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Homo Sapiens: Under Way Chapter 1, pages 135- 143

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 9, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens: Under Way Chapter 1 by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

Under Way

Dedicated to my friend Julius Meier-Graefe

I.

Fräulein Marit Kauer sat and rejoiced. 

So, finally. She had completely given up hope of ever seeing him again. At least ten times he had written to his mother that he would come: tomorrow, the day after. Then he was so terribly busy that he could only come the next month. Then another month passed, and another. But finally: now for real. 

Today, her little brother had come home from school and, among a thousand silly things, told her that Herr Falk, yes, definitely Herr Erik Falk, was here. Yes, absolutely certain: he was here. He sent greetings to the parents and would allow himself to visit them in the afternoon. 

Fräulein Marit was speechless for a few seconds; no, she could hardly believe it. 

God, how she had suffered! She had nearly lost her mind during that dreadful time when he couldn’t or wouldn’t come. She had sacrificed all her virginal dignity; she had lowered herself so far as to write letters to him, fervent pleas to him. 

Of course, she had only done so on his mother’s behalf, but was he so foolish that he didn’t understand the longing trembling in every word? 

Did he not want to understand? Could it be true? 

No, for God’s sake, no. It was a lie, a shameless lie. Those horrible, nasty stories: that he had a son, that he had secretly married, entered a civil marriage with a Frenchwoman. 

No! He was so honest, so sovereign. He would surely have written something about it; he couldn’t deceive her like that. Hadn’t he spoken of love to her? 

Hadn’t he assured her that she alone, only she, could give him great happiness? 

No, it was a lie; he was so infinitely noble and refined… 

Her heart began to beat strongly. She breathed deeply. Her eyes started to tear. A wild surge of joy rose within her: perhaps in a quarter of an hour, she would see him, look into his enigmatic eyes, and listen to his peculiar words. How she loved him, how unspeakably she loved him… 

God had heard her. She had paid for three masses to bring him back to her. Like a poor animal, she had lain at the feet of the Crucified, pleading, crying, and praying. Would the heavenly Father not hear her? Had she offended Him? 

And yet she fasted every Friday and Saturday to atone for sins she didn’t know. But even the righteous sin seven times a day. And perhaps: wasn’t her love a sin? But no: now Falk was here! God had heard her… 

She stood up. It was so oppressive under the veranda. The whole garden was so sultry. She stepped onto the country road leading to the nearby town. That’s where Falk would come from. 

Suddenly, a jolt ran through her body; she felt her blood surge to her heart. She trembled. 

Yes, she saw him clearly. It was definitely him. 

She clung to the fence. It urged her to run to him, to throw herself into his arms. 

No, no, not that! Just show him how infinitely she rejoiced. Yes, she wouldn’t hide her joy; he should see how she rejoiced. 

No: not that either! She couldn’t, she mustn’t. She turned back, returning to the veranda. 

No, it wouldn’t do; she couldn’t greet him here either. She felt fire in her temples, the hot glow in her eyes. She couldn’t speak a word now; she couldn’t even keep her composure. 

She ran up to her room, threw herself on the bed, and buried her sobbing face in the pillows… 

Falk was warmly greeted by Herr Kauer. 

“That you still exist! It’s nice of you to remember your homeland again. We’ve been waiting for you in vain for so long.” 

Falk made himself very charming. 

“Of course, of course! I’ve thought a lot about home; but this immense workload! Even in the last few days, I had to go through 30 sheets of proofs for my latest novel, and that’s the most dreadful thing there is. Now I’m immensely glad, I feel so expansive in the countryside, I feel love around me; there’s surely something beautiful about home.” 

“It was really necessary for me. I’m very nervous and quite foolish, but with Mother, it’ll soon, very soon be better. Mother is, after all, next to the art of printing, the most wonderful invention.” 

Herr Kauer was overjoyed to see him again; he’d truly longed to talk to him. In the provinces, the world was boarded up; you didn’t know what was happening out there. Now he had to know everything, Falk should tell him all. 

Wine was served. 

“Herr Falk must drink a lot; you probably can’t get such wine in Paris. By the way, it’s quite wonderful to drink with such an intelligent companion.” 

They soon lost themselves in a deep conversation about asparagus cultivation. 

“Herr Kauer must absolutely try the new method, namely leaving about a meter of soil for each asparagus root, then digging around it…” 

The door opened, and Marit entered. She was pale, looked freshly washed, and very embarrassed. 

Falk jumped up and extended both hands. 

“No, it’s wonderful to see you. Good God, how long it’s been!” 

“We didn’t expect you anymore…” she turned suddenly and began searching for something on the windowsill. 

Falk continued talking about asparagus but was restless. 

Kauer was very engaged, constantly expressing his joy. He hadn’t had much luck; it had been a bad harvest. His wife had been ill for a year, now she was at a spa, where she’d spend the whole summer. Now he had to manage the household with Marit as best he could. Yes, and Falk mustn’t mind if he disappeared for an hour; he had some arrangements to make. 

Falk was left alone with Marit. 

She looked out the window; he took a strong gulp from his glass. Then he stood up. 

She trembled, turning alternately red and pale. “Well, Fräulein, how have you been?” 

Falk smiled kindly. “Very well; very well…” 

She lowered her eyes to the floor, then looked at him strangely. 

“It’s remarkable that you came after all; what actually brought you here?” 

“Well, good God, you know, when you’ve wandered a lot and become very nervous, you get this peculiar feeling of weakness; you get so soft, and then you have to go to your mother, just like a child to its mother.” 

It grew quiet. Falk paced thoughtfully. 

“Yes, I love my mother. But I couldn’t come. There were very important things holding me back; very peculiar circumstances.” 

He fixed his eyes on her, as if probing her. She suddenly became stiff and aloof. 

“Yes, right, I’ve heard a lot about it; about those strange, peculiar circumstances.” 

She spoke with ironic emphasis. 

Falk looked at her, surprised; he seemed prepared for it, though. 

“God, well, yes: people tell a lot of foolish things, that’s obvious. It’s terribly indifferent to me what they say about me.” 

It grew quiet again. Falk poured himself another glass and emptied it. 

She looked at him harshly. His face was pale and sunken, with a feverish, peculiar glint in his eyes. 

He must have suffered a lot! Her pity stirred. 

“Oh, you must forgive me. No, I didn’t mean to throw those unpleasant stories about you in your face right away. I have no right to do that either. Of course, it must be indifferent to me.” 

“Yes, yes…” 

Falk seemed tired. 

“It’s peculiar… Hmm, I traveled two days, didn’t sleep a wink all night, but I had no rest: I had to go to her, had to see her…” 

The spring day was over. Dusk began to fall. They both stood at the window. They looked at the river and beyond to the wooded hills. Mist rose from the river, spreading over the hills and creeping into the forest, as if the river had overflowed its banks and wanted to flood the whole world. Gradually, the hills and forest vanished, and the wide, shimmering mist merged with the horizon. 

A message came from Herr Kauer that the hour would stretch another hour, and Falk must stay at all costs. 

They remained alone. Falk drank incessantly. Now and then, he spoke a casual word. 

“She shouldn’t mind that he drank so much; it was really necessary for him now. He was very run-down; a delirium wasn’t to be feared, though. By the way, it was all terribly indifferent. Oh, she shouldn’t think he’d become sentimental; no. But you could objectively state, quite simply, as an established fact, that you’re not happy. She shouldn’t take it personally; or—perhaps she should. But it was all so foolish and indifferent; she needn’t put any weight on it.” 

Marit suddenly stepped toward him. 

“You know, Herr Falk, let’s not play a comedy! No, let’s speak openly. A year ago, when you were here, do you remember: when we met? Back then, you told me you loved me. You wrote it to me too. I have all your letters; they’re my great treasure. Now, you know how I feel about you; yes. You know it exactly. You must be kind. I trusted you. I gave myself entirely to the feeling of love for you. I tried to suppress this love at first. I knew it was aimless. You told me so often that you love only for the sake of love. 

You told me openly that you couldn’t promise me anything, that our love had no future. I didn’t want promises either. I expected nothing from you. I loved you because I had to love you—” 

Marit grew more and more confused. She wanted to say so much, but now everything compressed, piled up, and pushed forward, disordered, incoherent. 

“Yes, good God, no! That’s not what I meant to say. I just want you to speak openly to me, to tell me the whole truth. I’ve tormented myself so unspeakably, I’ve suffered so much…” 

Falk looked at her, surprised. What did she want to know? 

“Oh, you know already; there’s so much talk about you in the whole area, and all these stories must have some basis. Yes: tell me: is it all true? That—that with the Frenchwoman—and—no—it’s impossible…” 

“What then?” 

“I mean… the child.” “Child? Hmm…” 

Falk paced with long strides. A painful silence fell. From the courtyard, a servant’s voice was heard. Suddenly, Falk stopped before her. 

“Well, I’ll tell you the whole brutal truth; everything, everything I’ll tell you; completely open. Yes, I’ll be completely open, even at the risk that you won’t want to hear me and show me the door. Of course, I have a child; the child was alive before I met you. Yes, the child is a wonderful thing; it saved me, this child. It was like a strong spine that put me back together. I was falling apart, I was already a wreck. I was worse than the worst. No, you must listen calmly. I was a man, a little man, and as such, I had the right to father children… 

Now, if you can’t shed your foolish prudery, you shouldn’t provoke confessions.”  

