OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 12
What’s happening in the city isn’t really clear.
One is fed with rumors. Terrible massacres are said to have taken place. It’s heard that fighting broke out at Am Hof. It’s heard that the people are being held under siege by soldiers at Michaelerplatz and that two cannons stand at the great gate to Franzensplatz, with gunners holding burning fuses beside them. But it’s also heard that the chief fireworker there refused to shoot when Archduke Maximilian d’Este gave the order. It’s even heard that the citizens’ militia has marched out and joined forces with the people.
One hears all this and a hundred other things, and the excitement among the masses locked out of the city grows ever greater. They want to do something; they don’t want to remain idle, whether the people inside are being slaughtered or Metternich is getting his comeuppance.
Above all, it’s the workers from the Gloggnitzer Railway machine factory, it’s the masses of the unemployed who say something must be done.
“The machines are to blame for everything,” the unemployed shout, “the machines take our bread.”
Primeval forces awaken, howling for destruction. Factory gates crash open; they go for the machines—wheels, boilers, pumps, ovens burst under axe blows; drive belts are cut to pieces. “We want soles for our shoes!”
“It’s the consumption tax,” the unemployed cry, “the consumption tax makes our bread more expensive.”
Toward evening, a vast crowd rolls toward the consumption tax office on Mariahilferlinie. They have beams, stones, and clubs. What can the handful of tax guards do against this roaring human wave? The gate splinters under the beam strikes, the windows shatter under stone throws, the clubs smash the office equipment to bits. They overturn cabinets and desks; paper flutters out—paper, paper, consumption tax slips, files, files. The tax guards have long fled, except for one who didn’t escape in time and is now hiding in the cellar.
On the street, a fire blazes, well-fed by files and debris from the furnishings. It grows dark, but the fire shoots higher and higher, and then a second splendid torch joins it—the burning roof truss of the tax office.
Some bakeries and butcher shops have been looted, providing bread and meat for a victory feast. A nearby wine cellar fills the tin mugs, washbasins, and tubs of the tax officials with hearty drinking.
It’s quite cozy; they’re among themselves.
No, they’re not entirely among themselves. A worker woman, who has taken on the role of cook for a group and is searching for wood for the fire, discovers a woman in the shadow of one of the tax office gate’s pillars, standing completely still as if she doesn’t want to be noticed. She’s a woman in a light, layered lace dress with a green silk mantilla and a bonnet adorned with green foliage. A lady, then—and does a lady belong here? The worker woman finds this immediately suspicious; what’s a lady in a green silk mantilla and bonnet doing now at Mariahilferlinie, where the working people are asserting themselves in the name of freedom? She grabs the stranger’s arm with a rough grip, drags her into the fire’s light circle, plants herself in front of her, and plants her hands on her hips: “What’s this fine lady looking for here with us? Does she think this is a theater?”
The woman in the green silk mantilla gives no answer. She has a strange look—motionless eye axes, reflections of the flames in her pupils—but one can’t tell if she sees anything of what’s happening around her. At any rate, she gives no response, and this disregard drives the woman into a rage. She shakes the lady by the shoulder, jostles her back and forth, shouts in her face: “Has the fine lady lost her tongue? Is our kind too low for her to answer? What brings this noble lady here then?”
The men by the fire take notice. A ragamuffin with a multiply stitched coat looks up, sticks his hands in his pockets, hitches up his trousers, and approaches swaying like a wrestler. “Well, well, who do we have here?” He ducks under the brim of the bonnet; a pale face meets him in silence, strange eyes float spacelessly—yes, it’s a fine lady, no doubt! Just the brooch on the front of the mantilla alone is worth a pretty penny, and the cross on the gold chain too. She’s one of those who have no idea what need is, one of the well-fed who are quite content if everything stays the same. It’s really incomprehensible what she wants here, where the working people are about to break the chains of their servitude.
But she gives the man standing before her no answer either. What’s one to make of that? The women surround the stranger; they berate her—yes, that’s how one of them could never dress; they must run around in rags so such ladies can wear lace and silk; they and their children must go hungry so the ladies can stuff themselves. These ladies bathe in milk—yes, it’s been heard before, they bathe in milk to keep their skin fine and white; naturally, then the children have no milk; one can’t buy milk when this lady needs it all for bathing.
“It’s a police spy!” someone shrieks; an old man with a broad-brimmed hat and a coat too long, so he wears the sleeves turned up.
“Most obedient servant, Frau von Metternich!” the man shrieks in a high, old-womanish voice. He tips his hat, dirty yellow hair falls out, and he makes a mocking bow.
It’s nonsense, sheer nonsense, but dangerous nonsense. It sears through their minds, clenching their hands into claws.
Somewhere comes a deafening whoop, a shrill outcry from a single voice against the roar of hundreds; the men around the unknown woman crane their necks. What’s happening? Oh, something hugely amusing is afoot—a great hunt! The people rummaging through the burning tax office have made a catch. They’ve discovered a trembling man in the cellar—the unfortunate tax guard—dragging him out, driving him with prods, beating him over the head with sticks.
“Into the fire with him!” “Throw him into the fire!”
The tax guard writhes, ducks under the blows, screams from his wide-open mouth, “Mercy, mercy!”
“So, mercy! Did you have mercy, you dog? Aren’t you to blame for our hunger?”
For the moment, everything else is forgotten—the bubbling cauldron over the fire, the strange lady—all press forward to see the tax guard roasted.
A hand grabs the woman’s arm; a voice whispers breathlessly: “Come! Come quickly!”
Meanwhile, four men have thrown the tax official to the ground, seize his arms and legs, swing him rhythmically back and forth, and hurl his body into the flames of the collapsing building. Ah yes, that’s justice, that’s finally an equalizing for all—hunger, need, servitude, and the shot ones inside the city—oh, that feels good. Let it happen to all, all oppressors of the people!
When they remember the strange woman again—the Frau von Metternich, haha, the police spy—she’s no longer there. She’s gone, walking beside Reinhold through dark, quiet side alleys.
“Gracious lady!” he says, “what possessed you? What madness to mix with the excited crowd?”
But Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel gives him no answer, just as she gave none to the woman or the big man with the stitched coat. She walks beside Reinhold, quite obediently, but if he dared to look under her hat, he would encounter the same motionless, almost fixed stare in her eyes as the woman or Ferdl Latschacher.
“They’re out of control,” Reinhold continues, “and there are bad characters among them.”
It doesn’t truly occur to Reinhold to receive special thanks and be praised as a knight and savior. But still, he believes he deserves a word of recognition—aren’t they witnesses to the horrific fate the mob prepared for the poor tax official? She should shudderingly realize the danger she herself escaped.
Sometimes small groups of hecklers come toward them, seeming intent on stopping them.
“Long live freedom!” Reinhold calls to them, showing his bandage. The people reply: “Long live freedom!” and let the like-minded pass.
It could be a beautiful and proud feeling to be the guide of this woman, adored from afar, through the uproar and people’s fury—if it weren’t all so strange and inexplicable. Reinhold doesn’t understand at all how the Hofrätin ended up among the crowd, and no matter how much he presses her with questions, he can’t get her to utter even a word of explanation. She should say something, for God’s sake—an excuse, if she doesn’t want to share her secret with him.
“We can’t return to the city,” he begins again, “the gates are locked. We must spend the night out here.” He hesitates and stammers: “Gracious lady, we must spend the night in an inn.”
The Hofrätin offers no reply to this either, and this time Reinhold can interpret her silence as consent. He stands before the inn “Zum blauen Hund,” where he’s often had gatherings with his comrades. It lies silent, dark, and unwelcoming, having shut itself against the street’s tumult. Prolonged knocking finally forces light and a gruff inquiry about their business. Then, after the innkeeper recognizes the friendly voice and assures himself of proper intent and urgent need, the fortress creaks open. They climb the stairs.
“One room? Two rooms?” asks the innkeeper, already somewhat back in the mindset of his trade.
Reinhold wards off, startled: “Two!” It’s a sweet shock after so many gruesome and crushing events of the day and night.
“This is the room for the lady!” says the innkeeper and opens a door.
Reinhold is accommodated on the same hallway, three doors down. He waits a while, but then feels he must check on Frau Reißnagel once more—he couldn’t even say good night.
Is it permissible to enter after knocking five times without a response? Reinhold dares it; he cautiously pushes himself into the room. In the middle stands the Hofrätin, still as she was when Reinhold left her—the mantilla around her shoulders, the hat on her head.
Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
IV.
When Falk stepped onto the street, he became very restless.
He began to walk quickly. Perhaps it would pass with physical exhaustion.
But it was as if something whipped him forward ever faster, until he almost started running.
It only got worse.
He clearly felt a wave of unease coiling deeper and deeper into his body; he felt something spinning faster and faster within him, pressing into every pore, every nerve with growing fury.
What was it?
He stopped abruptly.
Was it coming back? Danger?! He stood still.
It must be some primal animal instinct in him, the ancient warning voice of a foreign soul.
He felt a violent jolt.
Flee, yes—flee, it screamed within him. And suddenly, he saw himself as a fourteen-year-old boy, high up on the fourth floor. Two windows facing the courtyard. Below, the endless hammering of the coopers’ apprentices.
He had to memorize a large assignment, or a harsh punishment awaited him.
And he sat and studied, studied until hot tears rolled down his cheeks like peas.
But his mind was dull. No sooner had he memorized one verse than he forgot another.
And outside, yes, outside beyond the fortress walls, his friends were playing, and Jahns was there, of course, Jahns, whom he loved so much.
And the day drew to a close. He threw himself to his knees, gripped by a nameless fear, pleading to the Holy Spirit for the grace of enlightenment.
But nothing, nothing could he retain.
He grew dizzy with fear. He had to. He had to. And he beat his fists against his head; he repeated each word a hundred times; but it was no use.
He knew no way out. Then, suddenly, all at once: now he knew. He had to flee, far, far away to his mother…
He ran out into the night, ran, panted, fell. Every sound crept paralyzing through his limbs, every flash ignited a sea of light in his eyes, then he picked himself up and ran again, relentlessly, until he collapsed breathless in the forest.
And now he heard it again, that strong, commanding voice: Flee! Flee!
He reflected and smiled.
The beast had awakened. As if a conscious person had no other defense than cowardly flight? Why should he suddenly flee?
Then a longing rose in him, spreading like a cloud of steam over his mind, stifling all his brooding. He felt her hand on his lips. He felt her physical warmth seeping into his blood, the tone of her voice trickling along his nerves…
He shot upright. “No!” he shouted aloud.
That wonderful Mikita! How he must love her… He saw Mikita, trembling, watchful, constantly observing them both.
Was he not certain of her love? Then, suddenly:
Her?! Could she even love Mikita? No, ridiculous! I mean, just whether such a refined being… no, no… just whether this woman could find Mikita’s movements pleasing… Hmm, Mikita was a bit comical today with his hurried speech and fidgety…
No! No! Falk felt ashamed.
