Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
First Chapter Police Commissioner Mirko Bovacs was at a loss. No, he wasn’t merely at a loss—he was utterly despairing. In all his years of service, nothing like this had ever happened. With an extraordinary— charitably, one might say superhuman—keenness of mind, he had identified, among Abbazia’s international crowd, the long-sought Innesvar bank robber in an unassuming Mr. Müller. And now, Mr. Müller refused to be arrested, perched instead on the roof of his small house, firing wildly with two Brownings. This defied all precedent. Once discovered, a criminal was supposed to concede defeat and submit. That, at least, was what any respectable crook was expected to do. No serious trouble was to be caused for the police; one simply vowed to play more cautiously next time. Initially, news of the bank robber’s unmasking spread fear and horror among the spa guests. To think they were exposed to such dangers! Patrons of the Hotel Royal, where Mr. Müller had dined several times, were beside themselves with agitation. “You really don’t know who you’re sitting with anymore,” said Hofrätin Kundersdorf. The young poet Bystritzky, who consorted only with elderly ladies and spared young girls not a glance, added dutifully, “This Müller… a man of the world… who’d have thought!” But when word got out that the bank robber was defending his stone cottage up in the vineyards, refusing to let any policeman near, the mood shifted to amusement. Soon, the beach and promenade lay deserted. The public had flocked to the vineyards as if to a fair, keeping a safe distance, of course, and seeking cover behind walls and houses. It was 5immensely entertaining to watch the police and gendarmes at a loss, and to see Mirko Bovacs darting about behind a gamekeeper’s hut, wringing his hands. Whenever a policeman or gendarme peeked to check if Mr. Müller was still on the roof, a shot rang out. The head ducked back faster than a seal’s. “What am I to do? What am I to do?” wailed the commissioner. “I’m becoming a laughingstock. This rogue is humiliating me before all of Europe. Damn him… he must come down. I’m ruined if we don’t get him. What crook will respect me then? Every lousy Italian pickpocket will laugh in my face. They’ll spit on my boots.” He roared at his men: “You scoundrels, you cowards, go hide behind your wives’ skirts, you bastards, you toads! You’re truly made of clay God forgot to fire. Get moving… it’s your duty… I’ll report you all!” But Constable Kristic, unshaken by anything, replied, “Commissioner, it’s our lives at stake. What do you expect? Duty’s duty. But where’s it written we must let ourselves be killed when we can just wait until hunger drives him down?” “So, you’d starve him out?” the commissioner shouted. “We could wait forever. Do you know if he’s got supplies for a year? Or two? We might all be dead—or pensioned—by then. If we could at least reach the neighboring house, fifteen paces away…” “Sir, what good’s that?” Kristic countered. “If we show ourselves, he shoots. He’s capable of picking us off. He’s already hit one gendarme in the foot. And Schusterschic got two holes in his cap for not ducking fast enough.” The commissioner peered cautiously around the corner. “What’s he doing? What’s he doing?” he stammered. “He’s mocking us. He’s pulled out a ham sandwich and is eating calmly. I’ll have a stroke, 6Kristic… has anyone seen such a thing? He’s eating a sandwich right in front of us.” Mr. Müller’s composure won the spa guests’ admiration. Even Hofrätin Kundersdorf couldn’t withhold praise for his cool-headedness, and Bystritzky chimed in with aphorisms on masculinity and the grandeur of criminal characters. As the day passed without change, bets were placed on how long Mr. Müller would hold out. The English dove into the wagering with zeal. Lord Stanhope bet a hundred pounds that the splendid bank robber wouldn’t be brought down for three days. No one took the bet, knowing Stanhope’s uncanny luck. “You can safely take the wager,” said an elegant man of about thirty-five to the hesitant group. “Go on, dare it. This Mr. Müller will be in police hands by tonight.” Lord Stanhope eyed the stranger calmly. “How can you claim that?” he asked slowly. “And if you’re so sure, why not bet yourself?” “I don’t bet,” the stranger replied, “when I know the outcome for certain.” “How can you know the outcome?” “How? Because I’ll bring that man down myself.” With a polite, curt bow, he descended toward the beach. Half an hour later, the stranger approached Commissioner Mirko Bovacs with a greeting. “Sir, what do you want here?” Bovacs shouted. “There’s shooting. Don’t cause trouble.” “I’m here to end the shooting,” the elegant stranger replied. Bovacs’s jaw dropped. His mind stalled. Clinging to the one remaining faculty—that a commissioner 7must never lose composure—he rubbed his hands together. But they felt like someone else’s hands. “Sir…” he said, “how will you…” “That’s my concern, once you permit me to assist.” “I warn you, don’t rely on the night. We saw that scoundrel has a barrel of pitch on the roof. He’ll likely light it when it’s dark.” “I won’t wait that long. In twenty minutes, it’s over. Be ready to seize him when I have him.” Shaking his head, Bovacs watched the stranger step from the gamekeeper’s hut. A shot rang out from the roof, but the man was already behind a garden wall. Bovacs marveled at the transformation. The polished gentleman, master of decorum, became an Indian. His body stretched like a lithe animal’s, limbs propelling him in an almost impossible crouch, half- lying, always concealed by stones, moving swiftly and surely once he found his path. After minutes, he vanished into a pile of rocks above. For Bovacs, an agonizing wait began. It galled him to owe a volunteer, but it beat prolonging the siege. “A blessed candle for Saint Joseph in Fiume,” he vowed silently, “if this works.” Kneeling, he watched the enemy. Beyond the two houses, a green evening sky spread, bottle-glass clear, sharpening every outline. Mr. Müller sat at the roof’s edge, smoking. A tiny light gleamed, a blue-pink cloud around his head. Suddenly, a figure shot from the neighboring house’s horizon—like a devil in a puppet show. Müller flinched, raising his Browning, but a thin snake whipped across, coiling around him, biting fast. No shot fired… Bovacs saw Müller leap up, but the snake tightened. Bovacs sprang, dancing, shouting, drawing 8his saber, striking stones. The rooftop struggle thrilled him, maddening, a beauty like a falcon’s flight or a heron’s strike. But the puppet play against the glass-green sky ended. Müller staggered, arms pinned, and vanished. “Go, go!” Bovacs roared, charging up the hill with his men. Below his stronghold, Müller lay, bound in tough coils, immobile, face blue-red. The lasso’s end was in the stranger’s hand, peering over the roof’s edge. The policemen and gendarmes pounced on the criminal, hauling him from the ground, eager to display their zeal. Mirko Bovacs approached the stranger as he descended from the roof. “Sir,” he panted, exhilarated, “ask anything of me. I’m entirely at your service.” “Then, please, give me a light,” the stranger replied. He’s not as young as he looks, Bovacs thought, as the match flared near the man’s face. The stranger took two puffs on his cigarette, coiled his lasso, tucked it into his pocket, and slipped sideways into the darkness of the now-fallen night, nodding a brief farewell to the commissioner. That same evening, news of these events swept through Abbazia. Those who hadn’t witnessed the spectacle borrowed their friends’ eyes to catch a fleeting glimpse. The authorities were irredeemably ridiculous, Mr. Müller earned sympathies, and a halo crowned the stranger. To Bystritzky’s chagrin, Hofrätin Kundersdorf declared him a most interesting young man. Bystritzky bristled when his elderly ladies found other young men intriguing. At ten o’clock, Court Secretary Ernst Hugo returned from a sailing trip in the Quarnero, ravenous. As he devoured his beefsteak, Franz, standing respectfully behind his guest’s chair, 9recounted the day’s events. Suddenly, Hugo stopped eating. He raised his napkin as if to wipe his mouth, let it fall, brushed his mustache with the back of his hand, and turned to Franz. His eyes were wide. “Good Lord!” he muttered, “that’s none other than my friend Ruprecht. It can only be Ruprecht.” It was indeed Ruprecht von Boschan, confirmed the next morning when Hugo arrived for breakfast at the Hotel Kaiser von Österreich. The hero of the previous evening sat on the terrace between two stout pillars resembling petrified prehistoric rolls. He stirred his coffee with a silver spoon, a Times before him, but he didn’t read, gazing instead at the sea, blue and silver-embroidered, swelling beyond the terrace. “Ruprecht!” Hugo cried, striking his famous embrace pose, Roman One, capital A. He performed it twice— first with the right arm, then the left atop—looking like a two-winged windmill, his massive hands poised to spin. “You’re still a mad hen,” Boschan murmured, yielding to the hearty embrace. “Where’ve you come from?” Hugo asked. “From down there,” Ruprecht replied, gesturing at the blue sea. “From the water? Are you Venus Anadyomene? Or posing as a sea god?” “I’ve been testing a submarine.” “Dangerous?” “Eh—manageable. Not much to it. It wasn’t a French submarine.” “And before?” “Before, I did some high-altitude climbs in the Himalayas.” “Sapperment! How high?” “Between seven and eight thousand…” “And before?”