Marit had tears in her eyes. 

“Forgive me, Fräulein, but I’m very nervous.” Tears streamed down her face. 

“Good, dear Marit! Be kind, Marit! Listen to me as only a wise sister can. Even if you don’t understand half of it, listen to me… 

Good God, does she want to keep playing blind man’s buff and stumble in the dark? I can’t allow that, she’s too refined and intelligent for that. 

Of course, I have a son, and I love him. His mother, no, I don’t love her. When she crossed my path back then, I was in complete ruin; she was good to me, we lived together, and so we had a son.” 

“My God, my God, how is that possible?” “Yes, many things are possible.” 

Falk spoke in a tired voice and drank again. He paced a few times, then took her hand… 

“Marit! Now I’ll tell you completely openly. Marit: you mustn’t love me. I was a wretch. Yes, I craved your love, I begged and pleaded for your love, but back then I believed I could make you happy. I believed in it, I wanted to make you my wife, and you would have loved my son. But that woman clung to me like a burr. A hundred times I tried to shake her off, but I couldn’t, and I probably won’t be able to.” 

Falk seemed very agitated; Marit tried to interrupt him. 

“No, no, let me finish. Yes, I believed I’d make you happy. That’s why, only why, I nurtured your love; you mustn’t think I’m a scoundrel. But now, now it’s all over. Now I mustn’t demand this love anymore; no, it’s impossible. Not an ounce of happiness can I give you; that’s completely out of the question. Only one thing: be my friend, my sister.” 

Marit sat as if faint. 

Falk knelt before her and grasped her hands. 

“You, be kind, be my friend. You can’t be my beloved. No, not even a friend—no; I’m going, I’m going now. Answer me; you mustn’t see me anymore, not anymore. So, you: goodbye, I’m going.” 

Falk rose unsteadily. 

But at that moment, Marit sprang up desperately. 

“No, stay! Stay! Do what you want; but I must see you, or I’ll get sick. Oh God, God, this is terrible!” 

Falk suddenly fell upon her. 

“No, for heaven’s sake, no!” She pushed him away and ran out of the room. 

Falk sat at the table, drank the bottle empty, and stared ahead. The darkness felt good to him. 

Suddenly, he started. 

“It’s remarkable how you can be startled by a lamp. I’m really very nervous.” 

Marit smiled wearily; she placed the lamp on the table. 

“Papa must come soon; you’re staying for supper, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, I’ll do that. I’m a good man. I’m a gentleman. I mustn’t expose you to Papa’s suspicions.”

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OD: Chapter 19, pages 249- 254

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 9, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Yes… and this time for good, Ottane!” Max Heiland made a small hand motion over his eyes, as if wiping away a veil—a thin, annoying wisp like a spiderweb.

Perhaps it was this small gesture that left Ottane utterly defenseless. Yes, it was still the same graceful, skilled, beautiful hand that had once unraveled her with tender caresses—a hand whose imagined touch in sleepless nights still set her body ablaze. And now that life-giving hand passed over Max Heiland’s eyes, brushing away an invisible spiderweb. Ottane stood before Max Heiland, trembling to the roots of her being, to the last drop of her blood.

“When do you plan to travel?” she asked finally.

“I think in two to three weeks I’ll be ready; I still have some things to arrange. I’d like to go to Italy—Venice, Florence, Rome… one wants to see something yet…”

“Yes… certainly!” said Ottane, and her heart tore at the dreadful conclusion she drew from Max Heiland’s final sentence.

“May I come to bid you farewell before I leave?” Max Heiland hesitated.

“Come!” said Ottane firmly, extending her hand.

“You must have patience,” Hofrat Reißnagel consoled Freiherr von Reichenbach. “In Austria, everything always takes three times as long as elsewhere. But suddenly the railway construction will take off here too, and then you’ll have the advantage. The capital you’re now pouring into the tracks will yield a hundred percent return.”

Hofrat Reißnagel spoke easily, but the capital in question wasn’t something to be brushed aside. It was high time to see some of the promised returns. Meanwhile, Reichenbach had to pile mortgage upon mortgage, and it still wasn’t enough; overdue bills occasionally caused trouble.

Ruf had gone to the city to collect money that had to be sent out today. He was expected back by noon, but it turned to afternoon and evening, and Ruf still hadn’t appeared at Kobenzl. Ruf had reformed his lifestyle, performing his duties conscientiously; the reinstated accountant Dreikurs kept a close watch on him. But today, Dreikurs had traveled to Krems for the baptism of his third grandchild, so Ruf had to be sent to the bank instead. Could it be that he had succumbed to a relapse into his former recklessness on the way? The Freiherr grew uneasy; sitting at a heuriger with a bag of money—God knows in whose company—was risky. Besides, there were rumors that a vagrant had been spotted lurking in the woods around Kobenzl, frightening the market women.

Early the next morning, the Freiherr went to the dairy himself to inquire at Ruf’s lodging. “The father hasn’t come home,” said Friederike, looking at the Freiherr as if the Last Judgment stood before the door.

Reichenbach rushed to the city and to the bank. Yes, the steward Ruf had been there yesterday morning and withdrawn the money—fifteen thousand gulden. They took the liberty of informing the Freiherr that this exceeded his account, and they requested new collateral. The Freiherr’s knees began to wobble; a sudden roar filled his ears, as if he stood amid his Ternitz ironworks.

“Fifteen thousand gulden?” he asked.

Yes, fifteen thousand, confirmed by the Freiherr’s authorization. They recalled it clearly—Ruf had been in a hurry and left with a woman who had come with him and waited.

“Very well,” said the Freiherr, “I will arrange for the collateral.”

“Have you seen Baron Reichenbach?” the procurator asked the cashier after the Freiherr had left. “He doesn’t look well at all. I believe this scandal has affected him more than he lets on. Have you read that Reckoning by this Herr Schuh against Reichenbach? What do you think of it? And now Reichenbach and Schuh are in a lawsuit with each other. Let’s hope our settlement with the Baron doesn’t turn into a lawsuit too!”

The procurator enjoyed such jests, but the Freiherr felt no amusement as he drove home from the police. They had asked if he had any idea where the steward might have gone with the embezzled money. The Freiherr had no clue; he only suspected Ruf might have a woman with him. Perhaps that offered a lead. They promised to do their utmost but didn’t hide that it would be challenging with the twenty-four-hour head start the swindler had.

When the Freiherr re-entered Ruf’s lodging, Friederike immediately knew what had happened. “Yes,” said Reichenbach, “he took a draft for fifteen thousand gulden; he must have added a one and fled with fifteen thousand.”

Friederike backed against the wall where her father’s prized pipe collection hung, pressing her clenched fists to her mouth. She stifled a scream, forcing it back into her chest, but the innate cry raged like a wild beast within her.

“He’s being sought by the police,” the Freiherr added.

“And I… and I,” Friederike finally managed to say, “it was I who begged you to overlook it for him.”

“I shouldn’t have put him to the test,” Reichenbach remarked.

He genuinely reproaches himself. Naturally, he can’t spare Friederike’s feelings; he must state the truth, but seeing the girl in her utter misery, he can’t help but take some of the blame upon himself to lessen the blow for her.

He steps to the window and gazes into the courtyard, where the maid is mucking out the pigsty. A farmhand passes with a pair of horses, and the pigeons, vying for the chickens’ feed, flutter up with clattering wings. In the bare top of the chestnut tree sits a large black raven—the bird of death, the omen bird—already surveying the yard.

He’ll likely have to sell all this soon, just as he sold his estates Nißko and Goya. Where will he find the collateral? The beams are already creaking under the mortgages.

Not a sound comes from Friederike; it’s as if she’s left the room.

But as Reichenbach turns back, he sees her collapsing against the wall.

She grasps for support, pulling down one of her father’s large meerschaum pipes, its gold-brown smoked head shattering on the floor. Reichenbach arrives just in time to catch the girl before she falls.

He lifts her and carries her to the bed; spasms ripple across her body, her hands clench into fists then relax, her legs stiffen, and her mouth trembles with pain. Yet amid all this, the girl’s face holds a delicate, touching beauty—touching especially for that mysteriously familiar quality Reichenbach can’t name. Reichenbach is deeply dissatisfied with himself for blurting it out so harshly; he feels as if he’s trampled young crops with waders. There lies the girl, looking at him like her executioner yet with such submission, as if he couldn’t possibly hurt her.

He places his left hand on her head and strokes her forehead with his right. “Now, now,” he says, “it’s not so bad that it can’t be made right again.”

After the third stroke across Friederike’s forehead, she closes her eyes, and her body loses all spasmodic rigidity. She seems to have fallen asleep, lying with closed eyes, breathing calmly; her misery is at least lifted for a time. And Reichenbach thinks he could now slip away.

But then Friederike says softly, yet perfectly clearly: “No, please, don’t go!” What’s this? Is Friederike not asleep? Or is she asleep and speaking from that state? And how could she know he was about to leave, how could she know before he betrayed it with a movement? Is this no ordinary sleep into which he inadvertently plunged her? Reichenbach pulls himself together—no fantastical speculations now; it’s time for precise observation. He will think of something specific; he will, for example, think that Friederike should ask for a glass of water.

At that moment, Friederike’s lips move as if sensing the discomfort of thirst, and then she says, “Please, give me a glass of water.”