Of course, one must love Mikita. Yes, beyond question… she loved him, she had to love him.
Perhaps only his art?
Really? Or did it just seem that way? But didn’t he clearly see a hint of displeasure glide across her face when Mikita spoke of his love’s happiness? And didn’t she try to make up for it when she stroked his hand so unprompted?
With a jolt, he grew angry. Hadn’t he just caught himself feeling that Mikita’s love was unpleasant to him? Didn’t he clearly wish his doubts were true? No, that was despicable, that was ugly…
Ugly? From whom was it ugly? Ha, ha, ha; as if he could do anything about the foolish animal instincts awakening in him.
He stepped into a tree-lined avenue. He was astonished. He had never seen such magnificent trees. He studied them closely. He saw the mighty branches like gnarled spokes encircling the trunk, strangely branched, woven into nets… And he saw the network of branches outlined against the sky, a vast web of veins spanning the heavens, the sacred womb of light and seed-blessing.
How beautiful it was! And the March breeze so mild… He had to forget her. Yes, he had to.
And again, drowning out all his thinking and brooding, came that ancient cry: Flee! Flee! …
No, he didn’t need to flee. From what?
But the unease rose higher and higher within him. He braced himself against the growing torment that made his heart falter.
Who was this woman? What was she to him?
He had never felt anything like this before? No! Never! He examined himself, searched, but no! Never…
Was it love? He felt fear.
How was it that in one hour a woman had entered into a relationship with him, invaded his mind like a foreign body, around which his thoughts, his entire feeling now gathered, into which his blood poured…
No! He shouldn’t, he mustn’t think of her anymore.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife! No! He certainly didn’t want that. She was Mikita’s entire happiness. God, how that man glowed when he spoke of his love…
It was wonderful that Mikita should find this great happiness! How it would enhance his artistic potency, to create for and through this woman.
But again, he felt her slender, hot hand on his lips. She didn’t resist him. He saw her veiled smile and the swelling glow and radiance around her eyes… And with infinite delight, he felt a trembling warmth within him; his eyes burned. It became so hot, so oppressive.
He longed for someone to be near, someone to whom he could be very, very tender.
Janina!
Like a bolt, the thought shot through his mind.
She was so good to him. She loved him so much. It was, God knows, wonderful to be loved like that.
He cared for her too, more than he was willing to admit to himself.
He saw her clearly. Yes, years ago, when *Brand* still haunted his mind. He had kissed her, and she became so happy. He walked away but watched her secretly. He saw her searching fervently, eagerly. Then he saw her take a neighbor’s little girl into her arms and press her tightly.
Her love suddenly seemed so beautiful, so mysteriously beautiful to him. She gave him everything, thought of nothing, had no reservations, she was wholly, wholly his…
Strange that he was so near her now. What had brought him here?
Yes, just one more street…
The night watchman opened the gate for him. He flew up the stairs and knocked softly on her door.
“Erik, you?!”
She trembled violently and stammered with joy.
“Quietly… yes, it’s me… I was longing for you…” He groped his way into her room.
She clung passionately to his neck. How dear her passion was to him now.
“Yes, I was longing for you.”
And he kissed her and caressed her and spoke to her until she was dizzy with happiness.
“This happiness, this happiness…” she stammered incessantly.
He pressed her closer and closer to him, listening inward, and cried out to his conscience: Mikita! Mikita!
Yes, now forget—forget everything for Mikita’s sake… “Yes, Janina, I’m with you; I’ll stay with you…”
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
“Look here,” calls a woman with a small child in her arms, “this one’s wounded too!”
Reinhold looks down at himself in surprise; his right hand is covered in blood, blood drips from his fingertips onto the pavement; now he feels a dull pain in his armpit, a sticky warmth along the entire sleeve.
So, so! he thinks, now I’m wounded. I’m wounded, and now I’ll have to admit I was there. He slows his step; he’s suddenly very tired and wants to sit, but he keeps going. I should see a doctor, he tells himself, but to whom can I turn? To whom could I confide without the father finding out?
And then he suddenly stops before the wide gate of a long building; people go in and out; the caretaker stands amid a group of excited people, and Reinhold overhears him negotiating with them about stretchers and doctors. Yes, I’m at the right door, thinks Reinhold; here at the General Hospital, I can find Doctor Semmelweis—he’s an obstetrician, but surely he can also dress a wound. He stuffs his handkerchief into his sleeve to avoid leaving blood traces; no one pays attention to him, no one stops him. The way is familiar; often enough, his father sent him with messages to Semmelweis, and Reinhold has found in the doctor a deeply soulful, admirable humanity, a man passionately devoted to his task. The wish to open up to this man has come close, and only the “Pöbel, do you want to make common cause? Do you want to let bad people incite you?”
“Get rid of the military!”
A club swings; the blow knocks the old man’s feathered hat down, strikes his temple; beneath the white hair, dark blood wells up, dripping onto the white uniform coat.
Reinhold throws himself back into the crowd, works his way through, reaches the mouth of a side alley. He just sees a battalion of pioneers marching in from Freyung into Herrengasse, rank upon rank, filling the entire street width with leveled bayonets. It stamps the crowd into the street’s narrowness, crushing bodies to pulp; pain and rage howl. Reinhold stands as stones and wooden debris rise, and then a salvo roars.
Reinhold runs; behind him, a scattering crowd; behind the crowd, pioneers with leveled bayonets. Now and then, one of the soldiers stops and fires.
Reinhold runs; a blow hits his shoulder. He turns while running, but no one is close enough to have struck him. A few screaming women, groups of men, then the soldiers behind.
Reinhold runs, makes a sharp turn, reaches Schottentor. There’s no intent behind it; he has no definite plan; he just wants to escape the cauldron there and the father’s fixed stare. Through Schottentor, from the suburbs, more crowds of workers still approach. Fleeing people come toward them: “They’re shooting at us!” — “We’re being murdered!” — “Blood has been shed!”
“Look here,” calls a woman with a small child in her arms, “this one’s wounded too!”
Reinhold looks down at himself in surprise; his right hand is covered in blood, blood drips from his fingertips onto the pavement; now he feels a dull pain in his armpit, a sticky warmth along the entire sleeve.
So, so! he thinks, now I’m wounded. I’m wounded, and now I’ll have to admit I was there. He slows his step; he’s suddenly very tired and wants to sit, but he keeps going. I should see a doctor, he tells himself, but to whom can I turn? To whom could I confide without the father finding out?
And then he suddenly stops before the wide gate of a long building; people go in and out; the caretaker stands amid a group of excited people, and Reinhold overhears him negotiating with them about stretchers and doctors. Yes, I’m at the right door, thinks Reinhold; here at the General Hospital, I can find Doctor Semmelweis—he’s an obstetrician, but surely he can also dress a wound. He stuffs his handkerchief into his sleeve to avoid leaving blood traces; no one pays attention to him, no one stops him. The way is familiar; often enough, his father sent him with messages to Semmelweis, and Reinhold has found in the doctor a deeply soulful, admirable humanity, a man passionately devoted to his task. The wish to open up to this man has come close, and only the The fear of revealing his timid self has so far made it impossible for him.
Now he heads straight down the familiar path to the maternity ward, turns from the shared anteroom of the two departments into the first, along the long corridor where many doors open. From one of them comes a groaning and moaning, and two nurses stand there with outstretched necks and intently listening expressions. But they seem to be listening not to the moaning from the sickroom but to a noise at the end of the corridor.
Reinhold hides his bloody hand behind his back. “Can I speak to Assistant Semmelweis?”
One of the nurses points to the end of the corridor where the noise comes from. “He’s in his room, but—”
The noise indeed comes from Semmelweis’s room; it’s Semmelweis’s voice roaring: “You despicable, vile person, have you no conscience at all?”
A murmur responds, and Semmelweis interjects: “Don’t talk so stupidly. You know the linen must be changed; I’ve said it a hundred thousand times. Now the woman has a fever and won’t pull through. It’s outrageous.”
One of the two nurses approaches Reinhold cautiously as he hesitates at the door: “Go in, I beg you; otherwise, he might kill her.”
Reinhold knocks; he knocks again, but how can he be heard over this thunderstorm? So he opens the door and steps in. But if the nurse outside hoped that the presence of a stranger would end the distress of her colleague, she was mistaken.
Semmelweis doesn’t even see Reinhold; he stands before the nurse, tall and broad, with a contorted face, his fleshy hands balled into fists and raised as if to strike the woman: “What you’ve done is a crime, a murder—worse than any other murder, for you kill people not out of passion, love, or hatred, or greed, but out of sloppiness, laziness, and consciencelessness. You hear from me: cleanliness, cleanliness, cleanliness! And you give the poor woman dirty bed linen, with blood and filth and all sorts of things, so she must get infected with the mess.”
The nurse is a stout woman with a broad face where prominent cheekbones, swollen lips, and small, glittering pig-like eyes combine into an uninviting overall impression. One can imagine she handles her patients roughly and doesn’t fuss over them. She darts a sidelong glance at Reinhold and, drawing courage from the presence of a witness, tries to assert herself.
“Don’t you dare do anything to me, Herr Doctor,” says the nurse boldly, “everyone agrees that with your tricks, you annoy people. The other doctors say that too.”
Semmelweis turns pale; his fists sink. Yes, there grins at him again the unveiled envy and malice of his colleagues, the incomprehension and obstinacy of the staff against him; they form a closed battle line, undermining his reputation with jokes; the doctors’ smiles turn his orders into a mockery among the nurses. Yes, in this they are united, all united, that one must defend against these exaggerations. He rolls, like Sisyphus, an enormous boulder called the inertia of thought; he battles a superior enemy called convenience. And from inertia and convenience, young mothers die.
Semmelweis lets his hands drop. He says: “You can go. If you won’t follow my orders, you can go. You are dismissed. Immediately.”
Frau Rosine Knall laughs scornfully. Her insolence puffs up: “I’ll go! I’m glad to get out of this madhouse. If this keeps up, everyone will go crazy, and you first of all.” She turns away—oh no, this man shouldn’t think he’s subdued her; she must leave, fine, but she knows everyone is on her side, a satisfaction that turns her exit into a victory.
Semmelweis doesn’t look like he’s won a victory; on the contrary, as if he’s suffered a defeat. Only now does he notice Reinhold—the blood-soaked handkerchief around his wrist, the blood-crusted fingers. “What do you want here?” he asks irritably.
“There’s an uprising in the city. The soldiers shot at us.”
“So!” Semmelweis knows nothing of the uprising. It’s possible someone mentioned it, but Semmelweis has forgotten—what do revolutions and shootings matter to him? He had to perform an operation; his task is to prevent death. And he says gruffly, something seemingly unrelated: “Do you think because of your shootings, women will stop giving birth when their time comes?”