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 1 Describes the house on the Rhine before the thought of Alraune came into the world. THE white house in which Alraune was thought into existence existed long before she was born–long before she was even conceived. This house lay on the Rhine a little out of the city on the large Villa Street leading out to the old Archbishop’s Palace where the university is today. That is where it lies and Legal Councilor Sebastian Gontram and his family once lived there. You walk in from the street, through the long ugly garden that has never seen a gardener. You come to the house, from which stucco is falling, search for a bell and find none. You call and scream and no one comes. Finally you push the door open and go inside, climb up the dirty, never washed stair and suddenly a huge cat springs through the darkness… Or even better– The large garden is alive with a thousand monkeys. They are the Gontram children: Frieda, Philipp, Paulche, Emilche, Josefehe, and Wülfche. They are everywhere, in the boughs of trees, creeping through the earth in the mine pits. Then there are the hounds, two cheeky spitzes and a Bastard Fox terrier. In addition there is a dwarf pinscher that belongs to Attorney Manasse. He is quite the thing, like a brown quince sausage, round as a barrel , scarcely larger than a hand and called Cyclops. The yard is filled with noises and screams. Wülfche, scarcely a year old, lies in a child’s wagon and screams high obstinate screams for hours. Only Cyclops can beat this record and he yelps, hoarse and broken, incessantly. Wülfche never moves from his place, only screams, only howls. The Gontram rogues are resting in the bushes late in the afternoon. Frieda, the oldest, should be looking out for them, taking care that her brothers are behaving. But she thinks they are behaving and sits under the decaying Lilac leaves with her friend, the little Princess Wolkonski. The two chatter and argue, thinking that they soon will become fourteen years old and can get married, or at least have a lover. Right now they are both forbidden from all this and need to wait a little longer. It is still fourteen days until their first Holy Communion. Then they get long dresses, and then they will be grown up. Then they can have a lover. She decides to become very virtuous and start going to the May devotions at church immediately. She needs to gather herself together in these days, be serious and sensible. “–and perhaps also because Schmitz will be there,” says Frieda. The little Princess turns up her nose, “Bah–Schmitz!” Frieda pinches her under the arm, “–and the Bavarian, the one with the blue cap!” Olga Wolkonski laughs, “Him? He is–all air! Frieda, you know the good boys don’t go to church.” That is true, the good ones don’t do that. Frieda sighs. She swiftly gets up and shoves the wagon with the screaming Wülfche to the side, and steps on Cyclops who is trying to bite her ankles. No, no, the princess is right. Church is not the answer. “Let’s stay here!” she decides. The two girls creep back under the Lilac leaves. All the Gontram children have an infinite passion for living. They can’t say how they know but deep inside, they feel in their blood that they will die young, die fresh. They only have a small amount of time compared to what others are given and they take this time in triple, making noise, rushing, eating and drinking until they are saturated on life. Wülfche screams in his wagon, screaming for himself alone as well as for three other babies. His brothers fly through the garden making themselves numerous, as if they were four dozen and not just four. They are dirty, red nosed and ragged, always bloody from a cut on the finger, a scraped knee or some other good scratch. When the sun sets the Gontram rascals quietly sweep back into the house, going into the kitchen for heaping sandwiches of buttered bread laid thick with ham and sausage. The maid gives them water to drink colored lightly with red wine. Then the maid washes them. She pulls their clothes off and sticks them in wooden tubs, takes the black soap, the hard brush and scrubs them. She scrubs them like a pair of boots and still can’t get them clean. Then she sticks the wild young ones back in the tubs crying and raving and scrubs them again. Dead tired they fall into their beds like sacks of potatoes, forgetting to be quiet. They also forget to cover up. The maid takes care of that. Around this time Attorney Manasse comes into the house, climbs up the stairs, knocks with his cane on a few doors and receiving no answer finally moves on. Frau Gontram moves toward him. She is tall, almost twice the size of Herr Manasse. He is a dwarf, round as a barrel and looks exactly like his ugly dog, Cyclops. Short stubble stands out all over him, out of his cheeks, chin and lips. His nose appears in the middle, small and round like a radish. When he speaks, he barks as if he is always snapping. “Good evening Frau Gontram,” he says. “Is my colleague home yet?” “Good evening attorney,” says the tall woman. “Make yourself comfortable.” “Why isn’t my colleague home yet?–and shut that kid up! I can’t understand a single word you are saying.” “What?” Frau Gontram asks. Then she takes the earplugs out of her ears. “Oh yes,” she continues. “That Wülfche! You should buy a pair of these things Attorney. Then you won’t hear him.” She goes to the door and screams, “Billa, Billa–or Frieda! Can’t you hear? Make Wülfche quiet!” She is still in apricot colored pajamas. Her enormous chestnut brown hair is half-pinned up and half-fallen down. Her black eyes appear infinitely large, wide, wide, filled with sharp cunning and scorching unholy fires. But her skeletal face curves in at the temples, her narrow nose droops and her pale cheeks spread themselves tightly over her bones. Huge patches burn lividly on– “Do you have a good cigar Attorney?” she asks. He takes his case out angrily, almost furiously. “How many have you already smoked today Frau Gontram?” “Only twenty,” she laughs. “But you know the filthy things are four pennies apiece and I could use a good one for a change. Give me the thick one there! – and you take the dark, almost black Mexican.” Herr Manasse sighs, “Now how are you doing? How long do you have?” “Bah,” she made a rude sound. “Don’t wet yourself. How long? The other day the doctor figured about six months. But you know how precise they are in that place. He could just as well have meant two years. I’m thinking it’s not going at a gallop. It’s going at a pretty trot along with the galloping consumption.” “You shouldn’t smoke so much!” The little attorney barks. She looks at him, her thin blue lips pulling high over gleaming teeth. “What? What Manasse? No more smoking? Now stop with the friendly airs! What am I supposed to do? Bear children all year long? The brats in this house already drive me crazy. That’s why it’s galloping–and I’m not supposed to smoke?” She blows a thick cloud of smoke into his face and makes him cough. He looks at her, half-poisoned, half-living, and admires her. He doesn’t take anything from anyone. When he stands before the bar he never tells a joke or minces words. He barks, snaps, bites without respect or the smallest fear.–But here, before this dried up woman whose body is a skeleton, whose head grins like a death’s head, who for a year and a day has stood three quarters in the grave and laughed at herself the last quarter, here he feels afraid. Her unrestrained shimmering locks are always growing, always thicker, always fuller as if pulling nourishment from her decaying body. Her perfect gleaming teeth clamp around a cigar; her eyes are enormous, without hope, without desire, almost without awareness but burning with fire–These leave him silent. They leave him feeling smaller than he really is, almost as small as his hound. Oh, he is very educated, Attorney Manasse is. She calls him a veritable conversational encyclopedia. It doesn’t matter what the topic of conversation, he can give the information in the blink of an eye. Now he’s thinking, has she given up on finding a cure? Is she in denial? Does she think that if she ignores death he will not come? Does she think death is not in this house? That when he does come, only then will she go? But he, Manasse, sees very well that death is here even though she still lives. He has been here all along hiding throughout the house, playing blind cow with this woman that wears his face, letting her abandon her numerous children to cry and race in the garden. Death doesn’t gallop. He goes at a pretty trot. She has that right. But only out of humor, only because he wants to make a joke, to play with this woman and her life hungry children like a cat plays with the fish in a fish bowl. Only this woman, Frau Gontram, thinks he is not even here. She lies on the lounge all day long smoking big dark cigars, reading never-ending books and wearing earplugs so she can’t hear the noise her children make–He is not here at all?