By God, it’s true—the girl can pluck unspoken thoughts from Reichenbach’s mind; it’s no ordinary sleep, it’s a somnambulistic state in which she lies before him. Friederike is odically linked to him; the Od developing the processes in his brain has penetrated her and conveys to her somnambulistic consciousness the knowledge of his thoughts. It’s as he said—the Od also explains the phenomena of thought-reading.

Reichenbach reaches into his coat pocket and grasps a key. “Do you know what I’m holding?” he asks breathlessly, without pulling it out.

“You have a key in your hand,” says Friederike.

The Freiherr has never pursued these matters before; he had classified them theoretically among Od’s effects but hadn’t yet approached them with experiments. New territory opens before him—he has had a girl beside him for years who surpasses all other test subjects in sensitive powers, and precisely Friederike he never drew in or tested for her odic abilities. He hadn’t the slightest thought of it, and it’s as if she had hidden from him, as if she had avoided him.

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OD: Chapter 19, pages 244- 248

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 8, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 19

After Semmelweis’s departure, the young Doctor Roskoschny succeeded him at the maternity clinic. This inexplicable step, which looked like a flight, infuriated Semmelweis’s friends the most. They had exerted all their power to support him, digging, pushing, and paving the way, even allowing themselves to be politely dismissed—and now this man simply ran off. True, the ministry had initially permitted him only phantom exercises, which was certainly a setback, but it wasn’t such a disgraceful slight that he couldn’t have endured it and waited for the ministry to reconsider. But to throw everything away and flee was not only foolish but also a humiliation for all those who had championed him. How did that leave them now? One almost had to doubt Semmelweis’s sanity. Now he was in Pest, rumored to be an unpaid honorary senior physician at Rochus Hospital—let him stay with his Magyars and see how he fares; no one would lift a finger for him anymore.

Professor Klein and his allies, however, rubbed their hands and remarked with regret that this confirmed their view of Semmelweis: a talented man, but clearly not quite right in the head. This incomprehensible resignation fit the overall picture—such a pity.

And now the young Doctor Roskoschny had taken his place. His father had once been the Freiherr von Reichenbach’s family physician; he hailed from Moravia, a backwoodsman, so to speak. His greatest effort was to erase that provincial stigma; the mark of his origins had to be obliterated. He aspired to be Viennese in essence, demeanor, behavior, and intellect, aligning himself in spirit with the city’s upper echelon. He had succeeded in gaining entry into noble and high-church circles—a driven young man, he enjoyed his superior’s favor. Professor Klein held him in high regard; this pupil shared the right judgment: Semmelweis’s views were unacceptable to science.

The only embarrassment was that Roskoschny found the Freiherr von Reichenbach’s daughter as a nurse at the clinic. She couldn’t bring herself to follow Semmelweis to Pest; she wanted to stay in Vienna and continue his work in his spirit. Oh yes, Roskoschny remembered well—Ottane, a little girl with bright eyes; they had played together as children. But now he was the doctor, and she was the nurse, and her mere presence was a constant reminder of that backwoods past. Moreover, aside from everything else, it would be entirely inappropriate to renew old ties with a family that had brought itself into public disrepute. Everyone spoke of the scandal in Reichenbach’s house; the sister had eloped and married a former barber’s apprentice and juggler. The furious letter the father had flung at her like a curse was in everyone’s hands. And this Karl Schuh hadn’t remained silent; he had responded with a pamphlet titled A Reckoning with Freiherr von Reichenbach, available in all bookstores. The Freiherr and the barber’s apprentice had publicly clashed, and moreover, Reichenbach had faced a resounding rejection at the Academy of Sciences—about as harsh as it could get.

No, it was better to have nothing to do with these people. What would they say in the high circles Roskoschny frequented about such an acquaintance?

Ottane sensed from the first glance how things stood with her new superior. She avoided undue familiarity, had no intention of embarrassing Doctor Roskoschny. Here, he was the doctor, and she the nurse—nothing more.

If she began to realize she couldn’t endure it much longer, that wasn’t the reason. Roskoschny’s refusal to acknowledge her was his affair. But he started dismantling Semmelweis’s legacy; he was a man after Klein’s heart, sharing his superior’s convictions. Semmelweis’s approaches were deemed excessive; his directives were ignored, and mortality rates rose.

The mortality rose. That was what Ottane couldn’t bear; it turned her work into torment and frayed her nerves to see the whimpering, groaning victims of medical arrogance. She resisted Roskoschny’s orders, adhering to what she’d learned from Semmelweis, and faced daily reprimands. As brave as she was, she couldn’t prevent nighttime attacks of weeping fits.

“If my treatment of the patients doesn’t suit you,” Roskoschny had coolly stated, “then you can leave.” She could leave, and she would—she knew that now—but she didn’t yet know where to go.

It was strange that on the day she reached this point, she would receive an answer. And it was Max Heiland who provided it.

He arrived just as she returned from visiting her sister and headed to her room, walking down the corridor. Someone was coming down the hall, keeping close to the wall, occasionally feeling with his hand, placing his feet cautiously. A stranger, whom Ottane initially ignored, but then the stranger, almost past her, suddenly said, “Is that you, Ottane?”

So that’s what Max Heiland looks like now? He’s still as tastefully and fashionably dressed as ever—a handsome young man—but the fresh boldness has been wiped from his face. A crease runs across his forehead, another between his eyebrows, and in his eyes, now fixing on Ottane, there’s a slight cloudiness.

Ottane’s first instinct is to turn away, leave the man standing there. She could do so without self-reproach, given what he did to her. Surely he doesn’t come from an overflow of happiness, a world of love and devotion, a paradise of the heart—that’s evident—but it’s no longer her concern.

But then Max Heiland said, “Good day!” And: “How are you, Ottane?”

He said “Ottane!” and in that stirring tone, unchanged from before, Ottane felt she owed him a response. Well, how was she? She always had her hands full, but today she had time off; she’d visited her sister and would now resume her duties. She said nothing about the state of her work—Max Heiland didn’t need to know. Nor did she ask the usual counter-question about his well-being.

But Max Heiland began on his own: “I thought I should check on you. I’ve been to the eye clinic.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, something’s wrong with my eyes. I get these odd disturbances—gray spots, you know—and the outlines blur, and I can’t judge distances properly. They examined me thoroughly over there, with all sorts of devices…”

He smiled a little hesitantly, and Ottane’s heart, which she thought she’d calmed, suddenly began to beat hard and painfully again. Now she understood what that strange quality about Max Heiland might be.

“Well, and…” she asked anxiously.

“It’s nothing serious; it’s nerve-related. I’m supposed to to take it easy. No reading, no painting—best to go on a trip…”

“You should follow the doctors’ advice… you love traveling so much.” It was a small jab, and Ottane didn’t deliver it without thought. Here stood Max Heiland, and there stood Ottane, and it was just as well to set the situation straight with a little spite and raise a barrier between them.

But Max Heiland didn’t pursue it further; he smiled quietly, almost humbly: “Yes, certainly… it’s just… it has its difficulties… I don’t want to travel alone… and the doctor says I shouldn’t. It happens, you know… sometimes—only temporarily, but now and then—a veil comes over my eyes. Then I probably need someone…”

Ottane almost regretted her earlier jab. She felt a pang of sympathy rising within her and a desire to say something kind and balancing, but she hardened her resistance. No, Max Heiland didn’t deserve leniency or compassion; it was a matter of self-defense to keep all her defenses up against him.

“You have a companion!” she said bluntly and without mercy.

Max Heiland turned his head aside: “It’s over,” he said quietly.

“It’s over?”

“Yes, completely over, Ottane. I believe when fate wants to end something swiftly, it grants total fulfillment. Relationships between people that can withstand complete fulfillment are enduring, eternal from the outset; all others are mere attempts and illusions, a deceptive shimmer on the surface.”

There wasn’t a single false note in what Max Heiland said; Ottane had never heard him speak so earnestly before. And someone—perhaps Semmelweis—had once remarked that people with threatened eyesight begin to think more deeply about everything and grasp questions more profoundly.

“So it’s over?” she asked again, a chill running down her spine.

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Homo Sapiens: Overboard Chapter 18, pages 132- 134

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 8, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

XVIII.

Falk and Isa sat in the train compartment that same evening! They were heading to Paris. 

“Do you love me?” she asked, looking at him happily. 

Falk didn’t answer. He squeezed her hand and gazed into her eyes with infinite tenderness. 

“You, my… You!” They sat for a long time, pressed close together. She grew tired. He made her a bed of blankets, wrapped her up, and kept looking at her with the same fervent, tender warmth. 

“You, my… my…” 

“Kiss me!” She closed her eyes. 

He kissed her fleetingly, as if hesitant to touch her. “Now sleep, sleep…” 

“Yes.” 

He sat across from her. 

Now she was his woman. Now he was happy. 

He barely thought of Mikita. Strange, how little he cared about him. But if… oh God, one goes to ruin because one lacks the ability to live, because the actual conditions for life are missing, so because one must go to ruin; no one is to blame for that. 

Had he gone to ruin? No! His torment was something entirely different. Those were the feverish paroxysms that produced the great will. Yes: he suddenly understood it. How could he put it? The new will—the will born from instincts—the will… 

Hmm, how could he say it? The will of instincts, unhindered by conscious barriers, by atavistic feelings… the will where instinct and mind become one. 

