OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
“Think it over,” the Freiherr pleaded humbly. “The advantages for you are obvious.”
“There’s nothing to think over,” said Therese without hesitation. “Every word is pointless. Let’s stick to friendship, Baron!” She interrupted again, calling into the bedroom: “Come on, Rosa, hurry up with it?”
The hammer blow of disappointment pushed Reichenbach back a step; he leaned against something, and a tower of boxes crashed noisily behind him. Then Rosa returned with the blue hat in hand, and an eager consultation began about fitting this airy fairy-tale creation of straw and ribbons.
Reichenbach stood silently in the way for a while, gradually realizing he was entirely superfluous here and that his reproachful silence made no impression on the busy artist. He composed himself, masking his inner turmoil, but he couldn’t entirely hide a faint trembling in his voice, which he couldn’t prevent as he now explained that he wouldn’t disturb her any longer and wished her a happy journey and tremendous success.
“Yes, yes,” Therese thanked him offhandedly, “and if I ever have time, I’ll write to you.”
It was an awkward farewell. Reichenbach carried his shattered heart to the carriage waiting in the street—no, he felt it, there was nothing more to hope for, and he could bury his aspirations. He had to give up on Therese; she had slipped from him, despite seeming so close, with a sudden turn he couldn’t explain.
He drove home, sat at his desk, and tried to force himself to resume work on his great book. The proven remedy failed; his mind had revoked its obedience. He sat there, pen in hand, but he didn’t write; he only saw Therese’s violet petticoat before him and heard her say: it’s all pointless.
When Doctor Eisenstein was announced that afternoon, he still hadn’t fully subdued his emotions. A more perceptive soul-reader than the doctor would surely have noticed the ominously threatening tension and postponed his fateful question to a more opportune moment.
But the doctor isn’t one of those who see into others—a highly skilled physician, certainly, a popular one, always advancing with the latest, but not particularly insightful when it comes to his own affairs. He believes he can’t delay any longer; Schuh is now coming and going in the house again, and Hermine has suddenly found an unusual amount of time for music.
No, it can’t be postponed further; the doctor has resolved to approach it from another angle this time—through the father, to whom he is indebted. Eisenstein is inwardly prepared with solemn resolve and won’t be deterred from posing his fateful question.
And he is utterly baffled when Reichenbach’s only response is laughter. It’s a bitter, mocking laugh, a laugh with hail and whirlwind, mowing down all the green seeds of the soul in an instant. Isn’t it also absurd, outrageously comic, that the suitor rejected just a few hours ago now faces another suitor?
Doctor Eisenstein dares to point out that it was he who set the Freiherr on the path to Od. But Reichenbach remembers nothing of that; it’s the height of impudence for this man to make such a claim on top of everything else.
And then Doctor Eisenstein exits in a grand arc, with a magnificent bow of unusual force and clean execution.
The Freiherr, however, calls it quits for today on his futile attempts to work on his book. He sets the manuscript aside, grabs a walking stick, and heads into the forest. He can do nothing better than go to his woods; it’s been God knows how long since he was last there. A frosty winter fog has cloaked the trees and shrubs are adorned with hoarfrost, so that the tiniest twigs bear a heavy white fur trim. From the still, moisture-laden air, the down grows, turning the forest into an adventure. As Reichenbach pushes through the underbrush, he brushes off the fragile decoration, and with a soft, rustling sound, it rains down around him in snow crystals.
He has left the paths and walks straight through the forest, between the trunks on crackling leaves, stepping into clearings he doesn’t recognize. The Freiherr grows attentive; an alarming amount of his forest has been felled—entire slopes have been logged. He marvels, his wonder increasing; someone has cut down half his forest.
Then he hears the crunch of saws and the dull thud of axes somewhere. This gives direction and purpose to his steps in the fog, and soon he sees ghostly shadows moving in the thick white vapor. Unexpectedly, he stands among the lumberjacks.
He doesn’t know these men; they aren’t Reichenbach’s forest workers, but perhaps they seem unfamiliar only because they’re newly hired—he hasn’t paid attention to such matters for a long time.
“Who are you working for?” he asks one of the lumberjacks.
The man spits, then grabs one end of a dirty, blood-stained bandage wrapped around his left thumb with his teeth and tightens the knot. Only then does he reply. He says they work for Moritz Hirschel.
“So, for Moritz Hirschel!” the Freiherr retorts. “And who owns this forest?” The man doesn’t know; it’s none of his concern.
“And who pays you?”
Who pays? Moritz Hirschel, of course. Then the man spits into his hands and resumes sawing, where his partner had paused.
Reichenbach watches thoughtfully for a while longer and then heads home.
In the manor house belonging to Kobenzl, there’s a small room where a frail young man sits beside a glowing iron stove, poring over the account books. At the Freiherr’s entrance, he looks up shyly and awkwardly; he knows the landowner, of course, but Reichenbach is a stranger to the man who keeps his books.
“Since when have you been here?” asks Reichenbach.
“Since half a year,” answers the young man in a hoarse voice. He’s always hoarse and always cold, even beside the glowing stove; he comes from poverty, and death rattles in his lungs. He’s grateful to have found this refuge; he doesn’t ask questions—he does what the steward Ruf orders.