Then he adds: “You’re wounded?”
“Yes!”
“And I’m supposed to bandage you? Come here!”
It’s only a graze, leaving a flesh wound. After a quarter of an hour, Reinhold is washed and bandaged and can go. He had actually wanted to ask Semmelweis to keep quiet to his father; whatever troubles him, he’ll try to arrange it so it stays hidden at home. That’s what Reinhold wanted to say, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. How could he confess to this man—yes, I was there, but I don’t want my father to know? He feels small and pitiful.
As he’s about to leave through the gateway, some stretchers are brought in. On one, Reinhold sees the bloodied face of a very young student; on another, that of an ancient little man, shriveled and wrinkled, nestled in a gray beard.
Someone says: “That’s the old Esterházy Prince, who brings Easter to the houses. He had nothing to do with it.”
Something in Reinhold cries out. There are the victims—God knows how many still lie on the street. And I ran away; my courage didn’t suffice; I’m like a coward who ran away. I am bent, crumpled; I can’t straighten up. What did that man at the country house say? ‘Whoever lacks courage on this day belongs in the nursery!’ I belong in the nursery; I’ve been cheated of everything that drives and inspires the others; I’ve never been young.
And a foaming, raging hatred rises in him against those clear, cold eyes that have made his youth geriatric.
At Schottentor stands a raging crowd of men. They demand entry, but the gate has just been closed. No influx from the suburbs is allowed; those outside are to stay outside. Good, thinks Reinhold, I can’t go home; let the father find out I was there. One must go straight ahead, straight like Semmelweis, without looking left or right.
Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
Falk faltered, then spoke with growing fervor.
“Look, what we need is a mind for which nothing is obvious, a mind that has awe and fear and reverence for the most obvious things; that’s the mind in which the nexus has been freed—yes, the sacred nexus of all senses, where a line becomes a sound, a great experience becomes a gesture, and a thousand people merge into one another, where there’s an unbroken scale from sound to word to color without the boundaries that exist now…”
Falk caught himself again and smiled quietly…
“No, no! Spare me your ridiculous logic of consciousness and your atavistic mate-selection trifles…”
Isa couldn’t stop looking at him. His thick hair had fallen over his forehead, and his eyes were wide and deep… She never would have guessed he could be so beautiful—so demonically beautiful…
“Mr. Falk seems to have studied with the Theosophists.”
The Anarchist spoke slowly and meaningfully, with a sudden glance upward.
Falk smiled.
“No, dear sir, not at all. But look: you are a great poet, and certainly, as far as the German tongue reaches, an unprecedentedly significant one…”
Someone suddenly laughed out loud, surely with malicious intent.
The Anarchist glared at him furiously, his face reddening, and shouted at Falk:
“I forbid any mockery!” Falk grew deeply serious.
“Look, that was very dignifiedly said. But unfortunately misplaced. It was my politest earnestness. I didn’t mean that I see you as such, but surely others do.”
The Anarchist seethed; he saw Isa’s eyes looking at him with unmistakable mockery.
“My dear sir, you go too far!”
“No, not at all. You assume I have insulting intentions, which I don’t. Besides, you’ve created something for me too, an image of such… I’d call it antithetical grandeur… Yes, I mean the red hussars of humanity.”
The same man laughed again, this time so clearly that it embarrassed Falk.
“But let’s get to the point. When you write poetry, isn’t it a strange, mystical, and, if you will, theosophical moment—since everything strange seems to be theosophy to you? You’ve surely heard of fakirs who artificially put themselves into a somnambulistic ecstasy, in which they can lie buried alive for months. I myself saw a fakir in Marseille who, in that ecstatic state, inflicted wounds on himself without a trace of bleeding. Now look, when you write poetry, it’s the same state of somnambulistic ecstasy, though it can’t be artificially induced. In a single moment, your entire life converges on one point. You see nothing, you hear nothing, you work unconsciously, you don’t need to think—it comes in your sleep… And now tell me, isn’t that mystical? Can you explain it with logic? Can you make it clear to someone why you are the significant poet and he isn’t?…”
Everyone fell silent, taken aback. Falk had gone too far. The Anarchist stood up and left.
Iltis hadn’t understood any of it. No, no, his mind was too big for these metaphysical games. But he understood that Falk had put the other down, and he toasted him amiably…
“Give me your hand.”
The young man who earlier deigned to throw glasses on the floor stood up, theatrically stiff, and extended his hand broadly.
Falk shook it with a smile.
Isa was silent. She felt so happy. She hadn’t felt this happiness in a long, long time.
Falk was a marvelous person. Yes, he was her greatest experience. She suddenly grew restless.
“You’re so quiet?” Mikita approached her. “I’m happy.” She gently squeezed his hand. “Aren’t you tired?”
“No, not at all!”
“But we should go, shouldn’t we?”
Something held her back with all its force. She wanted to stay at all costs. But she read a silent plea in his eyes.
“Yes, we should go.” It sounded strange, almost cold. She stood up.
“You’re really leaving? Stay a bit longer.” Falk would have held her back by force.
But Mikita couldn’t possibly stay longer; he had to escort Isa home.
As they were about to leave, Iltis jumped up. “So, Mikita, don’t forget…”
“Yes, right!” Mikita had completely forgotten that he and Isa were invited to an evening party at Iltis’s.
“Yes, I’ll definitely come. Whether Isa wants to come, I don’t know…”
Isa heartily wanted to come.
“And you, Falk? You’re coming, of course?” Iltis patted Falk amiably on the shoulders.
“Certainly.”
Isa suddenly turned to Falk and extended her hand again.
“You’ll come to me soon, won’t you?”
It seemed to Falk that the veil around her eyes tore apart; a blaze welled up and curled hotly around her lids.
“Your room is my home.”
Mikita grew restless; he shook Falk’s hand especially firmly, and they left.
“They’re in a hurry!” Iltis winked lasciviously.
Falk suddenly became very irritated. He struggled to hold back a word that surely wouldn’t have flattered Iltis.
But he sat back down and looked around.
Everything became so bleak around him, and he felt so lonely…
He was also very dissatisfied with himself. He felt a bit ridiculous and boyish. He had really tried so hard to impress Isa. No doubt… And everything he’d said seemed so stupid to him… So many grand, pompous words… He surely could have said it all much more finely… But he was trembling when he spoke.
He grew genuinely angry.
That stupid Infant, how disgustingly he slurped at his glass… Repulsive! Suddenly, everything in the famous “Nightingale” became repulsive to him—everything.
No! Why should he sit there any longer? He needed fresh air. He felt an urge to walk and walk, endlessly, along every street… To clarify something. There was something inside him that needed to be resolved, something… yes, something new, strange…
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
It doesn’t look very good, thinks Reinhold, that these two suspicious fellows have pockets full of stones—what does the cause of freedom have to do with such questionable characters and stones in their pockets? Yet they walk alongside the procession as if they belong, and Reinhold looks around somewhat embarrassed, wondering if anyone among the onlookers on the street is someone who knows him and wonders how the students came to have such followers. But Futterknecht pulls him along, and they stride quickly to arrive in time.
They arrive in time; those from the university haven’t yet set off; there’s still a dense throng crammed into the small square in front of the lecture hall entrance. Everyone wants the same thing, but there’s a lack of an organizing and guiding spirit, the final spark of a word. Even a professor is still speaking, urging patience, awaiting the further noble resolutions of the monarch.
“We’ve waited enough now,” shouts Futterknecht, “up to the country house!”
Now Reinhold no longer marches at the front; he has managed to slip away from Futterknecht and blend into the crowd. No, he doesn’t have to march at the front; it’s not necessary, and it’s even embarrassing to have all eyes fixed on him as if he were a leader, when he knows he’s just going along. Yes, to be a leader, he might have had to do things quite differently at home—not always standing stiffly, not letting all growth be crushed under the yoke of blind obedience. And as long as it was just words, it was a good and beautiful cause; the words were pure and grand, spreading shining wings. But now the words have descended into reality; it seems they’re on the march toward action, and they have pockets full of stones and suddenly look entirely different.
The people in the windows call and wave, and many stand along the houses, calling and waving; at the corner of Herrengasse, Reinhold suddenly spots Verwalter Ruf, his father’s steward. He stands with some suspicious characters, gesturing wildly with his hands, his face bright red from wine and shouting, and the others gesture and shout too, and perhaps they’re all a bit drunk together. But Reinhold doesn’t take the time to look closer; a sudden fright strikes his heart; he ducks his head, makes himself small, and dives under. There stands Verwalter Ruf, and it could be that he might someday tell his father: “Yes, and our young master was among them too.”
Soon after, Reinhold is caught in a whirl and, with many others, is swallowed by the gate of the country house. So many people are crammed into the narrow courtyard that they can hardly move.
Above, the estates deliberate; below, the students rage. They hoist a speaker onto their shoulders, and he throws words like torches into the crowd. He says: “We must stand at the height of this day!” And he says: “Whoever lacks courage on this day belongs in the nursery!”
Next to Reinhold, a student asks: “Who is that? I don’t know him.”
The speaker himself answers, accompanied by a grand gesture: “The Damocles sword of the police hovers over my head, but I say like Hütten: I have dared! I am Doctor Fischhof!”
A note flutters out of one of the windows into the courtyard. The The estates have passed a resolution; a hundred hands reach for the note; someone climbs onto the fountain roof and waves the paper over the surging heads—a broad-shouldered, bearded Futterknecht.
“Read! Read it aloud!”
Futterknecht reads: “The estates have resolved to request His Majesty to deign to order that a statement on the bank and state budget be presented…”
“Ridiculous! Are they trying to make fools of us?”
And Futterknecht continues reading: “The estates have resolved to request His Majesty to deign to order that a provincial committee of all provinces be convened to discuss timely reforms…”
“That’s typical of the estates!” — “They want to stall us to betray us!” — “Away with this nonsense!”
Futterknecht folds the paper, tears it in half, then again, letting the scraps flutter away: “I solemnly declare, in the presence of those here and in the name of the Austrian people, that we have no use for such a scrap. We want freedom, not committees and statements.”
A bang cuts through the roar. “They’re shooting at us!”
“No, no, it’s just a door slamming shut!”
“Up! Up! We want to speak to the estates ourselves!”
In a frightful crush, the crowd presses into the house, up the stairs—yes, they want to speak to the estates themselves; the days of groveling are over; they must be told plainly what it’s about.
Reinhold is pushed along, but at that moment, he stands by a window where a man is present. The man stands about a step from the window, his back to the courtyard, apparently speaking to someone in the hallway, invisible from here. And the man—head, shoulders, posture—it can only be his father. At that same moment, all sense deserts Reinhold. He doesn’t ask how his father got here, what his father is doing in the country house. He thinks: The father is everywhere, even where one least expects him, and he thinks, if the father sees me here, if the father sees me here!