He still had to suffer because he was a transitional man, he still fevered because he had to overcome the mind. But he wouldn’t suffer once he’d overcome that piece of posthumous past, those atavistic remnants in himself. 

Suddenly, he laughed quietly to himself. 

God, God, this foolish, idiotic reasoning. This nonsensical babble about a new will and such things. In the end, he’d think himself an Übermensch, because—well, because his sexuality was so ruthless, and because she followed him out of love. 

In the end, he just wanted to numb himself a bit… Nonsense! 

He looked at her. She was his, she was his because she had to be his… And they were heading into happiness… 

He stepped to the window. 

He saw trees and fields and station buildings flash by. 

All this will be yours, if only this new will is there, the will of instincts sanctified by the mind. 

He thought of Napoleon. 

No! That wasn’t it. That was the will of a fanatical epileptic—of a… 

Strange that he kept instinctively searching for examples of similar ruthlessness… 

Those were probably just remnants of the torments he’d been through. Now he had happiness, and he would enjoy it. 

And he stretched tall in the feeling of his great happiness, which he had won through his will. 

Everything else lay behind him as an experience, a powerful, blood-filled experience, a reproach, material for a great, shattering soul drama. 

She seemed to be sleeping. 

That was the woman he didn’t know. But he didn’t need to know her. Why should he? He had her now, he had wrested her from another. 

He was the elk… no! That was too animalistic. The image of torn entrails hanging from antlers was painful to him. 

With all his strength, he fought against a giant mass of painful, unpleasant feelings… Heh, heh… as if someone had poked a wasp’s nest. 

But he calmed down again. 

It all had to happen this way. Strange that he kept falling back into old notions of free will, of a will that can act… 

And now—now… Where was it carrying him now? 

Into happiness! Into an endless happiness full of new, unknown joys and pleasures… 

Oh, how proud, how happy, how powerful he felt. 

And the train raced and raced… Houses, villages, and cities flashed by the windows, and deep in the sky, a star glowed in dim, violet light…

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Homo Sapiens: Overboard Chapter 17, pages 125- 131

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 7, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

XVII.

Mikita wandered through Munich as if in a dream. He did everything his friends advised, went wherever they said he should, but he felt things were bad, very bad with him. 

Now he had to leave. He would’ve loved to stay in Munich, but he had nothing left to do. And he needed something to do. Anything. 

He walked slowly to the station. Yes, he had to go back to Berlin. He really should’ve said goodbye to his friends, but that was so awkward. They’d want to go to the station with him, make jokes, offer kindnesses… no! He had to be alone. 

Strange how his thoughts spread out wide! Before, they’d tumble over each other, making it hard to know what he wanted, and now everything was so neatly broad, comfortable, clear. 

His voice had grown quiet too. 

Only this strange trembling that could seize him for hours, this odd vanishing of consciousness—oh! That was horrific. 

He felt fear that it would come back. 

Suddenly, he stopped in front of a weapons shop. He recalled the thousand travel stories he’d read in newspapers. It wasn’t impossible that something like that could happen to him. Yes, he could be attacked. Good God! Why shouldn’t what happened to a thousand others happen to him? He laughed quietly to himself. 

Yes! Strange, this thinking. He hadn’t skipped a single word. 

He saw the manifold weapons in the shop window. How terribly inventive people are! 

*To be or not to be*… flashed through his mind. 

*To be or not to be*… Now he just needed a fitting cloak and a skull… Damn it all! He’d have to rehearse that in front of a mirror! Little Mikita… marvelous. He’d probably look like the small opera singer Sylva in the garb of the giant hero Siegfried. 

He went into the shop. 

The first thing that caught his eye was a large tear-off calendar. 

April 1—he read the huge letters. *Prima Aprilis*… lots of surprises today. 

He asked for a revolver but was so tired he had to sit down. 

Was it absolutely necessary to return to Berlin today? Couldn’t he wait until he’d recovered a bit? 

Then he perked up again. 

Distance is of the utmost importance for love. Falk is gone too. She must’ve been bored the whole time. She always needed someone around her. If he returned now… Why shouldn’t what happened to a thousand others happen to him? 

Hadn’t he read in a hundred novels that distance rekindles a fading love! 

Good God! Writers aren’t made of cardboard… How beautifully and thoroughly they’ve described it! 

He paid for the revolver and left. 

One hope replaced another. His steps quickened. He stretched tall. It felt as if new muscles suddenly sprang into action. 

And so a restlessness came over him, a tension so great he thought he couldn’t endure the long journey. 

A fever began to burn in his brain. 

He thought of Isa; he thought of how happy they were, how she loved and admired him. He was the mighty artist she revered in him. 

But it wasn’t just the artist. No, no! She loved to nestle against him, to stroke him… Her—her—oh God, how he loved her! How he wasn’t himself, how every thread of his being was knotted with hers—so inseparably… 

But of course she got tired, he’d tormented her endlessly with his jealousy, his… his… 

Yes, now, now… she was so good. She’d forgiven him everything. 

There—yes, there she’d stand, reaching out her hands, throwing herself against his chest: Thank God you’re here! I’ve longed for you so endlessly. 

Yes, she’ll do that! he cried out. He knew it for sure. 

But… yes! Hadn’t she sent only one brief note in response to his letters, saying she was doing well… 

He struck his head. 

Oh, you foolish Mikita! What do you know of women? What do you know of their cunning… Yes, of course! How could he torment himself over that? It’s perfectly clear… and it’s right that she punishes me like this… 

And he convinced himself with clear, piercing arguments that he’d completely misunderstood everything, that it was just feminine cunning, feminine cleverness… no, no, what did Falk call it… innate selective cunning… 

Yes, Falk had a word for everything… 

But the closer he got to Berlin, the stronger his unrest grew. The old torment rose again, and the last two hours, he was nothing but a helpless prey to the wildest agony of pain. 

He was tormented like an animal! It’s unheard of, what a person must endure—unheard of! 

And he paced back and forth in the compartment, jumped and twitched, and then suddenly that horrific trembling seized his whole body, making him think he’d go mad with pain and fear. 

Isa received him with a cold, embarrassed smile. She was busy packing. 

With a jolt, Mikita felt a clear, icy clarity. 

He could just as well leave, but he was so exhausted he had to sit down. 

Isa turned away. 

“You!” he suddenly shouted hoarsely at her, without looking. 

He couldn’t go on. On the table, he saw a pair of green silk stockings. Some hidden, sexual association stirred in him, he grabbed the stockings and tore them to pieces. 

Isa looked at him with contempt. Now she finally found the courage. 

“What do you want from me? I don’t love you.” She tested whether she could say it. 

“I don’t love you. You’re completely foreign to me…” 

She wanted to add something about Falk, but she couldn’t. She saw that doglike, submissive quality in him. 

He became repulsive to her. 

She said something else, then he heard nothing more. He went out to the street. 

He’d read somewhere that in such moments you understand nothing, but he’d understood everything, so clearly, so distinctly. She didn’t even need to say it. 

Why was the street so empty?… Aha! It was Sunday, and everyone went out to the countryside… Sunday… *prima Aprilis*—afternoon—he looked at his watch—six in the afternoon… *To be or not to be*—Yes, if I stand before the mirror with a Hamlet cloak and a skull in hand, I’d have to mention the fact of time in the final monologue. 

He could never have imagined he’d think so clearly, so calmly, so rationally before his end… 

Yes—Garborg was right. Once you know you must inevitably die, you’re completely calm. 

Yes, yes… writers are always the ones who… He walked very slowly, but now he stopped. 

That foolish boy had irritated him for a while. Yes, for some time he must’ve been watching him. 

He was probably going to a girl, wanted small feet, and had bought boots too tight. And now he had to stop every moment, and to mask his corns, he pretended to look at shop windows. 

There—there… now he stopped again! 

A sudden rage seized Mikita against this foolish boy. He approached him with a stern expression. 

“You, young sir, got some mighty corns, huh?” 

The young man looked at him, stunned, then grew angry, deep red with rage. 

Mikita felt afraid. 

“That’s vile insolence!” the young man shouted. 

Mikita shrank fearfully. “Sorry… you know… wax mood-rings in the watch…” 

He hurried away. 

God, how unkind people become—they yell at me, plague me, torment me to the blood—yes… *saigner à blanc*… 

Yes, he felt tears running down his cheeks. 

Come on, Mikita! A lot of bad things have happened to you, but you don’t need to cry… Damn it! Pull yourself together! 

He grew angry. 

Foolish man with your sentimental comedies! Why are you sniveling? Sensing some beautiful sex nearby that’s making you all teary? Huh? The beautiful sex… yeah, right!… 

He went up to his studio and locked the door. 

He looked at a painting. That hideous distortion! How hadn’t he noticed? He had to fix it right away!… 

He grabbed a brush, but his hand flailed aimlessly. 

He went mad, seized the painting in senseless rage, and tore it to pieces. 

Then he threw himself on the sofa. But he sprang up again, as if possessed by a thousand devils. 

“Isa!” he cried out—“Isa!” 

He began to laugh. A laughing fit, choking him. 

He rolled on the floor. He banged his head against the floorboards, grabbed a chair, smashed it to pieces, a frenzy of destruction raging in him. 

When he came to, it was night. 