–Not here? Death grins and laughs out of her withered mask, puffs thick smoke into his face. Little Manasse sees him perfectly enough. He stares at him, considers for a long time which great artist has painted this death. Is it Durer? Or Bocklin? Or some other wild harlequin death from Bosch, Breughel or a different insane, inexcusable death from Hogarth, from Goya, from Rowlandson, Rops or Callot? It is from none of these. Sitting before him is a real death, a death you can willingly go with. It is a good, proper and therefore romantic Rhinelander’s death. It is one you can talk with, that sees the comedy in life, that smokes, drinks wine and laughs. It is good that he smokes thought Manasse, so very good, then you can’t smell him– Then Legal Councilor Gontram comes into the room. “Good evening colleague,” he says. “Here already? That’s good.” He begins a long story about all that has happened during the day at the office and before the court. Purely remarkable things that only happen to lawyers once in a lifetime happen to Herr Gontram every day. These strange and often lusty occurrences are sometimes comic, often bloody and highly tragic. Not a word is true. The Legal Councilor has an incurable shyness of telling the truth. Before his morning bath, yes, even before he washes his face in the basin, from the moment his mouth first opens wide he lies. When he sleeps, he dreams up new lies. Everyone knows that he lies, but his stories are so lusty and interesting they want to hear them anyway. Even when they aren’t that good they are still entertaining. He is in his late forties with a short, very sparse beard and thinning hair. A gold pince-nez with a long black cord always hangs crookedly over his nose and helps his blue shortsighted eyes see to read. He is untidy, disorderly, unwashed, and always has ink spots on his fingers. He is a bad jurist and very much against doing any work, always supervising his junior lawyers but not doing anything himself. On this basis he oversees the office managers and clerks and is often not seen for weeks at a time. When he is there, he sleeps. If he is awake, once in awhile he writes a short sentence that reads, “Denied” and stamps the words “Legal Councilor” underneath. Nevertheless he has a very good practice, much better than the knowledgeable and shrewd Manasse. He understands the language of the people and can chat with them. He is popular with all the judges and lawyers because he never makes any problems and all his clients walk. For the accused and for the jury he is worth the gold he is paid, you can believe that. Once a Public Prosecutor said, “I ask the accused be denied extenuating circumstances, Legal Councilor Gontram is defending him.” Extenuating circumstances, his clients always get them, but Manasse seldom receives them despite his scholarly ways and sharp speeches. There is still more, Legal Councilor Gontram had a couple of big, important and provocative cases that created sensations throughout the land. In both cases he fought through the entire year and finally won. These cases suddenly awoke in him a strange energy that up until then had lain sleeping inside of him. The first was so full of tangles, a six times loser, nearly impossible case that went from lawyer to lawyer, a case with complicated international questions that he had no suspicion of when he took it. He just thought it was interesting and liked it. The Koschen brothers out of Lennep had been condemned to death three times. In a fourth resumption he continued on and won their freedom despite hair splitting circumstantial evidence. The other was a big million-dollar dispute over Galmeiberg Mfg. from Neutral-Moresnet that every jurist in three countries knew about. Certainly Gontram at the least had fought through to the very end and obtained a victorious verdict. Since then for three years he handles all the legal casework for Princess Wolkonski. Remarkably, this man never says a word about it, about what he really does. Instead he fills the ears of those he meets with lies, cheeky inventions of his legal heroics. Not a single syllable comes over his lips of the real events of his day. This makes it seem like he detests all truth. Frau Gontram says, “Dinner is just about ready and I’ve already set out a bowl of fresh Woodruff salad. Should I go get dressed?” “Stay the way you are woman,” the Legal Councilor decides. “Manasse won’t mind–” he interrupts himself, “Dear God, how that child screams! Can’t you hold him?” She goes past him with long, slow strides, opens the door to the antechamber where the maid has pushed the child’s wagon. She takes Wülfche, carries him in and sits him in a highchair. “No wonder he screams,” she says. He’s completely wet.” But she does nothing about it, leaving him to dry out by himself. “Be still, you little devil,” she continues. “Can’t you see I have company?” But Wülfche is determined to disturb the entire visit. Manasse stands up, pats him, strokes his chubby back, and brings him a Jack- in-the-box to play with. The child pushes the Jack-in-the-box away, bellows and screams incessantly. Cyclops accompanies him from under the table. Then Mama says, “Now wait, sugar drop. I have something for you.” She takes the chewed black cigar stub from out between her teeth and shoves it into the baby’s mouth. “There Wülfche, how do you like that? Well?” The child becomes still in the blink of an eye, sucking, pulling and beams, overjoyed, out of huge laughing eyes. “Now attorney, you see how you must deal with children?” says the tall woman. She speaks confidently and quietly, completely earnest. “But you men don’t understand anything at all about children.” The maid comes and announces that dinner is ready. While the others are going into the dining room she goes with unsteady steps up to the child. “Bah,” she says and rips the cigar stub out of his mouth. Immediately Wülfche starts to howl again. She takes him up, rocks him back and forth and sings him a melancholy lullaby from her Wolloonian homeland in Belgium. She doesn’t have any more luck than Herr Manasse. The child just screams and screams. She takes the cigar stub again, spits on it and rubs it against her dirty apron to make sure the fire is completely out and puts it back in Wülfche’s red mouth.
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
“Nothing!” said Fechner. He knew he was passing judgment, but what could he do? It was about science; no allowances could be made. Under other circumstances, he might have been relieved that the experiments failed, sparing him from taking a stand for Reichenbach. But one look at the Freiherr told him how merciless he’d had to be in the name of science. He said “Nothing” softly, but despite his hearing loss, Reichenbach caught the word.
“I can’t explain it,” Reichenbach murmured to himself. “Friederike has done far greater things. It may be… the long journey from Vienna to Leipzig, always along the telegraph wires. That must have had an odically adverse effect. The telegraph wires had an unfavorable odic influence.”
That was an explanation one couldn’t accept. But Reichenbach likely didn’t expect a response from Fechner; he raised his gaze like a sick beggar: “Now you’ll probably think me a fool or a fraud?”
“Certainly not,” Fechner hastened to assure him. He had to be cruel for science’s sake. Humanly, it was different. “We can try again later, perhaps. Or with another sensitive.”
“Yes, yes, with another sensitive,” Reichenbach said, and just then the door opened slightly, and the Professor’s wife poked her head in. It had taken long enough; the gentlemen should be done, and perhaps now a cup of coffee—
No, thank you, no coffee, much obliged, but it’s really time to go.
Reichenbach craves fresh air; sunshine is odically negative, he needs revitalization, a surge of life’s source. He pauses between the columns of the Roman House where Fechner lives, on the steps leading to the park. Hat off, Reichenbach wipes his damp forehead.
A hand reaches for his; he gently pushes it back. Yes, Friederike failed, utterly failed. Telegraph wires? Nonsense! Physics at all? Perhaps all physics is a night-view against the day-view. It was a grace, a grace of her purity. And that grace has been taken from Friederike.
About two weeks later, Friederike goes to Reichenbach’s room to bring him coffee, but he doesn’t answer her knock. They’re staying with the widow of a royal court porter from Dresden, who, after her husband’s death, rents rooms in her native Leipzig, taking in long-term guests with full care. Reichenbach’s and Friederike’s rooms are adjacent, so she’s always at hand. She insists on tending to the Freiherr, bringing his meals, and when she comes with coffee, he’s usually already working. He writes dozens of letters daily—to old friends, scientists, former sensitives. Though he doesn’t say so, Friederike believes he’s marshaling everything for a final battle to defeat the skeptics, summoning witnesses, perhaps urging sensitives to come to Leipzig for new experiments.
No replies have come yet. The only letter for the Freiherr was from Vienna.
“From Hermine,” Reichenbach said. “She writes that she regrets not seeing me before I left. And she asks if I’d allow her to come to Leipzig.”
Friederike expected this letter; she had written to Hermine, suggesting she come. Perhaps Reinhold could be persuaded too—not that Reichenbach is in danger, but it might help to distract him from his relentless brooding and surround him with love.
Now Reichenbach doesn’t answer Friederike’s knock, and when she enters, he lies in bed, staring at her with horrified eyes. His left hand hangs motionless over the bed’s edge; the right moves slightly, gesturing toward his mouth. Friederike realizes his speech is gone.
She doesn’t lose her composure, sending the porter’s widow for a doctor while staying with the patient. No, it’s surely not serious, she reassures his silent questions—a passing episode, a nervous collapse; in a few days, all will be well.
The doctor examines, asks questions, and declares it a minor stroke, temporary, insignificant—a few days’ rest, and all will be fine. Friederike had no doubts; there were signs already—his hearing loss, blurred vision, likely precursors.
Despite the doctor’s assurances, it’s a pitiful sight to see this man, who couldn’t seize enough life and sent his mind on endless conquests, now languishing, unable to help him.
But a few days later, as Friederike unfolds the newspaper to read to Reichenbach, he suddenly says, “Friederike.”
The words are thick, labored, but he speaks again; the silence has lifted. Friederike drops the paper, grasps his hands, and kisses them. Unable to restrain herself, she weeps.
“Friederike,” says the Freiherr, “how did it happen? How did you come back?” Has he been pondering this all along? He never asked until now. Should Friederike tell how it happened? She doesn’t know—perhaps a poison, paralyzing her soul. She can’t speak of the journey; it’s too horrific to recall. Only the end she remembers. She fled a dozen times, forced back, until a forester found and hid her in the woods. The poison must have lost its power then.
