Anarchistbanjo's World

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Despite all this recognition, Schrötter argues, one must confront Reichenbach where he has strayed into a realm governed by imagination and whim.

Reichenbach can hardly believe his ears; he wants to interrupt the speaker immediately, point to his meticulously kept protocols, but he restrains himself.

On what evidence, Schrötter continues, is this entire Od hypothesis based? On the testimony of nervous, weak, or sick individuals—whom the Freiherr calls sensitives.

Frowns and disapproving looks ripple through the assembly. Schrötter has conjured a shadow—the shadow of Hofrätin Reißnagel. Reichenbach feels it distinctly, as this shadow swirls out of the hall and passes over him.

Such people, Schrötter suggests, are easily excitable in their imagination, especially when, as Reichenbach does, one deals primarily with women, and one need only tell them what to feel or see for them to believe they truly do.

“Can you say,” Reichenbach cries indignantly, “that I influence my sensitives?”

Schrötter dismisses this with a shake of his head. “Have you ever been able to confirm odic phenomena from your own perception?”

“I’m not sensitive myself,” Reichenbach shouts. “Must a doctor who describes the symptoms of a disease have experienced it himself?”

“Childbed fever!” says a voice from the back rows—the same voice that interrupted earlier. It gains some success again; heads turn, and a smirk spreads across the enlightened listeners’ faces. Yes, Semmelweis—that’s a similar case; it’s an excellent interjection, highlighting the intellectual kinship of these two men who have entangled themselves in untenable claims. But then the amused faces force themselves back into the seriousness and dignity of the assembly.

“What Baron Reichenbach calls Od,” says Schrötter, jabbing his index fingers into the air, “is entirely subjective in origin. And even if that weren’t the case, the assumption of a previously unknown natural force is entirely superfluous; these so-called odic phenomena can be explained partly by magnetism, partly by electricity…”

Reichenbach can no longer hold back: “Magnetism is something different,” he shouts, “electricity is something different, and Od is something else entirely.”

Professor Schrötter shakes his head again, gently and admonishingly. This kind of outburst, like a tavern brawl, is entirely against the customs and traditions of this distinguished assembly. Here, people are accustomed to letting each other finish, weighing arguments and counterarguments with care and deliberation—a basic tenet of scientific decorum.

“Certain phenomena can also be explained by the known animal magnetism,” Schrötter begins again. “Even Mesmer…”

But in Reichenbach, all regard for the distinguished assembly has collapsed. He feels himself in a state of self-defense. “Mesmerism is merely a special case of Od,” he thunders angrily.

Now Professor Schrötter can go no further. No civilized debate is possible with this shouter, who lacks all sense of good manners. Schrötter withdraws his arm from his coat tails and sits down.

But another rises in his place—a gaunt clerical figure with a sallow face and a hawk-like nose. He gobbles like a lean turkey and drags invisible wings behind him on the floor. “I would like,” he says, “to emphasize from the Church’s standpoint, with all due rigor, that we strictly condemn the superstitious notions of spiritualists, and that we are averse to all mysticism. The Od doctrine of Herr von Reichenbach is mysticism of the darkest origin and stands in opposition to the teachings of the Church. And when Herr von Reichenbach speaks of spirit appearances…”

Reichenbach shows no reverence even for the Church’s vote; he dares not let even a cleric finish. The battle is as good as lost; he no longer fights for victory but only for an honorable retreat. “I am a physicist, Eminence,” he interjects, “and as a physicist, I tell you that all corpses of dead animals emit Od light. —And perhaps,” a new idea strikes him, “one can even derive the word ‘corpse’ from the term ‘light.’”

It’s a blunder that linguists and Germanists, present today, immediately catch. This is their domain, where they’re at home, and something unheard of happens in these sacred halls—a burst of laughter erupts, an unrestrained, gleeful laughter at this misstep.

Then the voice from the back rows speaks again. It shouts, louder and more defiantly than before, a single word into the hall: “Swindle!”