He was exhausted. His mind was unhinged. 

Only one thing, the last thing: Yes, God, what was it, what was he supposed to do? 

Suddenly, he felt something heavy in his pocket. 

Aha! Yes, right! Right… He wandered around the room, searching, repeating endlessly: Yes, right, right… 

That was it! The revolver in his pocket must’ve chafed the skin on his leg. It burned so. Sit down! Right? That was probably the right thing. 

How the calm hurt! 

He took the revolver; it took a long time to load it. His hands no longer obeyed his will. 

He got very angry. 

Of course, sit down first. That was the most important thing. He sat down. 

In the heart? Sure! That was a good idea. You usually shoot a millimeter higher and get cured! Heh, heh… 

Suddenly, he fell into aimless brooding, forgetting everything. 

All at once, he heard singing in the courtyard. A sudden unrest seized him. He gripped the revolver tightly. 

Quick! Quick! 

Something whipped him into a terrible unrest. In one second, he wouldn’t be able to do it. 

And with a sudden jolt, he shoved the weapon deep into his mouth and pulled the trigger…

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OD: Chapter 18, pages 235- 243

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 7, 2025| Leave a Comment »

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.

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Homo Sapiens: Overboard Chapter 15, pages 118-124

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 6, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

XV.

Falk sat in his hotel room, brooding. 

Why had he even come here? He could just as well have tormented himself in Berlin. 

It must be six days now? 

He reflected. Yes, he’d been here six days. 

But now he couldn’t take it anymore. No, impossible. Yes, he had to state, without any self-pity, simply as a bare fact, that he couldn’t endure this torment any longer. He would surely go to ruin. Every day, something in him broke that was whole yesterday, every day his disgust for life grew—and this pain… 

To go to ruin over a woman? He, the artist, he… Ha, ha, ha… As if it weren’t better to go to ruin over a woman than over some idiotic stroke, or typhoid, or diphtheria… 

Oh, you foolish Iltis! How shallow you are! At least I go to ruin over myself; I go to ruin over what makes up my innermost soul’s structure. And she, yes, she: that’s me, me, whom you’ve never seen, whom I only now recognized in myself. 

He couldn’t finish the thought… 

Go to ruin over your drunkenness or persecution mania if you think that’s more worthy of a man—I go to ruin over myself… 

But why the devil go to ruin? I want to be happy—I want to live… 

He suddenly lost the thread of thought. His mind had been so scattered lately. 

He sat and sat, noticing he was completely numb. He forced himself to think. 

Hmm; he’d never done anything without controlling himself. Yes, the first two days, he still had himself in hand. He worked on her with conscious means… 

Good God! That ridiculous swan story! How stupidly made up, how clumsy… brash, yes, brash… 

And then came the vortex, the whirl… His brain began to spin around itself, circling faster and faster into the abyssal funnel of sexuality… 

The dance—the dance… 

He suddenly saw a spiderweb in the corner. He stared at it long and intently, but his eyes closed. 

Yes, he was tired, terribly tired, he felt a tearing in his limbs… Yes, three—no, four hours he’d walked, to kill the pain with exhaustion, to sleep without that wretched poison, that morphine… 

Now he had to fix his eyes on a shiny object. He stared at the brass doorknob for a while. 

He only felt tears running down his cheeks… 

It was a glorious autumn day. Bright, clear noon. He looked at the tall tower of the Redeemer Church in Copenhagen. Mikita stood beside him, waving his handkerchief. 

Farvel! Farvel! he heard shouted, but he saw no people. Suddenly, he noticed a tearful young man beside him. He was probably headed to Stettin for a wholesale business… 

How many nautical miles did this steamer make in an hour? You!—Mikita excitedly pointed out an English coal steamer. 

Two cabin boys were boxing as if they’d gone mad. He saw them leap at each other like roosters. In an instant, they became a tangled heap rolling on the deck, then breaking apart and rolling again. Then he saw them spring up and start again with renewed fury. He saw fists flying back and forth, then they tumbled down the cabin stairs, reappeared, and again he saw the heap rolling on the deck… 

Falk woke up, opened his eyes, and closed them again. 

“You, Erik, look at this marvelous night on the water and this shimmering—this glowing… Good God, if you could paint that!” 

“You dear fellow!” 

And they sat and drank. The night was so black. They sat close together. 

And suddenly, a frenzy seized them. They grabbed each other. He lifted Mikita up, wanting to throw him overboard. But Mikita was nimble. He slipped under his arms and grabbed his legs. Desperately, Falk pounded Mikita’s head with his fists, but Mikita didn’t care, he carried him, yes, he wanted to throw him into the sea, now they were at the railing, now… now… Then he got something hard under his feet. He threw his whole body over Mikita, making him buckle, with one grip he seized his hips, and with a terrific thrust: Mikita flew overboard in a wide arc. 

Falk woke up. 

He stood in the middle of the room with clenched fists. He came to himself. 

A wild hatred burned in him, a savage urge to fight. Overboard! Overboard! 

He clenched his teeth. He was cold. He paced back and forth. 

Who would rob him of his happiness, for whose sake should he go to ruin?! 

Gradually, he calmed down. 

It became clear to him now: one had to go overboard, him or Mikita. 

She no longer loved Mikita! What did Mikita want from her? Who was Mikita anyway? He’d been with him at school, starved with him—and yes, what else? What more? 

He sat down and let his head hang limply. 

This sick, mad longing for her he’d never felt before… 

Overboard! Him or me. 

The vortex seizes us both, one to happiness… only one to happiness… 

And that’s me! 

He stretched tall. 

He saw the elk before him, the trembling, blood-splattered victor. And an unprecedented unrest seized him. 

He tore open his clothes and buttoned them again. He searched for money, rummaged through all his pockets, couldn’t find it, raged, ran around, sweat beading on his forehead. 

He had to go to her now. He had to. He couldn’t bear it anymore. And he threw himself over the bed, tossing everything around, and finally found his wallet under the pillow. 

If only it’s not too late, if only it’s not too late… He looked at his watch. It had stopped. 

He rang the bell frantically. 

The waiter hurried up. “When does the train to Berlin leave?”  

“In about an hour.” 

“Quick, quick, the bill. Hurry, for God’s sake…” 

When Falk arrived in Berlin, it was already late in the evening. 

It suddenly became clear: he had to go to Mikita’s. 

Yes, he had to tell him openly that he shouldn’t deceive himself, that Isa no longer loved him, and if she hadn’t told him, it was probably only to spare him the pain as long as possible, she pitied him… 

Yes, he had to tell him openly. It was endlessly awkward. 

But why? Mikita was a complete stranger to him. 

But the closer he got to Mikita’s apartment, the heavier it felt. 

No! He couldn’t tell Mikita that. 

He tried to recall what Mikita had once meant to him, how he had loved him… 

He could hardly breathe. 

He stood indecisively outside Mikita’s apartment. 

Yes, he had to, he had to… or… oh God! Yes, then he’d have to go back. 

And he relived the horrific torment of those six days. Horrible! Horrible! he murmured. 

He went up. 

“Is Mr. Mikita at home?” 

“No! He’s gone to Munich.” 

Falk stood on the stairs. He couldn’t grasp the happiness. This happiness! 

He repeated it again, but he couldn’t feel joy. And now to Isa—to Isa! 

He thought only of her. He tried to imagine how she’d receive him, he thought of a thousand little details he’d noticed about her, he thought intensely, convulsively, to drown out something in him that wanted to speak, that resisted and fought against this great happiness. 

Then suddenly: He mustn’t go to Isa! He had to wait until Mikita returned. He had to tell him everything, so Mikita wouldn’t accuse him of cowardice, wouldn’t say he’d seduced his bride behind his back. 

Yes! He had to wait. 

But that was impossible for him—physically impossible. Now everything in him was stretched to the breaking point; one more thousandth of a millimeter, and it would collapse. 

Why had he come back? 

As long as he could bear the torment, he’d stayed away and fought bravely and been good, but then… 

He pulled himself together sharply. 

No, enough of arguments now! He’d do what he had to do, even if ten, a thousand feelings resisted… God, yes, he didn’t deny that each of those feelings carried a certain degree of necessity, but in the end, the final, mighty, inevitable necessity always won! 

And he thought it through to the finest detail, but he didn’t feel happier. 

Deep in the background, he felt a dull fear, an embarrassed, shameful pain, and then he felt everything merge into one feeling, an endlessly sad feeling of not being himself, of not belonging to himself. 

He passed a clock. He flinched sharply. 

In a quarter of an hour, the door would be locked, then he couldn’t see her. Not today… He groaned. 

Now you must decide. You must. You must. 

He felt a painful tension in every fiber, every muscle. He walked faster and faster. 

No, no! No more thinking, no more; now I must go to her… Come what may… 

He still thought, still tried to fight, but he knew he’d do it anyway. 

And then: with a jolt, he threw all thoughts from his mind and quickly climbed the stairs. 

But as he was about to ring, that paralyzing fear gripped him again. He put his finger to the electric bell button several times but didn’t dare press it. Then he leaned against the wall, feeling suddenly so heavy. He went down a few steps, counting them; then he heard the jingle of keys below, and all at once, he recalled his necessity, the final necessity that must always win. 

He went back up and rang. A maid opened the door. 