Reinhold braces against the push of the crowd; he struggles desperately—no, not that, not to be driven before those clear, cold eyes. He elbows his way around, ducks, charges headfirst into the crowd, ignoring angry and mocking shouts.
It works; he reaches the gate, but only to get stuck in another equally dire crush. Across, the bayonets of soldiers glint in the midday sun, blocking access to the Hofburg. An old man in a general’s uniform towers in the saddle of his horse above the human throng. He might want to calm things, perhaps means well, but he misjudges his tone. He barks at the people as a corporal might snap at recruits on the barracks square. “Do you want to The estates have passed a resolution; a hundred hands reach for the note; someone climbs onto the fountain roof and waves the paper over the surging heads—a broad-shouldered, bearded Futterknecht.
“Read! Read it aloud!”
Futterknecht reads: “The estates have resolved to request His Majesty to deign to order that a statement on the bank and state budget be presented…”
“Ridiculous! Are they trying to make fools of us?”
And Futterknecht continues reading: “The estates have resolved to request His Majesty to deign to order that a provincial committee of all provinces be convened to discuss timely reforms…”
“That’s typical of the estates!” — “They want to stall us to betray us!” — “Away with this nonsense!”
Futterknecht folds the paper, tears it in half, then again, letting the scraps flutter away: “I solemnly declare, in the presence of those here and in the name of the Austrian people, that we have no use for such a scrap. We want freedom, not committees and statements.”
A bang cuts through the roar. “They’re shooting at us!”
“No, no, it’s just a door slamming shut!”
“Up! Up! We want to speak to the estates ourselves!”
In a frightful crush, the crowd presses into the house, up the stairs—yes, they want to speak to the estates themselves; the days of groveling are over; they must be told plainly what it’s about.
Reinhold is pushed along, but at that moment, he stands by a window where a man is present. The man stands about a step from the window, his back to the courtyard, apparently speaking to someone in the hallway, invisible from here. And the man—head, shoulders, posture—it can only be his father. At that same moment, all sense deserts Reinhold. He doesn’t ask how his father got here, what his father is doing in the country house. He thinks: The father is everywhere, even where one least expects him, and he thinks, if the father sees me here, if the father sees me here!
Reinhold braces against the push of the crowd; he struggles desperately—no, not that, not to be driven before those clear, cold eyes. He elbows his way around, ducks, charges headfirst into the crowd, ignoring angry and mocking shouts.
It works; he reaches the gate, but only to get stuck in another equally dire crush. Across, the bayonets of soldiers glint in the midday sun, blocking access to the Hofburg. An old man in a general’s uniform towers in the saddle of his horse above the human throng. He might want to calm things, perhaps means well, but he misjudges his tone. He barks at the people as a corporal might snap at recruits on the barracks square. “Do you want to “Pöbel, do you want to make common cause? Do you want to let bad people incite you?”
“Get rid of the military!”
A club swings; the blow knocks the old man’s feathered hat down, strikes his temple; beneath the white hair, dark blood wells up, dripping onto the white uniform coat.
Reinhold throws himself back into the crowd, works his way through, reaches the mouth of a side alley. He just sees a battalion of pioneers marching in from Freyung into Herrengasse, rank upon rank, filling the entire street width with leveled bayonets. It stamps the crowd into the street’s narrowness, crushing bodies to pulp; pain and rage howl. Reinhold stands as stones and wooden debris rise, and then a salvo roars.
Reinhold runs; behind him, a scattering crowd; behind the crowd, pioneers with leveled bayonets. Now and then, one of the soldiers stops and fires.
Reinhold runs; a blow hits his shoulder. He turns while running, but no one is close enough to have struck him. A few screaming women, groups of men, then the soldiers behind.
Reinhold runs, makes a sharp turn, reaches Schottentor. There’s no intent behind it; he has no definite plan; he just wants to escape the cauldron there and the father’s fixed stare. Through Schottentor, from the suburbs, more crowds of workers still approach. Fleeing people come toward them: “They’re shooting at us!” — “We’re being murdered!” — “Blood has been shed!”
Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
III.
At the “Green Nightingale,” Isa’s appearance caused quite a stir.
Falk caught sight of old Iltis, squinting his eyes, his face twisting into an unpleasant grin.
Naturally, his extravagant sexual imagination began to work. In that, he was unmatched.
Iltis immediately rushed over to Mikita. God, they’d always been such good friends.
Falk greeted him with a casual nod and sat with Isa a little apart.
He saw again around her eyes that hot, veiled glow.
It felt as if he might collapse. How hard it was to keep himself in check! But he controlled himself.
Curiously, he had to clear his throat first; he felt so strangely hoarse.
“I’ll introduce you to the company a bit.” He coughed briefly again.
“Look, that gentleman there, the fat one with the thin legs, which you unfortunately can’t see—and they’re truly worth seeing—yes, that one, staring at you with that eerie, brooding gaze, as if he senses in you some uncanny social riddle—he’s an anarchist. He also writes verses, marvelous verses: ‘We are the infantry…’ no—correct: ‘the red hussars of humanity.’ Red hussars! Splendid Prussian imagination! That man’s got drill in his bones…”
Falk laughed hoarsely.
“Yes, he’s an anarchist and an individualist. Yes, they all are, all of them, sitting there so fat and broad, individualists with that peculiar, thick, German beer-egoism.”
Something clinked on the floor. Everyone looked.
Falk laughed.
“Look, that’s an interesting young man. He’s a neo-Catholic and believes in a will-center in the world, of which we are only emanations of will. In him, energy collects in his fingertips; he has to release it to prevent further energy buildup. He manages by throwing glasses.”
The young, blond, curly-haired man looked around triumphantly. His action hadn’t caused much of a stir, so he called for a new glass.
Iltis calmed him. “Come now, child…”
“And that one—yes, the one on the left… doesn’t he have a face like a rotten apple?”
Mikita approached.
“We need to join their table, or they’ll think we’re keeping to ourselves.”
Now everyone was introduced to Isa.
Falk sat next to Isa. To his right sat a man his friends called the Infant.
The Infant was effusively friendly.
Suddenly, Falk found him repulsive. He knew the man hated him.
“Have you read the poetry book?” The Infant named a poet just rising to fame, very en vogue.
“Yes, flipped through it.”
Falk sensed instinctively that Isa was listening. He felt a violent inner tremor.
“Don’t you find it delightful?”
“Not at all. No, I find the book utterly stupid.” Falk tried to quell the foolish trembling.
“Utterly, utterly stupid. Why write these empty little poems? To sing of spring? It’s had more than enough of that endless crooning. One’s ashamed even to say the word ‘spring’…”
Mikita looked at Falk in surprise. He wasn’t used to hearing Falk speak like this in these circles.
“This whole mood-painting is so flat, so meaningless… These moods—every peasant boy, every peasant girl has them when the sluggish metabolism of winter gives way to a faster combustion process… If they were moods that revealed even a speck of the terrible, the enigmatic, that which overflows in a person; if they were moods that, however trivial otherwise, gave something of the naked life of the soul, yes—something of the unknown soul… But all these things, which a higher type of person no longer experiences because—because feeling rebels against moving in this springtime crooning…”
Falk stammered and grew confused. It felt as if he were standing at a podium, a thousand listeners around him. Then he always became foolish and spoke only banal things. The Infant tried to interrupt. But Falk had to finish.
“Look, all these feelings may have value for youths and schoolgirls, because they’re, so to speak, the substrate of mate-selection instincts…”
“But dear Falk—” the Infant seized a momentary pause as Falk tried to gather his thoughts—“you completely misunderstand the nature of art.
Art comes from ability…”
He pronounced the sentence with weight.
“Ability alone determines the value of a work of art. The poems are rhythmically perfect, they have flow and song…”
“To your health!” Iltis toasted Falk amiably. Something wasn’t right with Falk. He’d never seen him so fervent and shaky.
Falk recovered slightly.
“No, dear sir. It’s not form, not rhythm that defines art. That had meaning once, when humans first had to create artistic forms, yes—had to, from an inner drive conditioned by a thousand causes. Back then, rhythm itself had meaning, for it expressed the rhythmic interplay of muscles… in the time when rhythm was born, it was a revelation, a great deed… Today, it has only an atavistic meaning—today, it’s an empty, dead formula.
You know, these poems needed nothing more than an inherited sense of form… I don’t deny the importance of rhythm for the overall artistic effect, but there has to be something in a poem…”
Iltis toasted Falk again. It was starting to bore him.
“No, no! Not the worn-out content of spring and love and woman… No, I don’t want these ridiculous lullaby singers…”
Falk spoke passionately and urgently.
Isa didn’t listen to what he said. She only saw the man with the refined, narrow face and the burning passion in his deep eyes.
“What do I want? What do I want? I want life, life with its terrible depths, its chilling abysses… Art, for me, is the deepest instinct of life, the sacred path to the future of life, to the eternity of life, and that’s why I want great, generative thoughts that prepare a new selection, give birth to a new world, a new worldview…
Art shouldn’t consist of rhythm, flow, or song for me; it should become the will that calls new worlds, new people out of nothing…
No, no, dear sir, we need a great, idea-generating art, or it has no meaning at all…”
Falk suddenly came to his senses. Good Lord, what was he saying? Was he shouting a manifesto to the world? He caught himself checking the impression his words made on Isa.
That was too boyish!
“This kind of art you praise may have meaning for animals… You know, birds, for example, attract mates with the rhythm, the flow of their trills and such—our poets can’t do that, no, certainly not. Even schoolgirls aren’t impressed by it anymore.”
Iltis smiled slyly and winked.
Falk toasted him. He was dissatisfied with himself, but he felt her eyes, and he looked at her, so deeply, so… into the heart… That was surely a lyrical thought, but again, heat rose to his brain.
The Infant grew nervous.
“I’m truly curious what you consider art.”
“Have you seen Rops? Yes? Look, that’s art. Can you say more about life than that?”
“Of course.”
“Yes—superficially, of course… Of course for those to whom everything is obvious. Yes, obvious for Strauss and Vogt and Büchner, and… and… But the terrible, the gruesome, the great struggle of the sexes and the eternal hatred of the sexes… is that obvious? Isn’t that an uncanny mystery? Isn’t that perhaps what eternally creates, gives life, and destroys life? Isn’t that what shapes our motives, no matter how harmless they seem to the conscious mind…”
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 11
Before the door on the third floor of the old house on Kohlmarkt, Ottane had to pause for a moment to catch her breath, so quickly had she run up the stairs. She always felt anxious when she came here, and today she had proof that her concern about being caught was not unfounded.
Was someone following her? She leaned over the stair railing and looked into the dark depth. On the first floor, two women stood in the hallway, talking loudly and excitedly. But no one followed her, and Ottane was just digging the key out of her little bag when the door opened, and a hand grabbed her arm, pulling her inside.