That’s how it was. And why did she return? She can’t say—it was all that remained in the world. Should she confess she’s loved Reichenbach since she could think, that he’s been her life’s center? No, she can’t speak it; it’s impossible—she’d sooner die than say it in dry words.
Reichenbach hasn’t taken his eyes off her as she speaks. Now he says, “I fear I’m to blame. Yes, yes… it could have been different.”
Then he turns his head toward a chair near the bed. Someone sits there, who must have entered during Friederike’s halting confession. “Final insights,” the Freiherr says, as if speaking to someone in the chair, “that may be true. I swore by physics and chemistry my whole life, but where are the boundaries, the transitions?”
He tilts his head, as if listening to a reply, then nods: “Indeed! Proofs—what do they mean? What’s subject to external proof ceases to be spirit. Truth can only be received and explained with the power of a believing heart. Faith is the same as love. Only love believes, and faith is the pinnacle of love.”
Friederike marvels at this dialogue with an empty chair. She doesn’t know it’s her father, Count Hugo, with whom Reichenbach speaks. But Reichenbach sees him in the chair; woods rustle around them, a faint light flickers, a bottle of wine stands on the table—likely Förster Hofstück’s.
“Yes,” Reichenbach smiles, “you’re right; the visible always flows into the invisible, the tangible into the incomprehensible, the sensory into the transcendent. Perhaps Od shapes our body, a radiant body that detaches and seeks those it loves. But even Od isn’t the final truth. When graves cease to glow odically, there’s still no end… no end…”
Reichenbach’s eyes close; he seems to have fallen asleep. But the sleep isn’t deep; he blinks occasionally and moves his lips.
After a quarter-hour, the alert gaze returns, strikingly bright: “Did you see my wife go out?” he asks.
Friederike isn’t afraid, not in the least, but she doesn’t know how to reply.
Reichenbach doesn’t wait for an answer: “She told me,” he continues, “that Hermine and Reinhold will come to me tomorrow.”
That’s possible; Friederike sent an urgent call to Vienna. They might arrive tomorrow if they hurry. Then Reichenbach drifts off again, through the evening into the night. His hand remains in Friederike’s, and she knows he’s overcome his disappointment, no longer holding her failure against her, nor the loss of the grace within her.
Around two in the morning, the Freiherr stirs again, as if Friederike’s thoughts have reached him, as if her thoughts crossed an odic bridge into him: “It’s not so important anymore… let those after me rack their brains… the great things must be found more than once.”
At noon the next day, Hermine, Schuh, and even Reinhold arrived. They couldn’t bring the child; the journey was too far. But there was a child, yes, a delightful little boy, and the grandfather had never seen him. They had brought him once, stood before the grandfather’s door, and had to leave without success. Then other things intervened—this trip to Leipzig, you see, always something came up; it must have been meant to be. But they wouldn’t let bitterness linger; now all obstacles were cleared, even Reinhold was here. Did the father know yet that he was now engaged and would soon marry? Yes, they’d arrange things differently henceforth, once the father was back on his feet and home.
Reichenbach’s eyes wandered from one to another but always returned to Friederike, who stayed modestly in the background. She wasn’t family; she didn’t want to take any love from those who came to give and receive it. But as Reichenbach’s gaze kept finding her, she felt boundless wonder and delight at how deeply connected they were again. She knew his thoughts without words; his looks said, “Go on, girl, we’ll stick together!” Yes, he spoke Swabian to her again, happy to see his kin, but with her, he spoke Swabian.
Toward evening, the court porter’s widow knocked and announced another visitor. The candles were already burning; Hermine knelt sobbing by the bed, and the two men sat silently across from each other at the table.
Professor Fechner was there; Professor Fechner wished to speak with the Herr Baron.
Professor Fechner had felt it his duty to come in person to report to the Freiherr. He had repeated the pendulum experiment with his wife as the subject, and it showed a clear deflection, then with a magnetic needle that was diverted—remarkable results, prompting him to reconsider his stance.
But when he saw the burning candles and Friederike about to open the window, he was startled and said awkwardly, “I’m sorry, I meant to bring good news.”
What remained of Freiherr von Reichenbach was beyond good or bad news. But a thought lingered, nourished by the blood of a living being, now set free, living on its own. It could rise above imperfection, return to its origins, and wait for its time to settle in other minds. That’s the superiority of thoughts over people: thoughts have time.
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 25
“Shall I take the coffee set with the rose pattern?” Frau Professor Fechner asked, opening the door to her husband’s study, where he seemed to shiver in a woolen vest and fur cap despite the sun-warmed room.
“Yes, take the rose pattern!” her husband replied softly over his shoulder. The door closed, but it opened again, and the professor’s wife asked once more, “Or perhaps the forget-me-not one?”
“You can take the forget-me-nots too,” Fechner answered.
The door closed, but Fechner had only time to let out a small sigh of resignation before it opened again: “But the rose pattern is prettier!”
“That’s what happens,” the Professor smiled patiently, “when you have two coffee sets. By the way, Freiherr von Reichenbach is coming from Vienna, where they have the best coffee in the world, but he’s not coming to drink our Leipzig flower coffee, but for his Od.”
“What does he want from you?”
“What does he want?” Fechner pushed the green-tinted glasses he wore for his eye condition up onto his forehead. “He’s coming to me because I’m his last hope. The others have all abandoned him. Now he clings to me, hoping I’ll save him.”
“He wants to hitch his wagon to your reputation.”
The Professor’s wife was a diligent and ambitious housewife, yet she sometimes had a sharp understanding of her husband’s standing and influence. Her words carried a hint of concern for Fechner’s scientific reputation.
“Exactly,” Fechner confirmed. “It’s a questionable matter, this Od. Dangerous to get involved and oppose the general disbelief. But if it’s the truth, I’ll have to bear witness to it. And then they’ll call me as much a fantasist as this Reichenbach.”
“Very unpleasant!” said the Professor’s wife. She had little taste for scientific martyrdom; she preferred successes. Why should her husband risk his achievements for such a dubious cause? “He’s bombarded me with letters,” Fechner continued, “he’s berated me because I found a flaw in his research in my Moon Book. But since I’m the only one among his opponents who leaves room for understanding, he’s latched onto me. I declined his visit, was rude to the point of coarseness. But he’s unstoppable; he’s coming anyway.”
“I’ll take the forget-me-not pattern after all,” the Professor’s wife decided after a moment’s thought, and with that, she had settled the matter of Od as far as she was concerned.
But even the forget-me-not pattern wasn’t used. The Freiherr declined coffee, claiming he’d just had some, but the real reason was his agitation, too great to waste time on trivialities. He was eager to get to the heart of the matter and learn whether Fechner could be convinced. Everything seemed to hinge on this man; the fate of his entire doctrine rested on him. Never had the Freiherr been so wrought up. Fechner, this quiet man with a wise, refined face etched with patiently borne suffering, stood before him as the appointed judge, more authoritative than all the pompous, self-important scholars before who dispensed superior science.
“I turned to you,” he said, gripping Fechner’s hand tightly, unwittingly digging into his palm with trembling fingers, “because you defend the day-view of universal ensoulment against the night-view of soullessness that dominates science.”
“Yes, yes,” Fechner deflected, “it’s the idea that matters, but it can’t wander the world without proof. Even fully provable ideas require the strength to push them through. Think of poor Semmelweis…”
“What?” Reichenbach asked, cupping his ear.
Fechner realized he needed to speak louder and raised his voice. “Semmelweis! Lucky he didn’t have to endure the full misery of the asylum. Strange that he died of blood poisoning. It’s as if the demon he fought his whole life took revenge. The doctor who sought to stop infection in maternity wards cuts his finger during an operation and dies from it.” He had intended to bring up Semmelweis, not without the purpose of a cautionary comparison.
“Indeed,” said Reichenbach, “but the finest part of your letters is where you say you’re as cautious in belief as in disbelief. That’s the true impartiality of an honest and upright man of science. But most colleagues—”
“I would have liked,” Fechner interrupted, “to assemble a commission, but the colleagues refused to engage with a matter considered settled.”
“It’s already in my book: The Sensitive Human and Its Relation to Od,” Reichenbach said, speaking almost past Fechner. “Much depends on the sensitives. I’ve brought my best sensitive—my housekeeper, Fräulein Ruf, the daughter of a dear friend.”
Only now did Fechner turn his attention to the woman who had entered with Reichenbach and lingered by the door. She gave a shy, beaten impression, as if emphasizing her subservient role before the two men through her humble demeanor, though Reichenbach’s words were like outstretched hands, striving to draw her forward and place her as an equal beside him.
