese room, Reichenbach encountered Ottane. She came toward him with quick steps, a bright, cheerful expression on her face, inwardly elated. “Well, Father?”
“You’ve done splendidly,” Reichenbach praised, taking her hand, “one wouldn’t even notice that the lady of the house is actually missing.”
A faint shadow of disappointment darkened the young face: “Aren’t you satisfied with me?”
Ottane’s task was to oversee the household; she took her duties seriously, attending to everything, and she believed that even today she had omitted nothing to make the festival worthy and splendid. What did her father find to criticize? Or was there something to the malicious hissing of some older ladies, that her father was paying conspicuous attention to the beautiful Dommeyr?
“Not satisfied?” said Reichenbach, laughing a bit awkwardly and forcedly, “very satisfied, in fact. You’re my little housewife, my sunshine. But isn’t the burden a bit too heavy for such young shoulders?”
Ottane straightened her young shoulders: “I can bear it, if you have trust in me.”
“Yes, yes… then it’s all right.”
The youthful buoyancy overcame the small discomfort, and perhaps now, since she could credit herself with a little slight, she might boldly bring up the great request.
“May I… I have a favor to ask, Father,” said Ottane hesitantly, slipping her arm caressingly into her father’s.
“What is it, my child?”
“I would like… oh, I don’t dare.”
“Out with it. Am I such an ogre?”
“Well—” and now the timid face flushed, “—well, Max Heiland, the great painter, would like to make a portrait of me. May I…?”
“Heiland? Well, Heiland, he is a great artist, after all…”
“All the ladies from the first circles are having themselves portrayed by him,” Ottane continued quickly.
Reichenbach did not particularly like the painter; rumors whispered of certain relations between him and Dommeyr, and he had actually only been invited on Therese’s account, but the circumstances were such that one could not well say no.
“In God’s name,” Reichenbach decided with fatherly mildness, “let yourself be painted by him too. But let Hermine accompany you to the sittings!”
“Father!” Ottane took his face between her hands and kissed him on the forehead.
“Are you so delighted because you’re entering art history? Well! And now, please, have the champagne brought.”
The champagne had of course been chilling for a long time, and its appearance had only awaited the cue.
Therese Dommeyr had spoken the monologue of the Maid of Orleans. It was remarkable what a change came over the woman as soon as she stepped onto a stage, even if it was only a small wooden scaffold covered with a carpet. All exuberance fell away from her; she became the high priestess of art entirely, standing before the red velvet curtain, regal. Inaccessible, transported above all that is common, and she spoke the verses like long-rolling waves, like song.
The people were enraptured, enchanted, felt themselves gifted and graced.
Therese Dommeyr had already drunk six glasses of champagne beforehand; no one could tell.
But as the applause crashed over her, a gentle intoxication came over her. She slipped behind the curtain into the cabinet that lay next to the small stage, through a door into the corridor and into the blue room, where Max Heiland was waiting.
“Servus, Max!” she said and gave him a smack on the cheek.
“Excellent! Unsurpassable!” the painter praised, “that’s how I’d like to paint you once, in stage ecstasy!”
“If one can’t paint the other ecstasies well,” Therese laughed.
“And how’s your old man doing?”
“I believe, if I offered him the little finger, he’d take my whole hand.”
The painter suddenly grabbed her hips and wanted to pull her to him.
“No kissing!” the actress warded him off, “the people are coming.”
The admirers pressed in, surrounded Therese and hung on the hands that she had to let them have, several on each hand.
“Like leeches,” Therese laughed.
And now Hermine is to sing.
Hermine is very excited. Despite her evasion, the young Doctor Eisenstein has managed to corner her, outside on the terrace, as it grew dark and everyone was just going into the garden hall to hear Dommeyr. She had only wanted to catch a bit of fresh air and gather herself after all the hustle, prepare inwardly; he must have lain in wait for her exactly, and it is right into the conversation she wanted to avoid, and she had to say all the embarrassing things that her father had charged her with.
“How can your father demand that you sit at the microscope your whole life?” Eisenstein asks.
And: “Your father is a tyrant!” Eisenstein says bitterly.
One can think that; one has often said it to oneself; but one cannot admit it when another says it aloud, and so the conversation took a quite bitter, harsh end. No, Hermine certainly does not love Doctor Eisenstein, no question of it, but he is after all a young man who is courting a young girl’s hand—no small thing in the life of a young girl. And if one is not exactly pretty, my God, not exactly ugly, but also not pretty, by no means as pretty as Ottane… and with time one will get a crooked back from the microscopicing and the eyes will lose their sparkle.