“Is Fräulein Isa…” 

“Fräulein Isa is not receiving; she’s forbidden anyone to be let in…” 

“But tell her I must speak to her…” He almost shouted it, not knowing why. 

At that moment, a door opened: Isa stood in the hallway. 

Falk walked toward her; without a word, they entered the room. 

They took each other’s hands and both trembled. 

Then she threw her arms around his neck and wept loudly.

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OD: Chapter 18, pages 228 -234

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 6, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

In the grand assembly hall of the Academy of Sciences, a distinguished audience is gathered today. The great luminaries of science are all present; they don’t want to miss this occasion—not always do they come with such eager anticipation as today, when Freiherr von Reichenbach is to deliver a lecture on his Od. Often enough, it’s merely a tedious duty; they attend serious and beneficial discussions but yawn in advance. Today, however, they smile, knowing it will be entertaining. Freiherr von Reichenbach is in everyone’s people’s mouths—the whole city is talking about him, less for his Od and more for other matters.

“Say, have you also received that lithographed letter he sent to all his friends?”

“A kind of wanted poster, after his daughter and a certain Karl Schuh.”

“A public accusation!”

“But that’s the Schuh with the light paintings. A talented man, he works in a chemical factory. Certainly not the blackguard the Freiherr paints him as.”

“Say, can you understand the man? Normally, one washes dirty laundry quietly at home, but Reichenbach airs it for all the world to see.”

“A passionate nature! A man who can’t bear not getting his way.”

“Just like with his Od.”

“But one doesn’t accuse one’s daughter of consorting with an adventurer in a public circular letter.”

“And that she nearly emptied all the chests when she left his house and left keys to half-empty rooms behind.”

“That’s not true. Reichenbach writes of two loads she took. I know her brother; he told me it was no more than two hand carts with her clothes and linens.”

“I can only think he’s upset because he’s not making progress with his Od, and now his domestic troubles have completely unhinged him.”

And then, after everything has been thoroughly discussed at length, Reichenbach arrives. He’s a bit late, giving the luminaries of science time to finish their gossip—the gossip he himself turned into a public matter to show he has nothing to hide. After the self-destruction of recent weeks, he’s in a festive mood today. This is the day of his triumph; he will compel the men of science with the force of his words and the logic of facts to acknowledge his research results and cheer for him. Against the dark backdrop of his personal distress, his fame as a discoverer will shine all the brighter.

At the door, Professor Schrötter, the Academy’s general secretary, greets him.

“What do you say to Liebig?” he asks first thing.

So they already know—Reichenbach dislikes being reminded of it; yes, malice always spreads with the speed of wind, while praise and recognition lag far behind.

It’s unpleasant to be reminded of this setback at the outset; the wound still stings. But Reichenbach merely smiles and says offhandedly, “What can you do? He wanted to make a splash with his inaugural lecture at Munich University and chose my Od as a sacrificial lamb. Scholars often slaughter their best friends to get themselves talked about.”

“Liebig was entirely for you at first. He published your papers in his Annals. How do you explain the turnaround?”

“How do I explain it?” snorts Reichenbach contemptuously. “Some gentlemen visited me, on their way to the naturalists’ convention in Wiesbaden. They also chose to learn about my experiments. I led them into the darkroom, but they saw no Od light. None of them were sensitive, and besides, they were too impatient to wait the necessary time. Then they went to Liebig in Munich and mocked the Od and me. It’s always easy to laugh when you don’t understand something. But it seems to have made an impression on Liebig.”

“Still,” hesitates Schrötter, “his attack has been noticed.”

Reichenbach tightens his resolve: “By the way, I was in Karlsbad with Berzelius, who puts Liebig in his pocket, and Berzelius is entirely on my side.”

They take their seats, and Hofrat Rokitansky, the vice president, opens the proceedings. A protocol is read, a foundation charter is announced, and several new decrees follow, though the assembly pays only moderate attention. Only when Reichenbach steps to the lectern do heads lift and expressions sharpen.

Reichenbach’s gaze surveys the densely packed audience. There they sit below—indifferent, malicious, envious, curious—come to see how he will hold up. He knows they’re all thinking of the scandal in his house, of Liebig’s defection. But his conviction stands like a steel pillar within him; he is bathed in the light of holiest certainty. Today, he will rise and crush all resistance. He has even summoned opposition, awakened enmities, so that his elevation will shine all the brighter.

Then Reichenbach begins to speak. He starts with an overview of his experiments; he has conducted thousands of trials, identified one hundred and sixty sensitives—men and women of all classes and ages. He has examined animal bodies and supposedly dead matter.

Reichenbach overlooks a faint cough at this challenge to a widely accepted view. Is matter not dead, then? He straightens: “The result of these investigations is the unerring certainty of a force permeating the entire universe, which I have named Od, derived from the Sanskrit root Va, meaning ‘to blow’ or ‘to waft,’ just as the same root becomes Wudan, Wotan, Odin in Old Germanic, signifying the air god, the wafter. Truly, this dynamis acts throughout the cosmos, wafting through the greatest and the smallest. Heavenly bodies, humans, animals, plants, stones—all emit Od, all are permeated by Od; Od is the life principle of the animate and inanimate world.”

The tufts of hair on either side of his forehead blaze—not in anger this time, but in enthusiasm. They rise and seem to spark with crackling energy. Some think to themselves that whatever may be undesirable, petty, or unpleasant about Reichenbach the man, now, as he stands before his audience, swept away by his idea, one cannot help but find him grand and admirable—even if his worldview rests on delusion and error. Some say this to themselves, but far more find the fire of his rapture out of place here, where facts—sober, research-based facts—usually hold sway. They are suspicious of a lecture with so much passion.

Perhaps Reichenbach senses this, for he now reins in his fervor. He is, first and foremost, a physicist and chemist, isn’t he? And so he intends to speak only as a physicist and chemist. Now he constructs his system before the audience—the convictions drawn from endless experimental series, meticulously recorded in his diaries and soon to be accessible to the public in his comprehensive work, The Sensitive Human. He speaks of the odic polarity and the odic dynamics of the human body, of odic transitional states, of crystals, magnets, odic emotional and visual phenomena, of odic manifestations of smell, taste, and hearing, of conductivity, of Od linked with living organisms—the Biod, of the Od active in the sun—the Heliod…

It’s a wealth of connections, insights, and assertions in which Reichenbach is entirely at home, but which bewilder and overwhelm his listeners.

A quiet restlessness in the hall gradually penetrates his awareness; he glances at the clock, almost startled. He has spoken for two hours; it’s time to conclude. He clenches his fists, as if to hammer his final sentences with all his might into their heads. “You see, gentlemen, the polar oppositions of that natural force which I call Od. On the negative side of Od are life, movement, lightness, and volatility—the spiritual principle; on the positive side are death, stillness, weight, and immobility—the material principle. The right side of the human body is odically negative. Why does man predominantly use his right hand? Why does one escort a lady on the right arm? Why is someone to be honored placed at one’s right? From the unconscious recognition that the right side signifies odic life and spirit. Heavenly bodies, humans, animals, plants, and stones are bearers of Od. What mysteries are revealed to us! Odic radiations from the stars—do they not explain the ancient riddles of astrology, the fate-determining influences of the stars? The Earth itself is odically charged; its North Pole emits reddish light, its South Pole bluish light, and perhaps the auroras are nothing but immense odic discharges of the Earth. Od also provides the key to the mystery of the divining rod. Moving water acts odically, and the sensitive, holding the divining rod, senses hidden springs beneath the Earth through his receptivity to Od. You may think what you will, but the facts of distant influence, remote viewing, and premonition cannot be denied in many cases. Allow me to cite an old proverb: ‘Speak of the devil, and he appears!’ Following a sudden inspiration, you speak of a man you haven’t thought of for years thought of for years. And lo, in the next moment, he turns the corner. It’s his Od radiations that preceded him and awakened the thought of him before you knew of his physical proximity. The unaccountable affections and aversions between people stem from sympathy or opposition of their odic personalities. Yes, I would venture to say that even the manifestations revealed to spiritualists—the so-called spirit appearances—are based on facts of an odic nature.”

A voice interrupts him here, coming from one of the back rows. It says loudly and clearly, “Wizard of Kobenzl!” Though such interruptions are uncommon at this venue, the heckler receives no reprimand; instead, a wave of approving smiles ripples through the rows of faces, followed by a rustling of agreement and nudges.

Reichenbach straightens, trying to fix his gaze on the malicious interrupter, but he can’t pinpoint the source of the shout. “The presence of Od in a body determines its stereoplastic, body-forming power, and thus I believe that even in seemingly dead stone, forces of immense significance may be bound. It is Od that governs the atoms and, within atoms, the arrangement of matter, its transformation, bonding, and splitting. It is Od on which our entire chemistry rests, and perhaps with Od we have reached the hypothetical ether. Odic radiations permeate the entire universe, and I dare to predict that a time is near when all life will be seen as an effect of such radiations.”

Reichenbach has finished; he falls silent, exhausted, but still stands erect, having hurled his fiery thoughts out. He awaits the ignition of a flame in the minds seized by his fire, the applause of those swept away by his boldness.

A shuffle of feet, coughs, the scraping of chairs, a wave of heads from the distinguished assembly below him. He shouldn’t have spoken of astrology, remote viewing, spirit appearances, divining rods, and other spawn of superstition before this esteemed gathering. What is one to say to such nonsense? How should one respond? How dare he present this to the luminaries of science, bearers of enlightenment in this thankfully advanced century?