A whip crack stuns Reichenbach; he flinches. Now he has finally spotted the interrupter, crouching behind the backs of those in front, who has been spitting venom at him. It’s Doctor Eisenstein—Doctor Eisenstein, that nobody, that sycophant he dismissed for overstepping his bounds. A base, pitiful revenge has claimed Reichenbach as its victim. “Gentlemen!” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow, “this is a word has been cast that attacks my honor and sullies my name. I stand too high above such accusations to settle publicly with their author. Let his own conscience pronounce judgment. I have by no means worked only with women; I see men in this assembly whom I have involved in my experiments and whom I call as witnesses to testify to how it was conducted—men from your own ranks, whose word you will find beyond reproach…”

His gaze sweeps over the rows of seats, picking out individuals—the physicist Natterer, the botanist Unger, the anatomist Ritter von Perger. They were present, are somewhat sensitive themselves, and can vouch that Reichenbach stands with clean hands, that his experiments were conducted with utmost care. Now one of them must rise and honor the truth.

Silence. They remain seated, shrinking awkwardly, squirming under his gaze, but they dare not confess. They don’t want to be exposed as gullible followers of a man already half-outcast before the Areopagus of science.

Sweat pours in streams from Reichenbach’s forehead. It’s over; they have abandoned him. “Gentlemen,” he says, and his pride rears up even in collapse, “I remind you only of a word from Schopenhauer. The solution to every problem passes through three stages until its acceptance: in the first, it seems ridiculous; in the second, it is fought; and in the third, it is taken as self-evident. You, gentlemen, have not yet spoken the final word; you haven’t even reached the second stage because your capacity for understanding doesn’t extend that far. I confidently leave the decision to the future.”

It’s outrageous, the audacity this arrogant man displays. He dares to criticize the comprehension of this highly esteemed assembly, questioning the jurisdiction of this scientific tribunal over his own matters. Now order breaks down; it’s no longer possible to hold back. A murmur of voices surges against the pale, sweating man at the lectern.

“Oh ho!”

“That’s an insolent overreach!”

“You can’t expect our clear-sighted century to take such fantasies seriously.”

“Yes, yes, leave it to the future.”

In these sacred halls, where the spirit of tolerance and consideration usually prevails, never has it been so chaotic as today. And it scarcely needs the heckler to remove the last inhibitions.

He shouts: “‘Speak of the devil, and he appears!’”

The reference to earlier events isn’t entirely clear, but the word doesn’t miss its mark. Reichenbach himself used it before; they remember, they don’t pause to consider if it fits or not—it allows all interpretations and triggers laughter. Laughter slaps Reichenbach in the face; laughter buries him and his Od.

Amid the tumult, Reichenbach gathers his papers together and leaves. He walks through the rows of seats with his head held high. He scorns the idea of slipping out through the small exit behind the lectern; he departs through the front, straight through the hall, exiting via the main entrance.

Schrötter hurries after him; he doesn’t want to be misunderstood. He wants to make clear to the Freiherr that it was no personal attack but a deliberate defense of scientific objectivity that compelled him to contradict. But the Freiherr is already down the stairs; it’s evident that attempting to appease him now would be risky. With a touch of regret and thoughtfulness, Schrötter remains upstairs and lets the Freiherr go.

It’s strange how, amid inner darkness, the feet seem to find their way on their own. One walks and walks without accounting for it, and suddenly one stands before a destination, realizing they sought it without knowing.

Suddenly, Reichenbach also stands before the stage door of the Burgtheater, facing the poster and reading behind the wire mesh: “First Reappearance of the Heroine Therese Dommeyer as The Maid of Orleans.” And that, indeed, is the answer to the question Reichenbach meant to ask when his feet carried him here unbidden.

So she’s back; she has completed her guest performance tour and resumed her activities in Vienna.

That was the question he came to ask, and here stands the answer behind the wire mesh of the poster board.

Groups of actors and actresses mill about the stage door, chatting and smoking. He threads through them, holding his breath, and knocks on the sliding window of the stage porter.

Where might Madame Dommeyer be found?

The stately guardian of the Muses’ temple looks down at the stranger. Madame Dommeyer is in the house, occupied with rehearsal.