Kisses overwhelmed her—wild, famished kisses in the dark—as if she hadn’t been here three days ago but three years. The terror of the past minutes threw her into the passionate embrace like a refuge.
Inside the meticulously kept little room, Max Heiland helped her out of her coat and took off her hat.
“Imagine,” said Ottane, still distraught, “I ran into Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel. The Hofrat lives two houses over, and I’ve always thought I’d meet him or her someday, and they’d ask what I’m doing here.”
“Did she see you?” asked Max Heiland, concerned.
“I don’t think so. I suddenly stood before her; I couldn’t dodge anymore, but I think she didn’t notice me. She passed by stiffly and stared straight ahead.”
“Then it’s all right,” said the painter, quickly reassured. “You must have an excuse ready for all cases. Something to get rid of people, because if you ever kept me waiting in vain, I might lose my mind.”
“And there were so many people on the street. I think a lot of them were workers; they had angry, grim faces and carried sticks; they moved in groups, shouting and singing. It was hard to get through.”
“Yes, I believe they want something from the government. I passed by Stephanskirche; they posted a placard there last night, calling on the Viennese to free the good Emperor Ferdinand from the bonds of his enemies, and it says that whoever wants Austria’s rise must wish for the downfall of its state leaders. They mean Metternich. And it’s said the students want to move to the country house in Herrengasse and demand that their wishes be brought before the Emperor.” He laughed cheerfully and placed his hands on Ottane’s hips: “But what do we care about the Hofräte, the workers, the students, Metternich, and the addresses and placards? You’re with me, and now the world outside can go to ruin. How long can you stay?”
“Not long,” pleaded Ottane, “maybe an hour. I must be home soon; the father is in an increasingly bad mood.”
“Oh, what’s an hour after three days of longing?”
A small table stood there with a bowl of pastries and a bottle of Hungarian wine and two glasses. Max Heiland moved it close to the sofa, poured himself some in a picturesque manner, and pulled Ottane down beside him. He bent her body back, seized her mouth, and kissed her so long that she felt she was suffocating, and her vision darkened. She forgot everything; everything had sunk and vanished; she was only a part of the life force coursing through the universe, blissfully stolen from herself and swept into another.
Max Heiland had found this hideaway for their love hours since his atelier wasn’t safe enough. Strange women came there, and Therese made surprise, mistrustful visits. She had asked: “Are you meeting with Ottane? Where are you meeting with Ottane? I know you’re deceiving me, but watch out—I’m not one of those women who let themselves be cheated.” Max Heiland also had to be cautious; no one suspected this nest. The kind, deaf old woman who had rented him two rooms in her apartment made herself invisible; she didn’t want to risk losing the good pay.
“Take!” he said after releasing Ottane. He broke a piece of dry pastry in two and pushed half into Ottane’s mouth; he was an exuberant, reckless, boundless-in-love big boy. “Your father is still in a bad mood? Have you told Hermine anything yet?”
“I don’t know if it might not be better not to tell her. She keeps asking why Schuh doesn’t come. What should I say? I tell her he’ll come back eventually. Maybe Schuh was wrong, and Hermine cares for him more than he thinks. But she has a way of not showing it.”
“Thank God you can show it,” laughed the painter and kissed her.
“She’s closed off and completely unapproachable. But I think she’s tormented, suffering, unable to explain it. And Schuh doesn’t come. The father wrote him a letter. He wrote that Schuh isn’t suited for marriage, that he lacks the flexibility and suppleness needed for it, and that Hermine has a similar character—stubborn and unyielding—and that she has therefore turned down other proposals. He should not disturb Hermine’s peace and should be content with her respect and friendship. And he wrote that this is by no means a reason to avoid our house, and he should come and must come. But Schuh doesn’t come.”
Ottane raises her head; it feels to her as if a distant noise is pressing in—murmuring of many people, a clamor that a marching crowd pushes ahead of itself.
“If I imagine,” says Max Heiland, “that I should always be with you and not reveal with a single word that I love you… I couldn’t do that; I’m convinced it would be impossible for me. How can your father impose such a thing on Schuh? I find Schuh is right not to come. I, of course, might have done it differently.”
“Yes, you…” says Ottane, looking at the painter quite strangely. Then she adds: “Father is conducting experiments with the Hofrätin, and he probably needs Schuh to discuss the matter with him.”
“Egoist!” Heiland declares with great certainty.
Ottane wants to reply, perhaps that all people are more or less selfish, but her attention is drawn to the noise on the street. What is that? Step and tread, step and tread on the street—a vast crowd must be passing below.
Max Heiland and Ottane stand behind thick curtains, shielded from the view of people across who lean out of windows, looking at the street, waving handkerchiefs, and calling down. Below, a dense throng of young people, row upon row, linked arm in arm, marches—feather hats, caps, waves, and shouts back and forth between the street and the windows.
“They are the students,” explains Heiland, “heading to the country house in Herrengasse.”
Ottane lets out a cry: “Reinhold is among them!”
“Why shouldn’t he be there? The youth is making its voice heard; it wants to be listened to.”
“But the father? And if there’s a tumult, a rebellion? And how will I get home if the streets are so full? I must leave.”
Max Heiland has a cure-all for doubts and anxiety attacks. He takes Ottane wordlessly into his arms and kisses her. And Ottane instantly loses her senses. She knows nothing more of herself, floats between being and non-being in a rapture where all form dissolves into luminous ether.
Reinhold, on this March morning that anticipates a piece of May, went to the Polytechnic as usual. But there were no lectures today; the students stood in the hallways and around the building. It’s said those from the university mean to get serious today and force a decision. Yesterday, the lecture hall was locked, but the university students forced it open, drafted an address, signed it, and two professors had to deliver it to the Emperor. And it’s said that Count Kolowrat, who is usually very accommodating and seeks to balance opposites, even Count Kolowrat has said: “That’s just what’s missing—that the students should make splinters for us!”
But the Emperor gave an evasive and delaying response, and now those from the university want to make it happen. In the suburbs, there have been already been said yesterday: “It’s starting!” And the workers didn’t go to work today, and some masters even released their journeymen themselves so they could be part of it. In Reinhold, enthusiasm surges—yes, now freedom will finally come; he feels the breath of great events, what happiness to be able to throw himself into it. Bent, twisted, crushed all these years, but now he straightens up; somehow, the surge also crashes against the rigid bonds of his own life. All tyranny shall be shattered; it’s also against the tyranny of fathers—Reinhold has a very comprehensive concept of the freedom that is now coming.
A young student hurries up: “They’re already heading to the country house.”
“Comrades!” shouts a broad-shouldered, bearded man next to Reinhold, “are you servant souls? Do you want to remain slaves forever? Always just put off? Forward, we march with them!”
And the broad-shouldered, bearded man grabs Reinhold under the arm and pulls him along. This broad-shouldered, bearded figure was once a small, pitiful tutor and house steward, a poor wretch and hanger-on named Futterknecht; long ago, he also taught Reinhold and, through detours via other households and families, found his way back to being a student. With every house, every table, every bite of educator’s bread, every reprimand, and even every praise, a drop of hatred was added to his soul. The years since have thoroughly cleared away his humility and obsession; they have let him grow into a broad and bearded man, and freedom has stamped a daring hat with a feather on his head. Through his age, his enmity toward tyrants, and his relentlessness, he has gained respect and weight among his comrades; they follow him, and now he marches at the head of the procession with Reinhold under his arm. Reinhold is very proud to be so far forward, the confidant of the leader. Yes, now freedom comes; they are leading freedom.
The people join in, workers walking alongside, encouraging with shouts, shaking their fists. Reinhold stands next to a ragamuffin with a coat like a map of Germany, stitched a hundred times over, and a dirty cap. His pockets bulge wide, stuffed with something heavy. Beside him hobbles an old, greasy, stocky man, striving to keep pace; he wears a broad-brimmed hat and a coat much too large, with sleeves turned up, and something heavy must be in the long tails’ pockets, for they slap against his thin calves with each step. And now the ragged giant laughs, reaches into his pockets, and pulls out a fist-sized stone, showing it to the other; the greasy old man reaches into his coat tails and also pulls out a fist-sized stone, showing it to the ragged giant.
Now that she was calmer and accepted the situation, things went smoothly. He helped her go through her equipment and made sure she was wearing her med-alert bracelet. He explained about Sanctuary—the processing building where the Sanctuary Program, overseen by Heliopolis, processed newbies—mentioning only that the place was designed to push people out fast.
Tobal showed her the compass and map, pointing out which items were more important than others. He advised her to grab a couple extra blankets off the beds and showed how to pack everything tightly into a pack she could carry, the fabric rustling as she stuffed it in. Curious, she sipped the water from her canteen, grimacing at its metallic tang, then nibbled the food bar, spitting it out with a cough. “Ugh, that’s awful!” she exclaimed. Tobal chuckled. “Told you—it’s safe but nasty. Encourages us to move quick.”
He decided to wait out the rain. There was no sense traveling in such bad weather, and he spent one more day at Sanctuary getting to know Fiona and teaching her how to use the supplies. He explained about the maps and compass, tracing routes with his finger, and how to read them. On the morning of the second day, the rain had stopped, and it promised to be mild and clear. The sun was shining, its warmth seeping into his skin, the air fresh and crisp with the scent of wet earth. It was a perfect day for traveling, and he started by having her triangulate their location and finding it on the map, her focus sharpening with each step.
In high spirits, they headed cross-country to the southeast toward the lake where Tobal’s main camp was. Fiona was leading the way, marking knots in her cord every half-mile, her steady pace a reassuring rhythm. Since her steps were shorter than Tobal’s, she used a higher number of steps before tying the knot, but the principle was the same, her determination evident in her careful movements. As they walked, Tobal’s strange dark dreams grew stronger, the ghostly figures and slaughter haunting his sleep, and one night he woke Fiona from a nightmare, her voice trembling as she whispered, “I saw blood on the waterfall.” Her restless murmurs mirrored his own, deepening their shared unease.
As the first week progressed, things didn’t go as smoothly as they had when training with Rafe, especially since he had lost most of his emergency supplies in the flash flood. They relied heavily on the nasty-tasting Sanctuary food at first, its bitter aftertaste lingering. They spotted Federation drones sneaking around, one buzzing by a distant waterfall, its hum cutting through the trees, and once or twice, Tobal paused, feeling watched. “Did you see that?” he whispered, a shadow rustling at the forest’s edge. Fiona tensed. “Stay close,” she murmured, though he never found tracks, the sight sending a chill down his spine.
Fiona proved a quick student with an animal instinct toward self-preservation and survival. Tobal made a walking stick for her, its smooth wood fitting her grip, and showed her how to use it. As they traveled, he taught her many of the things Rafe had taught him—testing food to see if it was edible, the earthy scent of safe herbs guiding their choices, and collecting them as they went along. She caught on to snares with an uncanny sense of how animals thought and where they made their trails, her nimble fingers setting traps with ease. During one trek, Fiona slipped on a rock, Tobal steadying her as a sharp edge cut his hand slightly, blood mixing with mud, a stark reminder of nature’s unforgiving edge. Everything was backwards from how Rafe had taught him, a reversal that challenged his instincts.