Reichenbach waits, but the applause doesn’t come. He doesn’t fully grasp it—have they not recognized the overwhelming significance of his discovery? Don’t they see that it reduces all phenomena of nature and life to a single law, a fundamental force?

Someone rises to speak—Professor Schrötter, Reichenbach’s friend. Reichenbach breathes a sigh of relief; a friend, surely he will now make the matter palatable to the assembly. Perhaps he knows best how to address these thickheads. Maybe it was too much fireworks at once for more cautious minds.

Professor Schrötter pushes back the tails of his coat with one arm, as he’s wont to do at the lectern, and raises the other hand in a gesture of professorial insistence. He begins by saying it’s unnecessary to speak of the undeniable contributions of Freiherr von Reichenbach to science in this assembly. With small hand movements, he tosses out names like Paraffin, Creosote, Zaffar, Eupion, Kapnomor into the hall, glances toward the ceiling, traces a semicircle with his hand, and mentions Reichenbach’s research in meteoritics, eliciting approving nods from the scholarly society.

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Homo Sapiens: Overboard Chapter 14, pages 110 – 117

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 4, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

XIV.

The restaurant “Green Nightingale” was loud and lively. 

Iltis sat broad and dignified, as befits a great man, explaining to Mikita why women are far beneath men. He ostentatiously turned his back on a young literati sitting next to him. The day before, there had been an unpleasant scene between them because the young man remarked that Iltis’s hatred of women likely stemmed from more than just theoretical reasons. Whenever a lady appeared in their company, Iltis would start in. 

“You see,” said Iltis, “you’re young, and so is Falk. You can’t understand; but just wait until you’ve slogged through ten years of marriage with a woman—” he hissed the last word softly, out of consideration for Isa—“then you’ll see. Here comes dear old Falk with his Yuma women, Chickasaw Indians, and such scientific nonsense; but the fact remains that women are inferior creatures.” 

The Infant tried to interject, but Iltis cut him off sharply. 

“No, no!… A fact is a fact!” He puffed himself up… “Besides, one shouldn’t be petty with evidence.” 

Mikita wasn’t listening. A grief gnawed at him, a shame that whipped his blood into his brain with choking rage. 

What’s the point of going on?… It’s all over… He thought of her harshness—her… her… Yes, wasn’t that outright hatred? 

How he’d pleaded with her, crawled before her, begged for forgiveness! But she, hm… yes, that icy smile… Didn’t it say: why are you begging, why are you embarrassing me, what do I still have to do with you… 

He sighed heavily. 

“Well, you don’t seem to be taking it lightly…” Iltis winked. “But allow me, the matter can’t possibly hold up,” the Infant mused, pondering how best to present his counterarguments. Iltis grew highly indignant. 

“You mustn’t be petty. Just don’t be petty, or we’ll end up with foolish science. Shall I tell you about my experiences with scientists?” 

Why is Falk staying away, Mikita brooded; that wasn’t necessary… Ha, ha, ha, to give me a chance to win Isa back… Cheers, dear Erik; not necessary, not necessary. 

But why am I tormenting her? What do I still want from her?… Love? Can you force that? Ridiculous! Ridiculous! How could anyone love him at all, yes, love a man who’s only ridiculous? 

He looked over at Isa, who, as usual, sat a bit apart. 

But Isa didn’t look at him. She seemed very agitated. Red patches burned on her cheeks, and her eyes darted restlessly around… 

The door opened, and the blonde Neocatholic entered. 

Isa looked quickly at the door, clearly unable to control herself in that moment; she flinched. 

She smiled at the young man, but she couldn’t hide the expression of great disappointment. 

Yes, disappointment! Damn it, he wasn’t blind… that’s how people look when they’re disappointed. And that nervous, trembling hint of expectation—expectation! Who’s she expecting? Who? Foolish Mikita, don’t you know who she’s expecting?! Don’t you know why she doesn’t want to be alone with you for half an hour; don’t you know why she’s been dragging you here for three days straight! 

He laughed bitterly. 

Falk, she’s expecting Falk, heh, heh—Falk! He repeated the name, it surely gave him great pleasure; Falk was his friend, more than that! a brother; he’d surely made a great sacrifice for him, yes, surely… The fiancé who suffers from sentimental idiocies should get his bride, bring his little sheep to safety… 

“Hi! Hallo! Hoo!” he roared at Iltis—“To your health!” 

Everyone looked around in surprise; that was quite unusual for Mikita. 

Mikita pulled himself together. 

“To hell with your philosophizing… Woman—man… it’s all nonsense; everything’s nonsense… Let’s be merry! Merry!” 

Isa looked at Mikita wearily. 

Why was he shouting like that? What was wrong with him now? Who was he jealous of this time? 

How foreign that man was to her. How could she ever have loved him? No, she couldn’t take it anymore; she had to end it. Tonight! When he escorts her home—yes, tonight! 

How would she tell him? Her heart trembled. 

How would she tell him? Calmly and matter-of-factly. Was he blind, couldn’t he help her in this awkward situation? He knew now that she loved Falk. Didn’t he get it yet? She’d shown him so clearly that he meant nothing to her. 

Intrusive man! She was afraid to think it, she didn’t dare; but now, suddenly, she had thought it… She was surprised that she felt nothing about it… 

Intrusive man! Yes, she felt joy that she could think it without it being painful. 

The door creaked again. 

Now it’s him for sure, she knew it; she trembled. But it was a stranger. 

This was too awful, waiting and waiting like this among all these unpleasant people. 

She felt Mikita’s eyes fixed on her, but she avoided looking at him. 

God, how indifferent he was to her! 

What had Falk been doing these dreadful five days? 

Should she go to him? But she didn’t know where he lived. Ask Mikita? No, that wouldn’t do. 

She sank into herself. 

How could she see him? Why, for heaven’s sake, had she asked him never to see her again?… Oh God, she hadn’t known how much she loved him, how indifferent Mikita was to her, how the whole, whole world only brought her pain. 

She was senselessly desperate. 

Why was he shouting again? She glanced involuntarily at the empty bottles in front of Mikita. 

“Do you even know what love is?”—Mikita was beside himself. “Do you know what sexual pain is? Huh? Do you? Have you ever loved a woman at all?” 

Iltis made a dismissive gesture. 

“That… that…” Mikita stammered—“the woman birthed the man, that’s enough for her! The woman gives birth, and the man loves. The woman never loves, never; she’s content with giving birth…” 

“What? Women love too? What?” 

“But women commit suicide for love,” the Infant interjected, “you can read about it in the *Lokal-Anzeiger* every day.” 

“What? Suicide? Ask him, just ask him; he knows better—” Mikita pointed at Iltis, who smiled encouragingly—“women commit suicide when they’re pregnant and abandoned by their lovers!” 

Mikita slammed his fist on the table. Isa looked at him with boundless contempt. 

He was drunk again. How could she ever have loved this man? 

An awkward silence fell. Isa’s presence weighed on everyone. It was a bit inconsiderate of Mikita in her presence. 

Mikita suddenly fell silent. 

He saw it: yes, for the first time, he saw it—that look! He saw it clearly before him. 

He let his head sink. 

So clear! The look burrowed deeper and deeper into him. He saw the eye within him now, it looked at him… How did it look at him? 

If he painted it?… Three steps back… No! Into the corner of the studio—the other one… And now through the mirror… Yes, he couldn’t help it… It was contempt! Great, cold contempt! 

For Isa, it became unbearable. She felt a feverish unrest; her heart beat fast and heavy against her corset. 

She had to see Falk at all costs, he had to come eventually. He’s here every day; why doesn’t he come these days? 

The conversation picked up again. 

“Oh, leave me alone with literature; this endless chatter about poets and publishers and publisher prizes really makes one nervous—” Iltis yawned affectedly—“What do you want with Falk? He’s a good guy.” 

Isa perked up. 

She saw Mikita suddenly straighten. “What? What? Falk?” 

“Well, yes,” the Infant lectured, “Falk has talent, I’ll grant that; but it’s still developing, it needs to ripen, to ferment; you don’t know yet how he’ll turn out. He’s searching, he’s still groping…” 

“What? Falk groping?…” Mikita laughed with feigned warmth. “You’re priceless… You know, Falk’s the only one who can do something. Falk’s found the new. Yes, Falk can do what you all wish you could—Falk—Falk…” 

At that moment, Mr. Buchenzweig approached Isa. 

He assumed all this talk must bore a lady, so he wanted to entertain her. 

She looked at his smooth, plump, handsome barber’s face. What did this man want? 

Yes, Mr. Buchenzweig had the great honor of seeing the gracious Fräulein at the soirée in the presence of Mr. Falk. Mr. Falk is a remarkably interesting man, really the one who interested him most… He only came here to meet him… 

“You, Isa,” Mikita called across the table—“did you know Falk left Berlin?” 

He fixed his eyes on her intently. 

Isa flinched. She felt a sharp pain in her face, a constricting sensation in her chest… she saw Mikita’s wild, malicious, flushed face with wide eyes, then turned mechanically to Buchenzweig. 

She wanted to drink a glass of wine; it was empty. Buchenzweig eagerly ran for the waiter. 