The Freiherr sees this at first glance. “You can leave now; I want to look at the books… and send Ruf to me.”
“I don’t know where the steward is…” the young man hesitates.
“Then find him,” thunders Reichenbach. He already knows the steward isn’t home; he searched for him on his rounds through the stables and barns, finding him nowhere.
Now the Freiherr dives into the books; he compares, he checks, he pulls out invoices, calculates, sweats beside the glowing stove, peels back layer after layer, and his anger swells ever higher. Only after hours, quite late at night, there’s a stomp at the door. It has begun to snow; the steward Ruf shakes the snow off his soles before opening the door.
Ruf has been down in Grinzing at the wine taverns, coming straight from heuriger music and revelry, but the news that the Freiherr has been poring over the books is enough to blow all the merry vapors from his brain.
“Why did you dismiss Dreikurs?” asks the Freiherr after a while, without looking up from the books.
Ruf considers his response; one must be cautious and weigh every word carefully: “Dreikurs was an old man; his eyes had grown weak, and he kept making mistakes with the calculations…”
“And why wasn’t I informed?”
“I didn’t want to trouble the Herr Baron with such matters. The Herr Baron always has so much else to do.” Yes, Ruf had relied on the Freiherr being absorbed in his experiments and thinking of nothing else, but he had relied on it too much—that’s clear now. And now Ruf stands there, a noose around his neck, and it’s eerie how calm the Baron is; it’s downright terrifying.
“I’ll tell you why you dismissed Dreikurs, Ruf. He didn’t suit you because he was an honest man who wouldn’t have tolerated your dirty dealings. That’s why you brought in this starving wretch who doesn’t dare contradict you and does whatever you want.”
“Herr Baron…” Ruf tries to protest.
But a swift glance from the Freiherr warns him, and Reichenbach’s hand falls like a stone onto the columns of the open book, teeming with false figures. “I could hand you over to the police on the spot, Ruf, and that would be no more than you deserve. You’re a vile, treacherous fraud! But you stood by me at Salm’s, and then—I won’t do it to your daughter. But by noon tomorrow, you’re gone, understood!”
Now something happens that the Freiherr never would have expected from Ruf. The large, heavy man falls to his knees, stretches out his arms, clasps his hands, and whimpers: “Herr Baron! Herr Baron! Jesus in heaven! … Jesus in heaven!” It’s true, he’s a scoundrel, a cheat; the money slipped through his fingers—he got nothing out of it, a few drunks, that’s all—those beastly women took everything. But are those excuses? They’re not excuses; he can only beg the Herr Baron for forgiveness.
He crawls on his knees after the Freiherr, who steps back from him; he weeps, beats his head against the ground, pounds his chest with his fists. But today there is no mercy or leniency in Reichenbach; today is a day of unrelenting severity—today, everyone must bear the fate allotted to them. Today, someone told him: It’s all pointless! And it’s only fitting that he repeats it with unyielding hardness: “Don’t bother, Ruf, it’s all pointless.”
Broken, with dragging feet, Ruf slinks out.
The Freiherr stares at the fateful book for a while longer, wipes his forehead, feeling the hot dampness. He opens the window to the night’s breath, but a gust of wind yanks the sash from his hand, for at that same moment, the door opens, and Friederike stands there.
He needs only to look at the girl to know why she has come.
“No,” says the Freiherr, “it’s too much. He has abused my trust too greatly. I couldn’t even uncover everything at once; it’s likely far worse than I can determine now. Everything has gone into his pockets; he’s squandered the entire estate, ravaged my forests… this Hirschel! has stripped everything bare…”
Friederike finds no words of defense; she lowers her head and remains silent, but her entire demeanor radiates unspeakable sorrow—a mute despair that spreads before Reichenbach like a dark lake. Suddenly, he feels very uneasy; he clears his throat, embarrassed by this misery. A sudden realization shakes his angry self-righteousness—that he has taken revenge. Revenge on a guilty man, yes, but still, he has sought revenge rather than justice.
“Must we leave tomorrow?” says Friederike at last, looking at the Freiherr. The eyes he meets are like a sad fairy tale of outcast children wandering hopelessly through the world. My God, how beautiful this girl has become—it has escaped the Freiherr’s notice lately; she hasn’t pressed herself on him, has stood quietly aside and waited, surely she has waited and, in the meantime, matured into a gentle sweetness. She has quietly awaited a word of recognition, and now the first word is a judgment that shatters her life. A melancholic familiarity stirs Reichenbach from these features; he doesn’t know what to do with it, but all this plunges the Freiherr into a heart-wrenching distress.
He must free himself from this distress; there’s no other way. “For your sake…,” he murmurs, “for your sake! I’ll try once more with him.”
A light illuminates the troubled eyes from within. Friederike becomes almost transparent with joy, as Od light might glow for those gifted to see it.
She takes Reichenbach’s hand and showers it with a torrent of kisses.
“Now, now,” smiles the Freiherr, withdrawing his hand to caress her soft cheeks, “now, now, girl, what kind of business is this, what kind of business?”
He speaks Swabian with her again; he speaks Swabian—she may stay—and now everything is good again.
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