More times than not, it was Fiona’s snare or trap that held the rabbit or quail, not Tobal’s, the snap of the catch a small victory. She turned out to be a much better trapper than he was. He comforted himself with the thought they had plenty of meat and spent a few days smoking jerky, the rich smoke curling around them, building up their emergency food supply.
Fiona proved to be a natural with a sling and said she played a lot of baseball as a kid, her aim sharp and confident. She was already skilled in archery, which she learned in high school, having been on the school archery team, her arrows finding their mark with practiced grace. As she threw her knife at the quail, Tobal noticed her focus, muttering, “Where’d you learn that?” She shrugged, “Survival back home,” her tone leaving it open-ended.
There were less than 24 days until the next gathering, and Tobal wondered if Fiona would be ready. He suspected she would, given how fast she caught on to things, her quick learning a quiet pride for him. He felt it didn’t matter that much because Fiona was ready to solo, and one or two days less than a month should not matter that much. He pushed the thought out of his mind, focusing on the path ahead.
After four days of travel, they reached the lake. Tobal looked around his main camp with a mixture of shock and grief, the charred remains stinging his eyes. There was nothing left standing. It had been vandalized and burned until nothing was left. Two of his food caches had been plundered, but luckily, they hadn’t found the third in a hollow spot of an old tree, sealed with rocks for protection from squirrels and other animals. As they opened the cache and divided the food, Fiona started a fire, the crackle a small comfort, and began making supper, the scent of cooking meat rising. Tobal wandered the ruins in stunned disbelief with tears stinging his eyes, wondering why anyone would have done this. Gradually, grief gave way to intense anger that rolled in his belly and glinted harshly in his eyes. He started looking around the camp for signs of who had done this thing.
He found some tracks and signs but wasn’t good enough at reading them to discern much about what had really happened. Obviously, three people had come along and destroyed the place. All of his hard work was gone, and his supplies ruined. It was hard to tell what was missing or just scattered. He was able to retrieve a few tools, their weight a faint consolation. Everything else was a loss.
The attackers left no trail to follow. Not wanting to stay in the remains of the camp, they set out around the shore of the lake. Tobal and Fiona sat by the water’s edge, the lapping waves a quiet backdrop. “What do you think happened here?” she asked, her voice soft. “Looks like someone didn’t want anyone staying,” Tobal replied, his tone heavy. “Maybe they’re hiding something.” She nodded, her eyes scanning the ruins. “It’s creepy—feels like we’re not alone.” They agreed to move on, the mystery lingering.
There was a waterfall at the far end of the lake where a mountain stream fed into it, and Tobal wanted to explore that. He had noticed it on his first trip around the lake, and something about it called to him, a pull he couldn’t ignore, especially since it haunted his dreams. Now he knew he wanted to explore it more later.
The country was rough, and they were careful to keep their own trail hidden, the crunch of gravel underfoot their only sound. The next camps Tobal and Fiona made were small and well-hidden, sheltered by rock overhangs or dense thickets. They now knew why no one else built anything on the lake. It was an obvious target for anyone going up or coming downstream. It was simply not safe and asking for trouble to build there permanently.
The end of the lake with the waterfall was very rocky and difficult to travel. There was no shore, and the rock simply dropped down into the water. What Tobal had in mind was finding some way to go upstream and explore with Fiona for a couple of weeks until the gathering. Perhaps he could find a better place to set up a main camp. With this goal in mind, they struggled through the maze of rock, boulders, and vegetation until reaching the edge of the water on the left side of the waterfall.
The waterfall was thirty feet high, and you could tell it was ancient since it had once been ten feet higher. Erosion by water in the streambed caused the rock on both sides of the stream to rise like stone pillars hidden by pine trees and forest vegetation. It was a small stream, only ten feet wide. The falling water arched over a narrow ledge that disappeared into a blank stone wall at the other end of the fall. Where they stood, the ledge opened into a small patio-like area that was flat and free of rock. It was less than a foot higher than the lake and formed a deep pool.
The water fell into the lake with a roar and violence that made the water churn and froth, but on the side where they were standing, the water was inviting and made just for swimming. There was a ledge slightly below the surface of the water, so a swimmer could easily climb back out after diving into the icy water. Tobal probed the hidden ledge with his walking stick, and the shock of discovery made icy chills explode at the base of his spine. It wasn’t a ledge at all. It was the first of at least three steps that had been deliberately carved into the rock, leading down into the pool of water. He felt a pull to dive, resisting it with effort, knowing this was something he needed to explore more later.
The discovery of the stone stairs made him more alert, and he carefully examined the small patio area where they stood. Fiona shared his excitement and enthusiasm, her eyes bright with curiosity. She finally found what they both were looking for. The cliff face jutted out in a rough and uneven manner. She had been following the cliff face and turned a sharp corner that couldn’t be seen from the patio area. In a small recess, there were distinct footholds and handholds carved into the face of the cliff, leading up where they seemed to disappear.
Tobal was first up the cliff and pulled himself onto a wide ledge that wasn’t visible from below. He helped Fiona over the edge, and they both looked around with interest. There was vegetation since topsoil had collapsed from above and fallen down. Trees, shrubbery, and vines found footholds in the small layer of topsoil and clung desperately to the rock.
Near the trees, a narrow crack in the cliff face formed a small chimney that could be climbed by pressing the body against one side and gradually working up the remaining fifteen feet to the top. They took off their packs and cut one blanket into strips, braiding it into a short rope they used to lift their packs up the chimney. Grabbing onto foliage and tree roots, Tobal pulled himself out of the rock chimney, helped Fiona out, and coiled the rope, putting it into his pack. At the top, the soil was heavier, and the foliage was more dense and almost impossible to get through. The ring of foliage gave way to pine trees, and the footing got easier. He could see what looked like a large camp ahead and started toward it.
They broke into the open and looked around in wonder at what had obviously been a large camp. There were the remains of permanent shelters and a kitchen area. Near the river was a large circle ringed with stone seats that must have been used for ceremonies and initiations. Further up a small hill were the remains of a sweat lodge, and beyond that, a patch of volunteer corn was still coming up in patches after all these years. It must have been fifteen or twenty years since anyone had visited or used the camp.
A large cairn of rocks dominated the middle of the site and was covered with offerings. They were a strange assortment of man-made objects, weathered and destroyed beyond recognition of what they once had been. As Tobal approached the cairn, a haunted energy emanated from it, a cold shiver running through him, and he instinctively knew it was the mass grave Adam had told him about. Even more strange was an offering of fresh flowers lying at its base, their sweet scent a stark contrast to the decay. “Someone else knows about this place,” he murmured, his voice tight. Fiona nodded, her eyes wide. “And they’ve been here recently—who could it be? Maybe they honor the dead?” They stood in silence, the mystery deepening their unease. “We need to get out of here, now,” Tobal said urgently. Fiona agreed, her voice low, “It feels wrong to stay.” With a shared glance, they gathered their gear and moved quickly, the weight of the secret pressing them to leave.
This was the place he had been dreaming about. People had once held gatherings here just as they did at circle. What had happened? How and why had they died? Had they known his mother and father? Was this the place Sarah’s mother and two brothers were buried? A certainty deep in his gut told him that it was. All these questions were turning in his mind, but even more forcefully was the instinctive knowledge that they needed to get out of here fast. They couldn’t be found in this place.
He knew with sick certainty this was why no one was allowed to build camps near the lake. There was some secret hidden here that was meant to remain hidden. It was dangerous to stay because they could be tracked by their med-alert bracelets. Medics would be coming soon by air sled to check on them unless they got out of the area quickly.
It was an hour later when the first air sled appeared and circled over them. By then, they were three miles away from the abandoned camp and heading upstream. They waved, but the medic didn’t wave back. After circling a few times, he simply left.
Tobal was feeling uneasy about the situation and knew continuing upstream was a mistake. It would give the impression they might follow the stream back down again to return to the forbidden area. With this in mind, he checked his location on the map and set out directly cross-country toward the gathering spot. Twice that day, air sleds checked on them but simply flew over without circling.
They made a few dry camps before reaching water again, and the going was extremely rough. The terrain was much more rocky with less vegetation and animal life. More than once, Tobal was grateful for Fiona’s prowess with snare and sling. Things would have been much more difficult if he had been on his own out here.
There were no more air sleds, and Tobal felt relief but remained careful. Camps he chose now were secret, hidden, and very hard to find, sheltered by rock overhangs or dense thickets. They built fires with dry wood that would not smoke and give away their location.
Fiona took to this new training like a duck takes to water. She was naturally secretive and suspicious of strangers. She moved so quietly with the ability to appear and disappear that she seemed like a ghost. She laughed when he told her that, though. Basically, Tobal was an even-tempered teacher, and she was quick and eager to learn. After one week of wandering, they had learned navigating by map and compass. While she was an expert with the sling, it took her a while to get her first deer with the bow, mainly because of the terrain they were traveling in. With time running short, they returned to Tobal’s main camp area, working to rebuild shelters and caches, the reversed methods from Rafe’s teachings challenging their efforts.
She was now providing the food for both of them and learning to construct various shelters. It was mid-July, and there were plenty of berries to eat as well. They saw larger animals like deer, bear, cougar, and mountain goats. It was certainly an area not occupied by anyone else.
After one week of wandering, they found a small hidden canyon with its own small waterfall and plenty of game. It was a box canyon with only one entrance that was a narrow crack in a rock face. They only found it by accident when Fiona was checking places to set out snares for the night.
It was in this remote little canyon that he decided to make his permanent base camp. They spent the remaining time building shelters, reinforcing Tobal’s main camp with new structures. He finished his teepee and used the blanket material they brought as outer covering. Together they built a permanent smoker and rack for sun-drying jerky in the hot summer sun and completed a sweat lodge they were both dying to try out.
One morning, Fiona came running to him, all excited. She had found a honey tree. It was a rare treat, and Tobal knew it would make a big hit at circle if they could find a way to get the honey without killing the bees. In the end, they covered themselves with poncho material and smoked the bees out, reaching into the tree with heavily protected hands and arms. They took two canteen cups full of the rich honeycomb and honey, leaving the rest for later. Tobal wanted the bees to survive and keep a constant supply of honey available.
Time passed quickly; it was almost the full moon, and they were far from the gathering spot. To make things even more complicated, they would be coming into the gathering spot from the valley and not from the cliff trail that most newbies entered on their first time into the area. He didn’t know how that was going to work out and decided to think about it later when they got closer to circle.