Yes, the Freiherr had showered Friederike with kindness and radiant warmth at home. He granted her days of rest and recovery, refraining from urging her to travel to Leipzig immediately, though he was eager to make the trip and force a decision. He spared her experiments—not a single one—knowing her gift wasn’t a skill to be trained like physical strength but a talent always present, ready for use. She should rest, gather herself, regain her self-assurance. Reichenbach could imagine the horrors she’d endured, ghastly, helplessly subjected to that monstrous will. His compassionate understanding was so great that he didn’t even ask—not even how she was ultimately saved. He respected her silence. Once, he said his eyes had only now opened to the vile old hag who held power over him, as if offering his own humiliation as comfort for hers. That he did, and he took her to the city to outfit her anew, as befitted the daughter of his dearest friend.
Yes, he had revealed this strange truth to her, perhaps to shock her back to herself, to help her regain a sense of her own worth.
All that had happened, but it couldn’t change that she still felt crushed, defiled, and unworthy of any love or kindness. At times, she suddenly couldn’t comprehend why she had returned to the Freiherr; she hadn’t accounted for it, and now it sometimes felt as if she should run away. Perhaps it would have been better to stay on the road—in a hayloft, a ditch, perishing somewhere in the dark.
So empty was she, drained, incapable of higher feeling, filled only with a bottomless fear of what was to come.
Professor Fechner understood the warm introduction from Reichenbach; he had before him a young lady, not a mere servant, and kindly invited her to sit. But then he thought it time to get to the point.
“We’ve corresponded about the basic experiments to start with,” he said. “We can move to others later. First, the simple facts. Everything is prepared as agreed. Here’s the horseshoe magnet, on the table with only the poles exposed, the rest covered with a cloth. The poles are unmarked, save for a small, invisible mark I’ve made for myself on one arm. You’re to use your left hand to distinguish the cooler North Pole from the other.”
He asked the Freiherr to stand farther away by the window—not out of mistrust, of course, just a precaution to rule out unintentional influence. “When you’re ready, we’ll begin.”
Friederike stood before the magnet. She raised her left hand and brought it near the two ends. There was no sensation in her hand—neither cool nor warm; just a piece of iron, with no living currents flowing into her. She lowered her hand and fixed a pleading gaze on Reichenbach. His face was tense and agitated; she had never seen the Freiherr like this. She knew everything for him now hung in the balance. Almost dazed, she raised her hand and pointed at one pole at random.
Fechner lifted the cloth, checked, and without comment, noted something in his notebook. Then he turned the magnet several times, placed it back, and covered it again. Friederike had tried to peek over his shoulder; no mark was visible. She was so confused she would have been ready to cheat.
“Please,” said Fechner.
He repeated the experiment seven times, then reviewed his notes and said with an awkward cough, “I’m sorry I can’t report a better result. Out of seven tries, the Fräulein identified the North Pole correctly only three times. By the principles of probability, that’s insufficient for proof.”
Reichenbach stood gray in the window’s light. He pulled a chair close and leaned on its back.
“Shall we move to the second experiment?” Reichenbach said after a pause.
A sulfur plate and a zinc plate lay on the table, both covered with paper, and Friederike was to determine, by holding her hand over them, which was sulfur and which was zinc.
Her hands felt dead. No sensation at all; she wanted to throw herself to the floor and scream. “I don’t know,” she said with a smile that strangely moved Fechner.
“It’s incomprehensible…” came a hoarse voice from the window. “Let’s try the pendulum experiment.”
“Perhaps it’s best we leave it for another time,” Fechner suggested. He pitied the woman, seeing her gesture—correctly interpreting it as a fleeting impulse to flee. But she knew how much was at stake for Reichenbach. He was here, refusing to back down, an old man with fading hearing and weakened sight. He had been unspeakably kind to her, asking only one thing in return: proof of his doctrine.
“Here’s the pendulum you sent me,” Fechner said, placing a bottle on the table, a small lead weight hanging from a thread inside its neck. It was agonizing waiting until the lead weight hung still; no one tried to break the oppressive silence.
Then Friederike raised her lifeless hand. She strained now, rattling the locked gates of her inner self, trying to force the currents that might make the pendulum swing. The pendulum didn’t budge; it hung rigid inside the bottle.
The morning mist clung to the clearing as Tobal lingered after the meditation, the Hel vision of his parents chained in a cave still burning in his mind. Sarah, Lila, and Jared had dispersed, their solos approved, while Fiona and Becca were off to Sanctuary. The lake’s call pulsed through him, a command he couldn’t ignore. He changed out of his robe, the fabric rustling as he packed dried meat and nuts into his bag, pausing to check his med-alert bracelet with a flicker of unease from the vision. Memories of last night’s circle flickered—Fiona and Becca’s gaily chatting during the initiations had left him feeling out of place, their friendship deepening while his mood soured, driving him to solitude. Misty had led as High Priestess, with Ellen in the background and Angel’s red Master robes surprising him, a testament to her recovery since that leg injury in Sanctuary.
Before leaving, he sought Rafe near the clearing’s edge, his steps quick with purpose. “This is my last chance before winter to check the lake,” Tobal said, the med-alert concern nagging him. Rafe leaned in, voice low. “I’ve been thinking about this. I’m not supposed to share Journeyman stuff, but it shouldn’t matter. We fight in a large cave where med-alert signals don’t reach—medics are always there for injuries. I tried something like this once, nearly got caught—trust your gut.” “You can’t remove the bracelet—it’d mark you as dead, and without one, you restart training. Avoid that,” Rafe continued. Tobal nodded. “What should I do?” “Hide in small caves or under ledges by day—air sleds can’t detect you within rock. Travel fast at night. The bracelet will seem active, and the cold will keep medics grounded. You’re not breaking rules—no one’s banned you yet, though they might once caught. Aim for midnight under the full moon, three hours max, then bolt. Should be interesting when they catch up.” “That sounds good,” Tobal replied. “I’ll do it.” They discussed the trip briefly, Rafe’s grin lingering, before Tobal set out, his mind set on the journey ahead.
Tobal set out from the clearing, the morning sun breaking through the mist as he headed toward the lake, his pack slung tight. The rocky terrain between his path and the abandoned gathering spot loomed ahead, a maze of caves and outcroppings he’d noted before. He planned to travel by night, hiding by day as Rafe advised, the full moon’s promise guiding him. The air grew colder as he moved, his breath fogging in the chill, the moon casting jagged shadows on the rocks that made him pause, listening for rustles in the dark.
He made cold camps during the day, nestled under ledges, the furs from his pack shielding him from the biting wind. Sleep came fitfully, troubled by nightmarish images that intensified with each step closer to the waterfall—shadowy figures, chains clinking, a hum that echoed the Hel vision. By the third day, a shiver unrelated to the cold crept up his spine, a sense of being watched prickling his neck, though no air sleds appeared.
On the fourth night, midnight found him standing before the cairn in the haunted gathering spot, the moonlight bathing the stones in silver. Ghosts seemed to whisper around him, a chill settling deep. He searched the cairn without a torch, his fingers brushing offerings—trinkets, faded cloth—but found no answers. Frustration gnawed at him; the camp looked cleansed, yet an inner prompting screamed to leave. A faint hum from the stones, too low to place, teased at his mind, hinting at secrets buried deeper.
He hated the dark descent down the cliff face, but the urgency drove him. The rock chimney eased his drop, toes finding holds until he stood on the patio by the pool, an hour gone, two hours left. The air thrummed with an unnatural pulse, urging him forward.
Tobal stripped off his clothes, tucking them behind rocks on the patio, the icy air biting his skin. He kept his knife strapped to his leg and the magnesium fire starter around his neck, the weight a comfort as he braced for the pool. The waterfall’s thundering roar vibrated through the ground, a deep pulse that seemed to guide him. Stepping into the freezing water, his foot found the first step, then three more until he was waist-deep, facing the cascade. An unseen hand seemed to pull him forward.
He plunged in, swimming strongly toward the waterfall, and dove deep, fingers tracing the rock face. Three feet down, he found an opening, slipping under as the current tugged him. The rock sloped upward, and he surfaced in a silent pool, gasping, the swim frightening but manageable. Shivering, he hauled himself onto a rocky ledge, the darkness pressing in. His fingers fumbled across a pack and torch, tearing it open to find a heavy woolen robe. He slipped it on, pounding his arms to restore warmth, the fabric rough against his chilled skin.