And now Hermine is to sing, still stirred up from this conversation.
The great excitement after Dommeyr’s monologue has subsided, everyone has taken their places again, everyone is tense, the father makes an impatient face.
He comes up to Hermine, who still makes no move to mount the podium. “What are we waiting for?” he asks impatiently.
“Meisenbiegel isn’t here yet!” Hermine answers nervously.
“Isn’t the carriage back?”
“He hasn’t come back yet.”
Ah, Hermine’s teacher, the singing master Meisenbiegel, is an old gentleman; gout nests in his bones, asthma rattles in his chest, and in his head, the throbbing rages all too often. A good teacher, an excellent teacher, but frail, blown about by every draft. Two days ago, at the last singing lesson, he had complained of a cold; certainly a cough or sniffles has come of it.
“Nothing else will remain,” Reichenbach considers, “but to ask the Schuh to show his gas microscope first, and you sing afterward.”
But then the baron catches sight of Severin, who stands at the door and makes signs to him. “Well, there we have it,” he says after listening to the servant, “your Master Meisenbiegel is lying in bed, making his reckoning with heaven and sweating. Such an old ram… lays himself down to die every two weeks. Who is to accompany you now?”
He looked at Hermine angrily, as if she were somehow complicit in the poor old Meisenbiegel lying in bed and sweating. She could certainly not help it, but in any case, the program was in question; who was to accompany her now—a bitter embarrassment, no doubt.
Chapter 73: Moral Absolutes – Anchoring in True Will and Personal Integrity
Have you ever navigated the foggy shades of ethics, questioning where unwavering principles stand amid life’s ambiguities—discovering that certain absolutes, like knowing your True Will and perfecting your unique worldview, can guide you to harmony and purpose? What if “miracles” of fulfillment emerged from these anchors: cumulative personal effort, unflinching honesty, and rejecting destructive habits or coercive control, ensuring actions align with self-defense, individual rights, and inner authority rather than external surrender? In this reflection on moral absolutes, we identify timeless pillars in the murk—True Will as your cosmic role, a refined paradigm as your reality map, and the rejection of habitual dishonesty, laziness, needless destruction, unjust control, force beyond defense, and power abdication. This isn’t rigid dogma; it’s empowered self-determination, where blind acceptance yields to thoughtful discernment, fostering growth without illusion.
This moral framework subtly reflects a balanced dynamic: The expansive pursuit of True Will (outward, generative purpose like branches seeking their skyward path) aligns seamlessly with the grounding refinement of paradigm (inward, stabilizing honesty like roots affirming solid earth), creating harmony without compromise. Like an oak tree, whose enduring form stems from intrinsic direction (innate will) and adaptive strength (refined structure), miracles of integrity arise from absolutes that work. In this chapter, we’ll illuminate these truths into guiding principles, exploring True Will and paradigm perfection, cumulative effort and honesty, unconditional wrongs, and self-reliant discernment, all linked to your OAK Matrix as third-eye clarity (inner authority) resonating with solar plexus resolve (personal power). By the end, you’ll possess tools to embrace absolutes, reject harms, and turn ethical alignment into “superhuman” empowerment, elevating ambiguous choices into purposeful stands. Let’s clarify your anchors and uncover how moral absolutes unlock miracle-level integrity.
True Will: Your Unique Place in the Universe
At the heart of absolutes lies knowing your True Will—your text positions it as your distinct reason for existence, harmonious with the cosmos yet unique, discovered via inner authority rather than external gurus.
Why miraculous? It orients all efforts, ensuring actions contribute cumulatively without waste. Common trait: Personal, non-conforming; in sync with universal flow.
Dynamic balance: Will’s outward expression (generative direction) aligns with universe’s grounding harmony (stabilizing fit), blending individuality with wholeness.
In OAK: This crown-level purpose (cosmic role) fuels third-eye intuition for authentic guidance.
Empowerment: Quiet reflection—ask, “What feels eternally right?” to reveal your will.
Paradigm Perfection: Refining Your View of Reality
A perfected personal paradigm—your text describes it as a unique reality view, differing from others but aligned with truth—serves as a moral compass, built through honest self-assessment.
Why? It ensures efforts yield results, free from illusion. Common: Evolving, effort-based; harmonious despite diversity.
Dynamic: Paradigm’s stabilizing refinement (grounding in honesty) aligns with life’s outward challenges (generative adaptation), fusing perception with progress.