Uncertain how to bring Fiona into the camp, Tobal chose to remain hidden. With a smirk of satisfaction, he stepped around the boulder from the wide trail onto the narrow ledge and climbed to the top with Fiona following him, then instructed her to come back down the trail on her own. He figured the hidden guards would understand what was going on. He told her to wait five minutes before descending, then settled to watch. As he climbed, he hesitated, thinking, “Should I warn her about the guards?” but shook it off. He passed the area where they had taken him without incident and felt things were going all right. He was totally unprepared for the blood-curdling scream and sounds of struggle he heard coming from below. It was too late now.
Racing back down, he saw Fiona standing with her back to the cliff face, a bloody knife in her hand and a crazed look on her face. She saw Tobal and flung herself into his arms, sobbing hysterically and trembling violently.
“They attacked me,” she kept sobbing. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
One of the guards lay sprawled on the trail, bleeding fiercely from a gash in his shoulder. Tobal recognized him as a Journeyman named Dirk. The dark-haired girl was applying first aid to her fallen companion and ignoring Fiona as if she didn’t exist. The third guard was presumably running for assistance back to the camp.
Tobal held her shaking body, keeping her steady until she cried herself out. He didn’t know what to do. Other guards would be coming soon, and he was going to be in big trouble. He couldn’t think of anything to say and quietly led Fiona back down the trail. They heard the sound of running feet and moved quickly into the shadows as a group of six guards raced up the trail toward their fallen comrade.
Getting back on the trail, they entered the camp, and Tobal tried finding someone with a red robe that could straighten this whole mess out. He found Ellen, the High Priestess, by the circle and turned Fiona over to her. Fiona clung first to him as he tried to leave and then to Ellen for reassurance and safety after Ellen convinced her that everything was going to be all right.
Tobal explained the situation to Ellen, and Fiona was aghast and horrified to find out she had attacked and wounded someone who was only trying to initiate her into circle. She was furious at Tobal for setting the thing up, and Ellen had to forcibly restrain her from attacking Tobal in her fury. Ellen took it in stride and chuckled a bit.
“You certainly have what it takes to belong to our clan,” she said. “Things will be alright. Don’t worry about it.”
When the guards came to get her, Ellen suggested not to fight but go along with them peacefully for her initiation and entry into the clan. Tobal saw with amusement that Rafe was one of them and the dark-haired girl another. There were six guards coming over to where Ellen, Tobal, and Fiona were talking. Although some of the guards looked angry, Rafe was smiling. Tobal gave him a bear hug and couldn’t help but notice that Rafe flinched as if he were injured or hurt. “You okay?” Tobal asked quietly. Rafe deflected with a grin, “Just tired,” and gave no further sign anything was wrong. The guards took a peaceful and submissive Fiona to get ready for her initiation.
As they left, Ellen turned to him with a grim look on her face and said, “I think you’ve got a little explaining to do to Zee and Kevin. They were looking all over for you after circle last month. I’ll be wanting to talk with you a bit later myself, ok?”
“Oh, damn!” he said. “I forgot all about them! When do you want to talk with me?”
“Sometime after circle.”
Word soon spread that Tobal’s newbie had skewered one of the guards on the way into camp. The guard was doing fine and in no danger. Most clansmen treated it as something that was highly funny, but Tobal was not amused. Things had gone horribly wrong, and someone could have been hurt or even killed, and he felt responsible.
He was at the center of the circle proclaiming Fiona ready for her initiation when he noticed the red-haired girl, Becca, staring at him from the left side of the fire. Turning away, he continued talking and then resolutely returned to his sitting spot, determined not to look in her direction again. He had seen the wonder and astonishment on her face and knew she was as surprised to see him as he had been to see her.
Tobal’s situation was unique in that he was acting as a sponsor bringing a person into the clan for the first time. This was not a normal situation, and Fiona’s escapade with the guards made a lively buzz of conversation around the camp as people congregated before the circle and chatted together. To his relief, after her initiation, the elders approved her solo.
There were some farewells as some three-year Masters left to become citizens. August was hot, very hot even in the mountains. He was thirsty and walked over to the beer barrel.
“Hi Nikki,” he said.
“Oh,” she looked startled and turned around toward him. “Hi.”
“Congratulations on soloing.”
“Thanks.” She said and bit her lip. For some reason, she seemed a bit cool towards him. As she walked away, Tobal overheard her mutter, “Should’ve told us,” hinting at his sudden departure after circle.
“Is there anything wrong?”
“No,” she said, “I’ve just got to get going. I want to train a newbie and need to get my things ready to leave early.” She turned and walked away from him.
“Good luck,” he said to her back as she walked away. There was something definitely wrong, and it seemed to be him for some reason.
Moving over by the circle, he saw Angel dressed in a black robe and was surprised that she was a Journeyman with three chevrons.
“I thought you were an Apprentice,” he told her. “When I saw you in Sanctuary with your broken leg, you were dressed in gray.”
“That was because of my injury,” she told him. “When I went through processing for treatment, I was given the old gray stuff, and my other clothes were ruined.”
They chatted for a bit, and she was pleasant. It must just be the Apprentices that were pissed at him.
“Who is that dark-haired girl with Dirk?” he asked suddenly. “I’ve been meaning to find out her name for two months now.” He blushed a bit.
Angel laughed. “That’s Misty; she’s only got one more fight to win before she makes Master. Perhaps she can fight you, get you ready for being a real Journeyman?” She winked.
Tobal was embarrassed and changed the subject. He always had trouble with girls and didn’t really know how to take them.
Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
Falk noticed a shy smile on her face, as if a faint sense of shame slid across it.
“You mustn’t bore Mr. Falk with that.”
A subtle streak of displeasure flashed across Mikita’s face.
She discreetly stroked his hand; Mikita’s face brightened. She knows how to handle him, Falk thought.
The room was bathed in a strange, vermilion glow. Something like a thick red, as if fine layers of red were stacked atop one another, letting the light refract through them.
Was it the light?
No, it was around the corners of her mouth—no! Fine streaks around her eyes… It vanished again, settling into a delicate hollow in her cheek muscles… no, it was intangible.
“You’re so quiet, Erik, what’s wrong?” “God, you’re beautiful!”
Falk said it deliberately with such a nuance of spontaneity that even Mikita was fooled.
“You see, Isa, the man’s honest, isn’t he?”
Strange person! That face… Isa had to keep looking at him.
“What did you do all winter?” Falk pulled himself together.
“Hung out with Iltis.” “Who’s Iltis?”
“That’s a nickname for a big guy,” Mikita explained. Isa laughed. It was an odd nickname.
“Look, Fräulein, Iltis is personally a very likable fellow, a good man, and he gets along with the young ones. Sometimes they get too wild for him, then he slips away quietly…”
“What is he?”
“He’s a sculptor. But that’s terribly secondary for him.
Well, he only interests us as a person. And as a person, he’s obsessed with the fixed idea that someone must shoot themselves on his personal suggestion. Hypnosis is his hobbyhorse. So it happened that we drank through an entire night. The esteemed public, who take us for priests of art…”
“Priests of art! Magnificent… Temple of the Muses and Clio… Ha, ha, ha.” Mikita was immensely amused.
“Yes, the public can’t imagine how often that happens with the priests of art. After such a night, the priests crave fresh air. The lesser priests dropped off along the way. Only the great Hierophant…”
“Hierophant! Iltis a Hierophant!” Mikita shook with laughter.
“So, the Hierophant and I go together. Suddenly, Iltis stops. A man is standing by the wall, ‘staring upward,’ as Schubert puts it.
‘Man!’ Iltis says with an incredible tremor in his voice. But the man doesn’t move.
Iltis practically sparks with his eyes.
‘Watch this! The man’s hypnotized,’ he whispers mysteriously to me.
‘Man!’ His voice turns menacing, taking on the tone of a hoarse trumpet that shook Jericho’s walls… ‘Here’s six marks, buy a revolver, and shoot yourself.’
The man holds out his hand.
‘A perfect hypnosis,’ Iltis murmurs to me. With an unbelievably grand gesture, he places six marks in the man’s open hand.
In that instant, the man does a leap:
‘Now I don’t have to shoot myself. Hurrah for life!’ ‘Cowardly scoundrel!’ Iltis roars after him.
Mikita and Fräulein Isa laughed heartily. Falk listened. There was a softness in that laugh—a… what did it remind him of?
“Look, if I were a minister of culture, I’d have that cowardly scoundrel appointed as a well-paid professor of psychology.”
“Do all Russians mock so beautifully?” She looked at him with large, warm eyes.
“No, Fräulein, I’m not Russian. I was only born near the Russian border. But through close contact with the Slavs, Catholic upbringing, and such fine things, you might pick up something in your character that Germans don’t usually have. Then—well, you know, you get such interesting impressions there…”
Falk began to speak of his birthplace with a warmth that stood in strange contrast to the faintly mocking tone in his voice.
“Splendid people! Out of a hundred, barely two can read, because they’re Poles and forced in school to listen to the sweet melody of a foreign language.
Yes, they absolutely want to raise Polish children into respectable German citizens, and everything respectable, as we know, must use the German language. They beat the delightful German language into the children with true Prussian vigor, and the progress is quite striking.
The children even greet with a phrase that’s supposed to be ‘Praise be to Jesus Christ.’ But the nimble Polish tongue refuses to utter such barbaric sound combinations as ‘Gelobt,’ so the greeting becomes ‘Gallop Jesus Christ, Gallop!’ Why dear Jesus Christ should gallop, the children can’t fathom, but with a German Christ, anything’s possible. The Polish one is quite different, and the Polish God, of course, only understands Polish, just as it’s well known that paradise is to be found in Poland.”
There was something in his speech that captivated her so strangely. He could say something utterly trivial, yet he said it with a nuance, an inflection… Mikita was talking too loudly.
“You know, Erik, when we were still in the gymnasium… one teacher looked remarkably like Iltis…”
Falk half-listened. While Mikita spoke, he glanced at her from time to time. Each time, their eyes met, and both smiled.
This feeling was entirely new to him. It was as if something within him tensed, gathered—a warmth, an energy… it surged and poured into his mind.
He had truly wanted to make himself interesting. Yes, truly. There was something in him that bore a desperate resemblance to intentions, yes, intentions to captivate this woman—to entertain her…
Who was this woman?
He looked again. She didn’t seem to be listening to Mikita; around her eyes, that strange glow.
How all the lines flowed into one another behind the veil.
He almost felt the urge to peel something away from her face, her eyes.
Mikita suddenly jolted mid-story. He glanced at her briefly. Her eyes were fixed on Falk. Curiosity?… Perhaps?… Maybe not…
Falk noticed Mikita’s unease and suddenly laughed:
“Yes, it was odd. That old Fränkel—truly Iltis’s double. Remember, Mikita—that Sunday. We were sleeping; I was dreaming of the chemist, Grieser, who seemed like a towering genius to me back then. He fooled us both.