With tinder from a pouch, he lit the torch, its flicker casting eerie shadows. The pool, just six feet across, was his only exit, and his heart raced—he had two hours to explore this lake’s secret. A low hum emanated from the walls, too faint to place, stirring memories of the Hel vision. He felt safe within the cavern, the med-alert’s signal blocked by the rock—a force field, he’d later learn, that shielded this place from the Federation and Reptilians.
Barefoot, he ventured deeper, the waterfall’s muted thunder vibrating the cave. The floor sloped sharply downward for twenty feet, then leveled into a chamber. An opening turned right, but his gaze fixed on a rough stone altar ahead, flanked by unlit torches. The emblem painted behind it—a man and woman holding hands within a circle—mirrored his parents’ medallion, stealing his breath. He lit the altar torches, their glow revealing a circle of cushions, each with personal belongings.
On impulse, he lifted a clay bowl from a cushion, spilling dust-covered items. Two plastic hospital bracelets emerged—wiping one, he read “Rachel Kane”; the other, grimy, revealed “Tobal Kane” and his birth date. Tears stung his eyes; these were his mother’s, his own from infancy. His fingers brushed a jade and amber necklace, its static crackle sending a wave of love and peace through him. He slipped it on, and the air shimmered. Two figures materialized—the Lord and Lady, their forms translucent yet solid as he reached out, his hands trembling. He embraced them, their warmth seeping into him with a faint glow, even though he could see through them.
“Mom? Dad?” he choked, his voice breaking, clinging to them as if they might vanish. Rachel’s eyes, soft and wet, met his, her voice trembling with love. “Oh, Tobal, my sweet boy—we love you so much. We ache to have been there, to see you grow, to hold you through every tear.” Ron’s voice cracked, thick with emotion as he gripped Tobal’s shoulder. “You’re our pride, son. We wanted to watch you become this strong, but Harry stole that from us. Free us, please—we’re fading.” Tobal’s tears fell, his voice raw. “How? Why you? I need you here!” Rachel’s hand, faint yet warm, brushed his cheek. “Your uncle Harry betrayed us—handed us to the Federation. They’re using us to power their time device, with Reptilian tech. It’s killing us slowly, draining our life.” Ron’s gaze hardened, urgent. “The cave’s force field hides you from them and those lizard kin—they can’t penetrate it, so they hunt. We were training to be Time Knights, but they caught us first. There’s a plan to save us, but it’s not time yet—other pieces must align.” Tobal’s heart pounded. “The Nexus? Where is it? How do I save you?” Rachel’s voice softened, breaking. “Commune with us at circle, in meditation—we’ll guide you. You’ll feel when it’s right. But beware—Harry and the Federation want you for their experiments.” They faded, leaving him trembling, the hum intensifying.
Time pressed, and he searched for his father’s pile, moving to the altar’s far side. A ceremonial dagger with “R.K.” burned into the sheath caught his eye—he swapped it for his knife, strapping it hastily. Exploring further, he found a corridor to the left, stooping to enter. Turning a corner, he gasped at a vast cavern filled with artifacts—burnished armor, bronze weapons, and an alien section with unfamiliar objects. His torchlight caught a slender silver rod on the floor; he picked it up, its wrist cord secure. Pressing the first button, a comfortable light glowed; the second unleashed a heat beam on the wall, glowing red until he stopped it, heart pounding. The beam triggered a hum, and a holographic figure shimmered—Arthur, a sentient AI.
“Hold on, Tobal,” Arthur’s warm voice broke through, his image flickering with concern. “I’ve tracked you since the altar. I’m Arthur—your guide. Call me telepathically anytime, just think my name, and I’ll appear. You’re in deep trouble.” Tobal’s breath hitched, clutching the rod. “Trouble? Who’s after me? What’s this thing?” Arthur’s hologram softened, urgent. “Your uncle Harry and the Federation, with their Reptilian allies. This cave’s force field blocks them, but they’re hunting you. They can’t find it, so they want you for experiments, like your parents. That rod’s tied to their tech—use it, but stay sharp.” Before Tobal could press further, two figures teleported in—Lucas and Carla, their future-worn gear glinting. Lucas’s eyes locked on him, voice thick with worry. “Tobal, you’ve stirred the nest. That rod’s ancient—let me wake it.” Carla raised a device, and a ripple coursed through the cavern, the hum steadying. “We’ve turned back time an hour,” she said, her tone warm yet pressed. “We need to talk—your parents’ life depends on it.”
Tobal’s voice shook, stepping closer. “Who are you? Why are my parents in that device?” Lucas’s face softened, heavy with care. “We’re Time Knights, Tobal. Your folks, Ron and Rachel, were training to join us, but they weren’t full Knights yet. Harry—your uncle—betrayed them, selling them to the Federation. The Reptilians gave them mechanical time tech, clunky and forced, while ours is organic, natural. They’re powering the device, alive but dying slow.” Carla’s eyes glistened, urgent. “We’ve watched you through the medallion. This cave’s force field hides you from the Federation and Reptilians—they can’t penetrate it, so they hunt. There’s a plan to free Ron and Rachel, but it’s not time yet—other pieces must align first. The rod will help.” Tobal’s throat tightened, gripping the rod. “How do I save them? Where’s the Nexus? What about Harry?” Lucas sighed, running a hand through his hair. “The Nexus is deeper in—search when you can. Arthur will guide you, and we’ll check in. Harry’s leading the hunt with the Federation; they want your blood for their experiments. The Reptilians are pushing their tech, but it’s unstable—be careful.” Carla squeezed his arm, voice breaking. “Commune with your parents at circle or meditation—they’ll reach you. You’ll feel when it’s time to act. Keep that rod safe—it’s your link to us.” Arthur cut in, warm but firm. “I’ll watch you. Think my name, and I’ll show up. The Reptilians’ tech is close—get out soon. Harry’s agents are relentless.” Tobal’s chest heaved, love and fear warring. “Thank you,” he whispered, looping the cord around his wrist. Lucas and Carla vanished, leaving him with three hours. He retraced his steps, snuffing the altar torches, and prepared a new torch and tinder by the pool. Shedding the robe, he clenched the bracelets in his mouth, dove into the black pool, and emerged outside to climb the stairs, the extra time nearly spent.
Tobal emerged from the pool, water streaming off him as he climbed the stairs, the three hours ticking down. He wasted no time sliding into his tunic and furs. He was still wet as he hastily donned his boots and grabbed his pack and equipment. He put the wand into his pack and the hospital bracelets in a leather pouch on his waist for safekeeping. He guessed it was about 3:00 a.m. and the air sleds would be looking for him anytime. A faint hum from the gold medallion pulsed, and Arthur’s voice whispered telepathically, “Tobal, they’re tracking your med-alert bracelet. Move fast.”
He headed at a dogtrot through the maze of rock and toward the edge of the lake. He hurried toward his burned out campsite planning to stop there and rest. He was halfway around the lake in the predawn light and walking normally when the first air sled appeared. He was not surprised to see the air sled drop to the ground on the beach in front of him and a medic step toward him. To his relief it was Ellen in her red medic’s tunic.