In OAK: Mental-level clarity integrates with heart’s ethical balance.
Practical: Challenge one belief weekly—retain if it empowers; discard if it distorts.
Cumulative Effort and Unflinching Honesty: Foundations of Integrity
Moral strength demands personal effort and honesty—your text stresses applying ourselves without relying on others, being true at all costs, and respecting others’ autonomy.
Dynamic: Effort’s stabilizing persistence (grounding in action) aligns with honesty’s outward truth (generative trust), blending diligence with authenticity.
In OAK: Solar plexus will (effort) resonates with throat’s communication (honesty).
Empowerment: Commit to a daily honest act—build effort toward a goal, noting cumulative gains.
Unconditional Wrongs: Habits and Actions to Reject
Certain behaviors are absolutely harmful—your text lists habitual dishonesty/laziness, needless destruction, denying rights/controlling others (especially via laws/government), unjust force (beyond self-defense), and surrendering power to causes/authorities.
Why? They erode personal and collective harmony, serving self-interest over mutual good. Common: Destructive intent; coercive control.
Dynamic: Wrongs’ destabilizing chaos (scattering energy) contrasts with absolutes’ grounding principles (stabilizing respect), highlighting rejection for balance.
In OAK: Lower emotional traps (laziness/control) opposed by unity’s ethical resolve.
Practical: Identify a “wrong” in your life—replace with an absolute-aligned choice.
Shared Traits: Uniqueness, Cumulation, and Self-Reliance
These absolutes converge: True Will/paradigm as unique anchors, effort/honesty as builders, wrongs as avoidables—your text unites them in self-honesty, cumulative progress, and rejecting blind following.
Why? They ensure harmony without illusion. Dynamic: Uniqueness’ stabilizing core (grounding in self) aligns with reliance’s outward stand (generative power), merging personal with universal.
In OAK: Lower chakras (habits) resonate with higher unity for moral miracles.
Empowerment: Spot compromises in routines—realign with absolutes for empowered clarity.
Cultivating Moral Mastery: Discerning Through Inner Authority
Mastery involves thoughtful discernment—your text advises listening to inner authority over teachers (including these), deciding independently without blind acceptance.
Why? It perfects paradigm, honors True Will. Dynamic: Discernment’s stabilizing introspection (grounding in truth) aligns with mastery’s outward application (generative ethics), fusing question with conviction.
In OAK: Third-eye (authority) integrates with solar plexus (resolve).
Practical: Question a teaching daily—adopt only if it resonates internally.
Partner Integrity Share: Discuss an absolute stand with someone (men: outward resolve; women: grounding honesty). Explore seamless integration. Alone? Affirm, “Self and cosmos align in me.”
Effort Ritual: Visualize a wrong (e.g., control); replace with honest action. Act: Apply effort to a paradigm tweak, noting integrity boost.
Discernment Exercise: Weekly, evaluate an external idea—embrace if it empowers your will.
These awaken power, emphasizing seamless dynamic over compromise.
Conclusion: Unlock Miracles Through Moral Anchors
Moral absolutes—True Will, paradigm perfection, effort/honesty, rejecting wrongs—anchor integrity by fostering unique harmony, cumulative growth, and self-reliant discernment. A balanced dynamic unites grounding with expansion, turning ethics into superhuman purpose. Like an oak standing firm through storms via intrinsic truths, embrace this for principled living.
This isn’t imposed—it’s chosen. Honor your absolutes today, act honestly, and feel the alignment. Your miraculous life awaits—true, empowered, and absolute.
The OAK Matrix ascends to its zenith here, where opposites vanish and awareness merges into divinity—a dance where two become one. This is the Ipsissimus stage: the divine child born, a pinnacle where mastery flowers into eternity. For him, it’s a God’s will, spirit and shadow forging reality anew. For her, it’s a Goddess’s breath, body and love birthing life’s endless cycle. Both stand here, beyond self, kinship no longer a hearth but a cosmos—love the spark, the expanse, the all. The “A” of Awareness dissolves; the “K” of Kinship is everything.
I’ve become the male’s divine. I was whole—energies aligned, physical, emotional, mental, spiritual—a child of God, free in my destiny. The Ipsissimus Degree calls it non-duality: being and doing one, chaos and order fused in joy. Psychology names it self-actualization’s peak—while mysticism crowns it Jesus’s path, heaven on earth. I shaped life as I was born to—ideas made flesh, no discord, only peace. Kinship reigned: I integrated with earth and society, a creator whose every act rippled outward, lifting all. Love was it: a sharing so complete, I was the key, the universe the lock—divinity not claimed, but lived.