Suddenly, I wake up. Someone’s knocking at the door: ‘Open up!’
In my groggy state, I think of Grieser. But it’s not Grieser’s voice.
‘Who are you?’ ‘Fränkel.’
I ignore everything, still thinking of Grieser. ‘But you’re not Grieser?’
‘I’m Fränkel. Open the door.’
‘God, stop joking. You’re not Grieser.’
I can tell it’s not Grieser’s voice, but I open the door anyway, so sleepy I can’t get my bearings.
‘You’re not Grieser?’
Suddenly, I’m awake and stumble back in shock. It was really Fränkel. Oh God! And on the table lay Strauss’s *Life of Jesus*…”
Mikita was nervous, but the memories warmed him again. It was getting rather late.
Falk felt he ought to leave, but it was impossible, physically impossible, to tear himself away from her.
“Look, Mikita, why don’t we go to the restaurant ‘At the Green Nightingale’? That’ll interest Fräulein Isa.”
Mikita wavered, but Isa agreed at once. “Yes, yes, I’d love to.”
They got ready. Falk went ahead.
Isa was to put out the lamp.
Isa and Mikita lingered a moment. “Isn’t he wonderful?”
“Oh, marvelous! But—I could never love him.” She kissed him fiercely.
Downstairs, all three climbed into a cab.
It was a bright March night.
They drove through the Tiergarten, not speaking a word.
The cab was very cramped. Falk sat opposite Isa.
This feeling he had never known. It was as if a ceaseless heat streamed into his eyes, as if his body were drawing in her… her warmth… As if she radiated a consuming desire that dissolved something in him—melted it.
His breath grew hot and short. What was it?
He’d probably drunk too much. But no!
Suddenly, their hands met.
Falk forgot Mikita was there. For a moment, he lost control.
He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it with a fervor, such fervor…
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
“No, there’s nothing to be done with you,” sighed Reichenbach, “no more with you than with Hermine or Ottane. It clearly requires a special disposition.”
“It seems so!” said Schuh, concerned.
“You still haven’t fully grasped the importance of my experiments.” And now the Freiherr becomes solemn like a priest opening the innermost sanctuary: “It concerns, namely, a kind of rays, a radiant force, a dynamis emanating from people and things.”
“Indeed!” says Schuh, making a face like a schoolboy rascal.
“A new natural force, understand! Or rather an ancient one, but only now discovered by me. And its laws are already outlined in broad strokes before me. All people, all things emit rays, positive and negative, mostly bipolar, especially humans. They are charged with dynamis, unequally named left and right, top and bottom, front and back. And it’s like everywhere in nature—the unequally named dynamis of two people, even of the same person, attract each other; the similarly named repel. That’s why the Hofrätin finds the touch of her left with my right pleasant, the touch with my left repulsive. And vice versa. When she folds her hands or brings her fingertips together, the dynamis equalize, become similarly named, and that feels unpleasant. The sheet of paper on the fingertips is painful because it hinders the dynamis’s radiation. The water glass from the left hand or in the shade is positively charged, thus repulsive; that from the right hand or in the sunlight is negatively charged, thus cool and pleasant.”
“Aha!” says Schuh and feels compelled to offer a word of understanding. “Magnetism! Animal magnetism!”
“No,” Reichenbach shouted angrily, his face turning red, “not magnetism. Don’t talk such nonsense. You should finally understand that.”
“Dear Baron!” Schuh feels the need to intervene seriously now. “Dear Baron, I wouldn’t want to base new natural laws exclusively on the esteemed Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel.”
“She won’t be the only one, certainly not. Many people indeed drift along dimly and dully like you and Ottane and Hermine, but there must be a whole host of others with heightened sensitivity, sensible people. Where does it come from, that so many people can foresee the weather, why do some not tolerate the close proximity of many people and faint, where does the mysterious attraction between two people at first sight come from, or the equally baseless aversion to someone met for the first time? I will search; I will repeat my experiments with others, and you will see what meaning and connection emerges from it.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to witness your investigations,” says Schuh, “I must travel.” Yes, Schuh actually has no particular reason to be cheerful, not the slightest reason, and only the irresistible cheerfulness that seems to emanate from Reichenbach’s discovery has for a short time made him forget his dejection.
“So, you want to leave,” says Reichenbach reproachfully, “just now, when such great things are happening here? I won’t hold you back, of course, but I would have thought…”
“I must go to Brünn and Salzburg. I’ve been invited to demonstrate my gas microscope. I haven’t given up on it either; I’m working on improving it and want to have new lenses made. I don’t know how long I’ll be away.”
“Travel with God!” says Reichenbach curtly and turns away, as if dismissing a renegade and traitor.
Karl Schuh slowly descends the stairs to the music room. Ottane sits at the piano; one hand rests on the keys, the other hangs limply down; her face shows a glow and an inward listening.
“Where is Hermine?” asks Schuh.
Ottane returns from afar. “I believe Hermine is already back at her treatise on the thylli.”
“I must leave tomorrow and won’t be back for a while.”
“Yes, why? You want to leave? Must it be? You should know that the music lessons with you are Hermine’s only joy.”
“Are they? I always thought Hermine’s only joy was the thylli and the like.”
“What’s wrong with you? Why do you talk like that? What have you suddenly got against Hermine?”
Karl Schuh takes a nodding porcelain Chinese figure from the dressing table, turns it over, looks at it from underneath, and sets it back down.
“And why do you only now say you have to leave?” Ottane continues. “You haven’t mentioned a word about it until today. That’s a fine surprise. Hermine will be quite astonished.”
Ottane looks up, and Schuh realizes she wants to fetch Hermine. This wretched porcelain Chinese won’t stop nodding, and Schuh stops the annoying wobbling with his finger. “No, please, don’t fetch Hermine.”
“Don’t you want to say goodbye to her?”
“No, I don’t want to say goodbye to her. You will convey my greetings to her.”
It’s all so strange and incomprehensible, but suddenly it occurs to Ottane what Max Heiland had said about Hermine and Schuh. A suspicion, so remote and questionable, that it had completely slipped from Ottane’s memory. It’s perhaps also true that she, entirely absorbed in herself, hadn’t paid attention to anything else.
“Yes, if that’s it…” says Ottane anxiously, and suddenly she feels utterly disloyal and bad.
Schuh lowers his head; not a trace remains of his radiant mood, his boyish laughter. It’s almost unfathomable that he can stand there so serious and dejected. “Yes, you must see that. What am I supposed to do here? I am, after all, a decent person.”
Ottane’s breath catches for a moment, as if she had received a harsh blow.
“And your father wouldn’t want it. I think I know him well enough. He became a Freiherr, and if he’s to give Hermine to someone, it must be someone entirely different, not just some Herr Karl Schuh.”
He’s probably right about that, thinks Ottane; the father has his peculiarities. And when he’s not in a good mood, he puts Schuh down, speaks contemptuously of him, calls him a windbag, a drifter, and a schemer.
“But worse still,” says Schuh again, “is that Hermine herself doesn’t want it. If it were only the father—his authority doesn’t extend to dictating Hermine’s life. But Hermine herself probably has no idea.”
“I don’t know,” Ottane hesitates guiltily; she’s ashamed to know so little about her sister and not to have cared for her.
“You see, and that’s why I can’t come to your house anymore. I’m not really traveling, but I won’t come back. Should Hermine eventually notice and then let me know it’d be better if I stayed away? I don’t want it to come to that.”
“What should I tell Hermine now?” asks Ottane quietly.
“You should give her this letter. She has a right to know how things stand. Give her this letter.”
“Does anyone else know about it?” Ottane feels compelled to ask.
“I’ve spoken with Reinhold about it. And now you know. And through the letter, Hermine will know. No one else.”
“I think the father is coming,” whispers Ottane. Somewhere a door opens—yes, those are the father’s steps in the next room.
It’s a hasty farewell; Karl Schuh doesn’t want to meet Reichenbach again now, having lost all composure and unable to control himself. He must leave quickly; the Freiherr should least of all learn how things stand with him.
“Wasn’t that Schuh who just left?” asks Reichenbach. “What did he want again? He’s probably off on another art trip.”
Ottane realizes she still holds Schuh’s letter in her hand. She’s still dazed and unpracticed in secrecy, and so she makes the clumsiest move possible—she tries to slip the letter into her pocket unnoticed.
But Reichenbach did not miss the suspicious movement. “What kind of letter is that?” he asks.
“A letter?” Ottane feigns with even more suspicious nonchalance.
Reichenbach doesn’t waste much time; his mood is steeped in vinegar and gall, some of what Schuh objected to is churning within him. He approaches Ottane and takes the letter from her pocket.
“Father, it’s a letter for Hermine,” Ottane protests indignantly.
“I can see that.”
“You won’t take this letter away from Hermine.”
“I wish to know what Herr Schuh has to write to my daughter.”
But Ottane is outraged—outraged for her sister’s sake, no, perhaps even for the sake of justice and freedom. “Father… you have no right to open someone else’s letters; I find that…”
“I find… I find…” snorts Reichenbach grimly, “I find that I certainly have the right to know what’s going on in my house. I find that I don’t need to tolerate any secrets.”
For a moment, Ottane considers, come what may, snatching the letter from her father, but it’s too late—the Freiherr has already broken the seal. “Oh yes,” he says, pressing his lips together and then parting them with a snapping sound, “mm yes… so that’s it…” and as his eyes glide over the lines, he underscores Schuh’s words with various exclamations: “Now I understand… indeed… so Reinhold has known about it for some time… very nice!… so that’s why…”
Then he folds the letter together, and as Ottane reaches for it, he slips it into his breast pocket. “This is a whole conspiracy against me; Reinhold knows about it, this man didn’t think to inform me at once, and you certainly wouldn’t have told me either…”
Ottane gathers all her courage for one more attack: “Schuh acted entirely honestly. And you surely wouldn’t want to lay hands on someone else’s property.”
“What I want or don’t want, I decide myself. And I want Hermine not to receive this letter. And if it’s true that Schuh hasn’t declared himself to Hermine, then she shouldn’t learn anything about it. I derive great joy from my children, I must say. And this Schuh! Writes letters to my daughter behind my back and intends to stay away from my house. Doesn’t consider that people will ask: yes, what’s wrong with Schuh, why doesn’t he come to Freiherr von Reichenbach anymore? There must have been something! That people will poke around and gossip, of course, you don’t think of that.”
“You can’t expect him to come when he loves Hermine and sees no chance to win her, and when he also doesn’t want to deceive you.”
“He should control himself if he’s a man,” Reichenbach shouts, “and he shouldn’t bring my house into disrepute. But I will restore order, depend on it.”
Hermine will not receive this letter, and you will keep silent about it and everything Schuh told you—take my advice.”
Reichenbach leaves, slamming the doors of the music room and the next room forcefully behind him, unaware that something far more significant has shattered and fallen away than just the plaster around a doorframe.
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