“Are you alright?” she asked sharply. “I’m fine,” he said. “Why?” “You’ve been appearing and disappearing from our monitors the last several days. Can I check your med-alert bracelet please?” The way she was holding her hand out told Tobal that she was telling him and not asking. Wordlessly he took off the med-alert bracelet and handed it to her. Immediately an alarm sounded at the air-sled and she went over to shut it off. She was on the radio a few minutes and then started to do some tests on the med-alert bracelet. It seemed to test out ok and she finally handed it back to him. “What were you doing over by the waterfall?” “When I soloed I came out here,” he told her, “and decided to make my base camp on the lake over there.” He pointed to the area where his burned out camp had been. “I spent a lot of time and work building things up,” he continued. “Then I was training Fiona and brought her out here with me. We found my entire camp destroyed and burned by rogues. I was only able to find one food cache left intact. We didn’t want to meet any more rogues and felt it was not safe to stay in the area.” “What does that have to do with the waterfall?” Ellen interrupted. “Everything,” said Tobal.” We headed around the lake and saw the waterfall. We decided to try finding a way up the stream and explore in that direction while I was training Fiona.” “Did you know there is an abandoned gathering spot there?” He interrupted excitedly. “It has a huge pile of stones in the center of it too!” He was watching carefully to see what effect the news of the cairn had upon her. He was disappointed since she didn’t seem to care either way about it. “Anyway,” he continued, “we went up the stream and then cut cross country to where my base camp is. That’s how I originally found my base camp. That was last summer but I always wondered what really happened to my first base camp and wanted to come back here before snowfall and see if I could find anything of value the rogues might have missed. I was worried about Fiona before and didn’t want to endanger her. I thought I could come down here and check my old base camp real quick and be back in plenty of time for circle.” “I never heard your camp had been burned out,” she said. “Did you tell anyone else?” “I talked with Rafe about it quite a bit. He was pretty upset too and told me the lake wasn’t a good place for a base camp.” “Rafe was right,” she said grimly. “It’s not a good place to hang around anytime, especially by the waterfall. As medics we are given explicit instructions to keep a very close eye on anyone in this area because this is where most of the rogue attacks happen. Get on and we’ll go look at your old camp.” Hardly believing his luck, he carefully climbed on the back of her air sled and directed her to what was left of his burned out camp. Together they poked around and he showed her the remains of his teepee, smoke rack and sweat lodge. They did find a stone axe. He looked at it and recognized it as the first stone ax he had ever made. He told Ellen and she grinned. She seemed more relaxed now that his story had proven true. “There have been other people whose camps have been destroyed,” she said. “These attacks seem to be coming more frequently and I don’t know what we are going to do about them. They are centered around this area but we have been told the rogues live in a settlement about two hundred miles west of us. That doesn’t make sense to me somehow.” “A settlement to the west?” Tobal asked. Ellen nodded, “It’s a village made up of people that decided to drop out of training and not be citizens. You may have heard rumors about it but only we medics know where it is. I’ve actually checked it out and there are children and old people in it. None of them wear med-alert bracelets and we don’t really know anything about them. If these raids continue I’ve heard rumors that the city might attack the village and close it down.” “Is that what happened to the gathering spot by the waterfall?” Tobal asked, fishing for information. “You must never mention that place to anyone,” she said sharply. “It is a forbidden area and we have been told to keep people away from it.” “Why is it a forbidden area?” Tobal said belligerently. “I should be able to go anywhere I want. This is a wide open wilderness and no one has ever told me that certain places are off limits.” “Well they are,” she said matter of factly. “We don’t tell people about them unless they stumble into them like you have. I don’t really know why myself,” she said. “I think is has something to do with the rogues and keeping clansmen safe from them. There are some other areas that are “off limits” because they are dangerous for people on foot.” It was mid afternoon and Ellen said she needed to get back on patrol. She was sorry to hear Tobal had been burnt out and was going to make a note of it in her report. She advised him not to stay in the area as it might be dangerous and she recommended he get another med-alert bracelet the next time he was in sanctuary. Tobal was in agreement and headed straight for sanctuary. He knew the route and more importantly knew a small cave where he could shelter for the night. It would give him a location where his med-alert bracelet would not give him away as he slept. Somehow that felt very important right now. He didn’t know whom he could trust. He had been very lucky Ellen had been the medic that found him. It was dark when he turned sharply to the left and stepped along a ridge he remembered having a small cave in it. Cautiously he poked his walking stick into the opening making sure no one else was using it before crawling inside. He wrapped himself in warm furs and fell into a sleep of exhaustion with eerie dreams of his father and mother in a cave doing some type of ritual. Before dawn the next morning he was back on the trail toward sanctuary. He was prompted by a sense of urgency and a sixth sense that told him he was being followed. It was only a half-hour later when an air sled circled and waved. He waved back and continued on. This time at a dogtrot that ate up the miles. That day two more air sleds circled overhead making certain of his destination, but none stopped him. That night he again crawled into a small cave and slept without a fire of any kind, munching on cold jerky and rinsing it down with water from his canteen. He was making good time and with any luck at all should be at sanctuary the next evening. The sense of being pursued stayed with him that night and all of the next day. Again he was up before dawn on the trail and again an air sled appeared, this time only fifteen minutes after he had gotten under way. They had obviously been out looking for him and wondering what was wrong with his med-alert bracelet. Well he at least felt better with the air sleds since they were medics and not rogues. But he still didn’t waste any time getting to sanctuary. It was twilight when he finally got to the edge of the wooded area that opened onto the meadow leading to sanctuary itself. He took a few minutes to hide the things from his parents before going into sanctuary with the rest of his supplies and pack. No one was there and he wasted no time setting his pack and clothing under one cot and stepping into the medical center as Ellen had suggested. He felt relief as the door slid shut behind him and locked. He took off his med-alert bracelet, dropped it on the floor and pounded it with the heavy hilt of the knife he had brought with him. Under the heavy pounding it broke into three pieces and he left it there. He knew the medics would be alerted when he had taken it off and then would be even more alerted when it suddenly stopped broadcasting. He was hoping one of them would be there when he came out the other end in a few hours. Three hours later he had a new med-alert bracelet and fresh clothing and equipment. As the door slid open he cautiously stepped out into the gloom and stood still waiting for his eyes to adjust in the dark. His knife was in his hand and he knew he was not the only one in the room. He stood silently waiting for someone to make the first move. “Tobal, is that you?” He heard Ellen’s voice coming from near one of the cots. Relief spilled through him, “Yes, is it safe?” “For now,” she said. “Come, we’ve got some talking to do.” He shouldered his new equipment and carried it over to the cot where he had stored the rest of his stuff. He searched under the cot and found he had been right. His things had been searched and gone through carefully while he had been in the medical chamber. He laid everything on the bed and tried to determine in the dim light if he was missing anything. Everything seemed to be there. Ellen stood silently by and watched as he sorted and repacked things. Tobal saw two other very serious Masters standing guard at the entrance. “What’s going on?” She demanded. “We were monitoring your signal and then the alarm went off as if you were dead. Then the signal stopped completely and we came immediately to see what was wrong. The first one here saw three rogues dressed in black running out of the sanctuary building and into the woods. It was dark and they didn’t show up on the air sled monitors so we lost them. We don’t know where they are now.” “We went inside and saw that your pack had been searched but you were not here. Then your signal showed up once more on the monitors and we figured you must be in the medical chamber so we waited for you to come out.” “They followed me from the lake,” Tobal said. “I knew they were following me. I could feel it and hid at night. I came here as fast as I could just like you said to.” “How could they follow you from the lake?” Ellen frowned. “They don’t have monitors like we do on our air sleds.” “They must have some way of tracking me,” he repeated. “They would have gotten me if you hadn’t shown up when you did. It’s not safe out here anymore!” “We’re going to take you back to the gathering spot where you and I are going to have a little chat,” Ellen whispered. “You are holding something back and I want to know what it is.” They walked toward Ellen’s air sled and Tobal suddenly remembered his package in the woods. “Wait here,” he shouted “I’ll be right back” and he ran into the woods to retrieve the rest of his things. Ellen was on the air sled waiting when he ran back up and climbed on behind her. The three air sleds sped into the night toward the gathering spot.
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Are those tears in Semmelweis’s eyes? Reichenbach thought madmen couldn’t cry, and in what Semmelweis just said, there’s nothing incoherent.
Suddenly, Semmelweis wheels around, fear and rage twisting his pained face back into a grimace. “They’re coming!” he shrieks. He leaps over the bench, falls, scrambles up, and hurls himself into the bushes. He races down the hill; for a while, you hear the crack and snap of branches, then he’s gone like a wild, hunted dream figure.
If Severin weren’t standing there, bent forward, leaning on his stick with narrowed eyes, Reichenbach might believe it was all just a dream. But Severin, who witnessed it, testifies to its reality. Rubble and ruins everywhere you look, and old men stand there, unable to clear the debris and start anew, as would be needed.
Then Reichenbach recalls something is required of him. Even when you want to let your hands drop and extinguish your will, life demands something. “Severin,” he says, “Rosina has fallen ill. Would you care for me and nurse Rosina for now?”
Severin nods. Yes, he’ll care for the Freiherr and nurse Rosina. He’ll do it. And perhaps that’s what Severin has been waiting for all along, sitting on his bench before the castle.
The doctor has been and given his instructions.
Severin escorts him out and returns to the sickbed.
“Yes, that’s a nasty illness,” he says, pulling a chair to the bed and sitting at a measured distance—not too close, God forbid! He acts as if the doctor confided in him specially and filled him in.
Frau Rosina lies in bed, the red-and-white striped blanket pulled to her chin, only her grayish-yellow face visible under a grimy nightcap.
“A nasty illness,” Severin repeats with relish, “very nasty. Could drag on for months. I wouldn’t want to be sick that long. When my time comes, I’ll lie down and die quick.”
“I won’t stay in bed for months,” Rosina vows grimly. She’s not supposed to move much, but she’s boiling with rage, the nightcap’s edges trembling.
“Oh, you could get up right now,” Severin says with deep satisfaction, “but then it’s over for you. My respects, obedient servant! With an illness like that, you collapse and die sudden-like. You can count on it, that’s how it is.”
“Now I’ve had enough,” Rosina snaps across, “shut your mouth for once.”