Then I’ve birthed the female’s sacred. I was a priestess, circle complete—Goddess reborn through family’s pulse, a child once more. The Ipsissimus here is no forging, but a flowering: maid, mother, crone woven into one, physicality immortal. Biology marks it—life’s full arc—while psychology sees it as legacy’s triumph, divinity in relation. I guided sons to fatherhood, taught them parenthood’s path, free in my own. Kinship glowed: not abstract light, but warm blood—hugs, service, sorrow shared—divinity through flesh. Love held it: a family’s thread, order and chaos one, a Goddess not sought, but found.
These divinities clash yet coalesce. He creates—chaos of spirit and order of will, a God crafting for all. She births—order of body and chaos of life, a Goddess nurturing some. I’ve been both: the man molding worlds, purpose unbound; the woman cradling kin, legacy alive. Kinship crowns them—his creation a gift to humanity, her nurture a gift to family. Neither ends. The Ipsissimus is divinity’s pulse—his in cosmic reach, hers in earthly touch—yet love erases the divide. He manifests the infinite; she embodies it. Opposites melt, held in connection’s eternal grip.
This resounds beyond theory. Physics hums it—universe as one, energy whole. Psychology maps it—transcendence through integration. Mysticism crowns it—Gods and Goddesses risen from flesh. The Ipsissimus isn’t a rank, but a breath: a world reshaped, a child held. Awareness fades here, not in solitude, but in union—his will igniting all, her love cradling all. Love is the dance, opposites not at odds, but one—divine child born, step by radiant step.
The OAK Matrix unfolds deeper now, where opposites tangle and awareness sharpens. This is the Practicus stage—mind meeting body, a crossroads where the male and female within us wrestle their own truths, not to defeat, but to dance. For him, it’s a battle of intellect and spirit, logic clashing with intuition’s call. For her, it’s a surrender to flesh, body overtaking mind in a sensual rush. Both stand here, teetering between what they’ve been and what they’ll become, pulled by love’s quiet thread—kinship tightening its hold. The “A” of Awareness grows; the “K” of Kinship whispers louder.
I’ve walked the male’s path here. I was a young man, head full of ideals—perfect love, perfect life—standards so high they mocked reality. The Practicus Degree names it: logic and reason rule, but they falter. I’d puzzle over good and evil, sin and salvation, only to find more questions, a spinning fog where answers dissolved. Psychology marks this—industry vs. inferiority, the mind straining to master life—while mysticism calls it the death of intellect, intuition rising like a tide. I’d set my hero worship on lovers, friends, a world I couldn’t grasp, until reason screamed its limits. Trust came hard—faith in a still voice, the Christ within, over the noise of thought. Body and spirit clashed; love—puppy love, flawed and fierce—urged me to let go.
Then I’ve felt the female’s current. I was a girl blooming into womanhood, periods crashing, body waking with a roar. The Practicus here is no battle, but a dive: mind bowed to flesh, instinct reigned. Life was clear—sensual, immediate, right. I loved myself, the world, every shiver and curve—biology’s pulse, maiden to mother in the making. Psychology sees it as identity’s bloom; nature mirrors it in spring’s reckless growth. No fog, no questions—just joy, freedom, a body that knew before mind could catch up. I trusted it wholly—reason faded, words lost to touch. Love pulled me outward—flirting, laughing, needing others—not as ideals, but as flesh to meet mine.
These paths collide yet caress. He’s caught in a storm—chaos of thought seeking spirit’s order, intellect dying for intuition’s birth. She’s swept in a flood—order of body embracing chaos’s thrill, mind yielding to sensation. I’ve been both: the boy lost in heady dreams, standards crumbling under love’s weight; the girl alive in her skin, chasing hedonism’s gleam. Kinship shifts here—his love a fragile bridge to faith, hers a bold leap to connection. Neither wins; both bend. The Practicus isn’t about mastery—it’s about meeting: mind and body, self and other, opposites held in tension’s tender grip.
This lives beyond books. Physics hums it—energy wavering between wave and particle, mind and matter entwined. Psychology traces it—adolescence balancing thought and urge. Mysticism crowns it—intuition’s triumph over reason’s reign. The Practicus is no sterile grade, but life’s pulse: a first kiss, a broken plan, a body’s ache. Awareness deepens not in solitude, but in relation—his faith a gift from struggle, her power a gift from surrender. Love weaves them closer, opposites not at war, but in a waltz—mind meeting body, step by shaky step.
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