So! Good! Thanking him, Reichenbach steps back; the carriage has followed slowly and stops before the Burgtheater. Reichenbach signals Severin to wait and settles into a small inn, from whose window he can keep the stage door in view.

What would the Herr Baron like—perhaps a glass of young wine and a goulash or some beef?

It doesn’t take long; the wine and beef sit untouched before him when Therese Dommeyer glides out of the stage door. Someone inquired about her, the stage porter reports; the carriage over there seems to belong to him.

Therese Dommeyer nods indifferently; since her return to Vienna, many older gentlemen have been pressing themselves on her. It’s as if these old men have a keen sense, knowing the moment Therese steps back onto Viennese soil that the path is clear. Yes, even the strongest feelings of joy fade; the exuberant dearest joy of passion dulls with habit. As long as there are obstacles, as long as the struggle persists, all that is desired is crowned with heavenly roses; one feels they might perish if the longing endures, but unrestricted fulfillment breaks the spell. Who truly knows their own heart? Such is life.

Freiherr von Reichenbach hurries out of the small inn. Ah, so the Freiherr von Reichenbach is the old gentleman—truly, he has become an old man; just a few months ago, he was better preserved.

He requests the honor of driving Therese home in his carriage.

Why not? She sweeps into the carriage, spreads her skirts, nods to her colleagues—well, hardly has she arrived, and she’s already being picked up in a carriage.

Only a meager spot remains for the Freiherr beside her. He makes himself small, presses into the corner, inquires about her destination, her successes.

Oh God, Therese remembers she promised to send him greetings from her journey. Naturally, she didn’t; she completely forgot there was a Freiherr von Reichenbach. He shouldn’t remind her of it—she’ll give him an answer anyway.

Therese is sullen and mistrustful, reporting her successes only sparingly—perhaps they weren’t even up to par, falling short of what she believes she’s entitled to claim.

“I have a request for you!” says the Freiherr.

Oh, is that it again—this same story? Well, Reichenbach will be astonished by what he’s about to hear. She leans back in the carriage, bracing herself for defense.

“Go ahead, speak,” she says, not exactly encouragingly.

“It’s like this… it concerns the Od, my scientific reputation. You must know that my research has been questioned. I must muster everything to crush my opponents. I’m preparing for the final battle.”

My God, the Od—this tedious Od—hasn’t the Freiherr tired of this harebrained nonsense yet?

“My witnesses have abandoned me; my sensitives have withdrawn, especially now. If you were to step forward—you, who stand at a widely visible height and are known throughout the city… if you were to vouch for me and say, ‘This is how it is,’ then people would listen. They would take the matter seriously again. You are highly sensitive, though even with you, some things remain unclear and contradict other findings…”

“I believe it,” Therese laughs outright.

“I mean,” the Freiherr continues, somewhat embarrassed, “they are only minor deviations that, upon closer examination, can be reconciled with the other facts. Why shouldn’t you…”

Therese is in no mood to be gentle: “Why? Because your whole Od is utter nonsense!”

A glowing corkscrew bores into Reichenbach’s chest, ripping his heart out with a jerk.

His lips tremble with age; the clatter of the carriage window shatters like the blare of trumpets.

“Yes… and because I’ve never seen or heard the slightest thing of what you’ve asked of me. So, now you know, and leave me out of your damned Od!”

A tear in the curtain from top to bottom, a temple collapse, a tempest of the Last Judgment. Who is this strange woman sitting beside Reichenbach in the carriage?

“Well, no hard feelings… I can’t be part of something like this. And thanks for the ride. I’m home.” She taps on the window; Severin turns, nods into the carriage, and leaps from the box to open the door for Therese. Therese has no idea what a devoted admirer she has in Severin; when the Baron is in the city, he misses none of her performances. He’d gladly lay Persian carpets under her delicate feet. Now, knowing she’s in the carriage behind him, he feels as if he’s transporting the Austrian crown jewels. He’s overjoyed she’s back from her tour and gazes at her, utterly enchanted.

When he turns back to his master, he’s startled by the gray, haggard face resting on the red velvet backrest.

“Are you unwell, gracious sir?” he asks with concern.

“No… no… take me home,” says the Freiherr, his tongue slightly heavy.

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