Everything blurred before her eyes. She saw nothing. She suddenly heard someone speaking; it was Buchenzweig. But she didn’t quite understand what he wanted. She only looked at him, smiled mechanically—the wine was brought. She drank. 

“I know Mr. Halbe very well. A remarkably charming man, a great force in our time, which so lacks great talents.” 

Isa looked at him. The man suddenly repulsed her. She didn’t know why. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Buchenzweig, your company is very pleasant, but I must go home now.” 

She approached Mikita. 

“I have to go home now.” 

“Oh, really?—bored here?” She didn’t listen to him and got dressed. 

Again, she saw the repulsive barber’s face of Mr. Buchenzweig. Who did he remind her of? Yes, right, the barber who shampooed her hair. 

As they got into the cab, with Iltis gallantly assisting Isa, Mikita shouted to him: 

“Wait till I get back! We’ll have a merry night.” 

Isa shrugged. Neither spoke a word. 

She was paralyzed, unable to think. She was so tired. 

Now and then, a desolate despair hit her, then tipped back into this limp exhaustion. 

“You, Isa, my exhibition opens in Munich tomorrow.” “Oh, right…” 

The cab stopped. 

“Good night!” Mikita’s limbs twitched. “Good night.” 

“Now drive me back fast!” he roared at the driver. The driver whipped the horse, and the cab flew over the asphalt road. 

Meanwhile, Mikita writhed in a violent fit of sobbing. 

When he returned to the “Green Nightingale,” he was calm and composed. He was greeted with hearty cheers. 

Yes, Isa has weighed us all down, he thought. 

“You,” he sat next to Iltis—“if I get very drunk tonight, put me on the train to Munich tomorrow morning. Seven-thirty, remember…” 

“I know, I know; I’ve traveled that route a hundred times.”

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OD: Chapter 17, pages 222 – 227

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 4, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Let the old fool be. He’s bursting with envy and pride.”

“He unfortunately doesn’t burst,” snorted Semmelweis. “He complains to the ministry; he has a host of petticoats and clerical robes behind him, and that carries more weight in this blessed Austria than the most conscientious research. And what does the ministry do? They appoint me private lecturer, yes, because they can’t do otherwise, with the venia legendi for lectures on obstetrics—with practical exercises—but only on a phantom! Do you understand what that means, not on cadavers, only on a phantom?” Semmelweis broke into a bitter, angry fit of laughter.

Reichenbach shook his head. “You just need a little patience. Klein and your other enemies are old men. How long will it take before they must leave the stage? Then the path will be clear for you…”

“Patience? I’ve had more patience than I should have. Enlightenment is dawning everywhere, except in Vienna. I’ve had enough of Vienna.”

“Yes, with us…” Reichenbach mused thoughtfully. “Austria! It has always known how to suppress, destroy, or drive out its best talents. Anyone who achieves something here must brace themselves to be mocked or persecuted.” Suddenly, he realized how similar his own fate was to this man’s. They were allies in the battle against the inertia of minds.

Semmelweis clapped his broad-brimmed hat on his head. “What do I care about Austria? I’m going back to my homeland. I’m Hungarian.” He stamped toward the door. “By the way, what I meant to say… your daughter! She was my best assistant.” “Because they’ve all been like that. I’d like to take her with me to Pest; perhaps she’d be willing. She could bring much good.”

He might have thought this a kind farewell gesture to Reichenbach. But he shouldn’t have said it. Didn’t this man understand that in this house, Ottane’s misstep was buried under a tombstone of silence? Why did he drag this shameful story into the light? Should Reichenbach rejoice that his daughter had taken up this dirty, repulsive trade instead of leaving it to the women of the lower classes, who were meant for it? Should he consider it an honor that Ottane was praised for her competence? For Reichenbach, it was a barbed fire arrow; his pride was mortally wounded. As he escorted the doctor to the door, he pondered how a paternal command could put an end to this scandal.

He himself wanted nothing to do with this renegade who dragged the family’s reputation into the mud; Hermine, Hermine should deliver Ottane his order.

When he entered Hermine’s room, Hermine and Karl Schuh hastily dissolved a suspiciously intimate moment into a somewhat awkward innocence. Just what he needed—Schuh making himself at home and plotting with Hermine.

“Oh, has Paris returned you to us?” he asked mockingly. He knew, of course, that Schuh hadn’t reached Paris and that his entire venture had failed. But he wanted the satisfaction of forcing a confession of failure, and somehow his resentment had to vent.

Schuh had risen: “I’ve come back to discuss the future of your daughter Hermine with you.”

Oh, so…! So it had come to this—that this man dared to discuss Hermine’s future with him. “Do you mean,” he asked with a mocking glint, “that you are to be that future?”

Schuh had resolved to ignore insults. “Yes!” he said earnestly.

“So I should place my daughter’s future in your hands? And you presumably already have her consent?”

“Yes,” Schuh answered with calm certainty to both questions…

“Into the hands of a wandering nobody who is nothing and has nothing. A vagabond, a shoemaker’s apprentice by birth, a barber in Berlin until his twentieth year, then ran off, sniffed around at everything but knows nothing thoroughly—a scientific freebooter who turns his scant knowledge into a business?”

Schuh had grown very pale. “I know I lack thorough training; I know I’m not yet anything substantial, but you yourself have acknowledged my abilities. You drew me into your experiments and sought my opinion. And you’ve said more than once that it’s not about the credentials one holds but what one carries within. Moreover, I may inform you that I have accepted a position, and there’s a prospect of soon becoming a partner in a galvanoplastic institute.”

“Father,” Hermine adds, “you have no right to insult Herr Schuh.”

Reichenbach turns on her with clenched fists. “Silence! Unfortunate girl! And you want to throw yourself away on this hollow talker, this man who doesn’t even own a button on his coat, whom I’ve driven from my house, who wheedled money from me for his dubious ventures…?”

Schuh lowers his head. “You gave me money, that’s true. But you offered it, Herr Baron! Offered it!! And you will get it back; I give you my word!”

And now something happens that the Freiherr would never have dreamed possible. Hermine steps to the young man, places her arm around his shoulder, and says, “Your insults won’t succeed in separating us.” It’s unbelievable—Hermine dares, before his very eyes, the eyes of her father, to put her arm around the young man’s shoulders and declare that he won’t succeed in parting them. They form a kind of united front, embodying their inner bond, and Hermine even ventures to add, “I’m of age, Father; I’m thirty years old and can determine my own fate.” So he’s to lose Hermine too—the only one of his children still with him.

“Very well, very well,” says the Freiherr, momentarily shaken, “so you want to marry into a family of shoemakers, barbers, and wandering jugglers?”

“Feelings and innermost convictions are every person’s free possession.”

But the Freiherr has already regained control. “Your wild, deluded sister is already a public scandal, and you want to follow her example? Have you taken a cue from Reinhold too? This new insolence has gone to all your heads? I only regret I can’t kill you or simply lock you in a convent. I’m going out to Kobenzl now, and you’ll follow me within two days, or I’ll exercise my rights as father and householder and have the police fetch you. You won’t throw yourself away on a worthless man.”

The gray tufts of hair on either side of his imposing forehead flare like burning thorn bushes. Before the stately, broad-shouldered man stands the slim, agile Schuh, a head shorter, crouched as if to spring. At last, all restraint ends—father or not, one can’t endlessly tolerate being spat in the face. Now Schuh’s anger too breaks free, and though the Freiherr looms powerfully and confidently before him, the young man knows that if it came to a physical struggle, he wouldn’t come off worse. He would duck under his opponent and is already choosing the spots to grab him. At the very least, it’s time now to remind him of a certain letter to remind him of—a letter whose suppression was no heroic deed.

But it’s unnecessary; Hermine shows she’s her father’s daughter, matching him in stubbornness and tenacious pursuit of a goal. “You’ll have to realize, Father,” she says calmly, “that I can’t be intimidated by threats. It’s about my happiness, and if you withhold your consent, I’ll take it without it. Wouldn’t we be better off settling this in peace?”

Settle in peace—indeed, she says settle in peace, even though she hears her father is entirely against it. Reichenbach stares at the united pair, utterly baffled.

But in Karl Schuh, something entirely new emerges. He isn’t one for the grand tones of passion; his natural disposition is to blunt all violence and turn every situation into something cheerful. A sense of superiority floods him; he has the delighted certainty that Reichenbach’s power is ineffective, casting everything in a light of inner joy.

“Tell me, dear friend,” he asks gently and conciliatory, “why are you so angry with me? I wouldn’t have come to your house if you hadn’t invited me. I know you despise people, using them as long as they seem useful. You squeeze them like lemons and then discard them. But with me, you’ve encountered a lemon that won’t stand for it.”

The metaphor is bold, but it has the advantage of leaving Reichenbach speechless. A tool that rebels, a nobody who suddenly rises up.

“I think we can go,” says Schuh, since Reichenbach still offers no reply. Schuh evidently believes the matter is settled to this extent—the Freiherr now knows how things stand and that they won’t wait for his consent. He adds only, “And as for the money, for which I’ll always be grateful, please be assured it won’t be lost to you. You’ll have it back within a few days.”

Schuh has no idea where he’ll get it, but he’ll find a way, and this conviction completes his victory. He leaves, and Hermine goes with him, leaving the Freiherr in boundless astonishment at the depths and limitless possibilities of a woman’s heart.

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