Oh, Severin has no intention of staying quiet. He finally has the floor and won’t let himself be stopped from making full use of it. Frau Rosina Knall is rendered harmless, lying in bed with her legs propped up, wrapped in thick compresses, unable to move and forced to listen to what’s said. Severin sits at a safe distance, pulls out his pipe, carefully packs it, lights it, and blows three leisurely blue smoke clouds. The old Severin is no longer a salty, shaky old man; he’s lively and sharp, puffing away like a freshly stoked locomotive.
The sound of puffing and the smell jerk Frau Rosina, who had turned her face to the wall, around: “Stop it,” she rants, “away with that pipe. You’ll stink up the whole room. The Herr Baron can’t stand pipes—he can’t stand smoking at all.”
Three new giant clouds billow into the room; thin, blue wisps of pungent smoke drift over Rosina’s bed and sink into the corners. Severin maintains his calm cheer: “I know,” he says, “when the Herr Baron comes, I’ll put the pipe away.”
“I can’t stand it either,” Rosina hisses.
Shaking his head, Severin observes the patient. Is it true you can provoke toads until they burst with bile and venom? Frau Rosina also reminds him of a simmering pot, its contents rattling the sides and lifting the lid. “Strange,” he muses, “some folks can’t stand smoking. I’m mighty fond of it. Nothing better than a pipe. Oh—what I meant to say. Things’ll change now; the Herr Baron will see people again. You can’t leave him so alone. I already mentioned that Frau Hermine came by with her husband and child recently. And we’ll need a chambermaid and a cook. I’m not one of the youngest anymore, and when you’re allowed up, you’ll need to take it easy for a long while.”
Everything Rosina built crumbles to shards. It slips through her fingers. This old fool sits by her bed puffing his pipe, and Frau Rosina lies powerless, nearly choking with rage.
“Sister’s child,” Severin returns to his main theme, “had it too. Got up too soon, and the illness came back. And she was a young, spry thing—with old women, it’s always twice as bad—”
Despite his geniality, Severin keeps a sharp eye. He notices a suspicious movement: one of the patient’s arms slides out from under the blanket, her yellow hand reaching for the nightstand where the medicine bottles stand. It’s astonishing how quickly old Severin can leap from his chair and dart out of the room. The large medicine bottle shatters with a crash against the already-closed door.
He giggles gleefully, in high spirits, as he potters through the kitchen and down the hall, lighting the lamp in the entryway. The door to Freiherr von Reichenbach’s quarters now stands open again, a lamp illuminating the path; people should know the dragon guarding him has been chained. And indeed, someone is already in the entryway, someone who lingered in the dark, not daring to venture further. It’s a shabbily dressed, gaunt woman; Severin doesn’t know who she is, a tattered bonnet shadowing her face, but he’s full of goodwill and courtesy even to such a poorly clad woman. He’s set on letting life reach the Freiherr again and sees no need to discriminate.
“Here to see the Herr Baron?” he asks kindly. “Come with me.” Without waiting for a reply, he strides ahead, knocks firmly on the study door, and when the stranger hesitates at the last moment, as if having second thoughts, he gently takes her arm and ushers her in. “Herr Baron, someone wishes to speak with you.”
Reichenbach looks up from his work, surprised by the late, odd visitor Severin has brought. But then he shoves his chair back and rises.
“Is it you?”
So it has come to pass, what Friederike saw as a distant glow in anguished, sleepless nights, amid the depths of her disgrace. There is Reichenbach’s study, the lit desk strewn with papers, and the Freiherr himself, an old man with a bald head and furrowed face, tufts of yellowish-white hair at his temples.
And Friederike is back, haggard, in tattered clothes, one might say ragged, fallen low, a shadow of her former self.
“Where have you come from?” the Freiherr asks softly.
And then the miracle happens. Reichenbach opens his arms, and Friederike may rest her head on his chest. My God, is this real—not a delusion? Is this living human closeness, refuge, and salvation? Will they not drive her from this threshold?
“You’ll stay with me now?” Reichenbach asks.
He asks if Friederike will stay. Does he not know she’s come to leave it to him whether she’s cursed and cast out or blessed and redeemed, whether she must turn to the final darkness or receive life? She clings to him, sinking, and Reichenbach must support her and lead her to the sofa. He tosses a stack of books to the floor, making room for Friederike, who sits with her hands folded in her lap—thin, wasted hands nestling together like disheveled, scattered birds.
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
V.
It was night. Outside, a strong wind raged; from time to time, it whipped thick rain showers against the windows, which whined as they flowed down the panes.
Marit sat half-dressed on her bed; she didn’t have the strength to undress.
Why bother? She knew it from many nights. She would lie down, the bed would dance around the room with her, then she would sit up and straighten the pillows and stare into the dark room, then get up completely and press her forehead against the windowpane; and so again and again, staring blankly, thoughtlessly.
Everything is indifferent, everything in vain…
She repeated this in her thoughts with ever new pain.
Before the image of the miraculous Mary burned the red oil lamp, which she had refilled again and again, and the ghostly light illuminated half the room.
The wick tipped over, and the flame consumed the oil. A foul smell smoked through the room.
The sweaty church with the bad smell—unwittingly, she thought of Falk’s words.
She extinguished the flame; now it was completely dark. She stared thoughtlessly into the barren emptiness of the darkness. My God, what did he want from her, what did he want? A glowing wave of blood shot into her face.
She sensed it; she didn’t understand it. Then suddenly, she felt his searching lips. It was as if a jagged lightning snake had bored through her breast.
She couldn’t think; she only felt the wild, desirous shiver twitching through her body. She pressed both hands between her knees, bent forward, and drew her legs to her. So she sat hunched on the edge of the bed, listening with anxious pain to the unknown, terrible thing.
What was that? It came so often; again and again. She feared it. She trembled before it. Oh, how gladly, oh how gladly she would throw herself around his neck, hot, wild, in silent passion, and kiss him, yes—kiss…
But then it came again and drove her mad; her senses faded, everything danced in circles around her.
That was sin. Sin! Sin!
She tore herself up; she flew in all her limbs, groped tremblingly for the matches, couldn’t find them; she threw herself on her knees before the bed.
She tried to collect herself, to pray. But she couldn’t find a word.
“Ridiculous formulas!” she clearly heard Someone mock behind her. Terrified, she turned around. No, it was in her! Falk had spoken in her.
“Everything you do is for the sake of imagined heavenly joys. Be yourself!”
“God, God!” she groaned loudly.
Suddenly, it seemed as if someone had forbidden her to pray. She tried to force herself, she struggled for words.
No, it wouldn’t work. Not a word! Mary had abandoned her.
Why was God punishing her so cruelly? What had she done? Ridiculous formulas—the lust for happiness—sweat-smelling church: his sentences whirled in her head, chased, overwhelmed her.
A desolate tiredness made her sink completely into herself.
And he said she didn’t love him! How had he put it? Yes, the formula was stronger than her love—no, no! He should see! She wanted to love him! She wanted to embrace him! Yes, she wanted to love him. May God damn her, plunge her into the deepest hell, but she would love him.
She tore herself up and went to the window. She tried to think.
Outside, the spring wind roared and howled in the trees.
She felt his arms around her neck again; she didn’t resist; she gave herself to him. She sucked the poisonous happiness into her body with all her pores, she let herself be taken, she gave herself to him—oh, to Him—so hot—so warm.
No! No!
Finally, she found the matches.
She lit the light; a wavering strip fell on the face of the Byzantine Madonna.
Marit stood rooted, will-less, unable to move. She stared with growing horror.
In the feverish brain of the child, the face of the Mother of God shifted to a mocking grin, then to pained compassion, and now to terrible, punishing seriousness.
She wanted to throw herself down, she couldn’t. She was rooted to the ground. Fear-sweat broke out on her forehead; she gasped. The horror constricted her heart.
Finally, the Immaculate showed her the old, gracious smile.
A rustling crackle came from under the bed. Disturbed, she jumped to the side; she didn’t dare breathe.
No, it was only in the wallpaper.
She wanted to flee; the whole house was full of ghosts. She listened, trembling, tense.
It was completely still.
God, how uncanny, how horribly uncanny. She had to flee, far, far away—to Him—oh, to Him—
No! Pray!
No, she couldn’t. Something stuck in her that forced her hands apart, and when she tried, the sweat smell of the church rose again, and she heard his mockery.
Oh, how unhappy she was. And He had made her so—no, not he; he was so unhappy himself.
What should she do? Everyone, everyone had abandoned her.
She threw herself on the bed and buried her face in the pillows. A convulsive sobbing tossed her back and forth.
That calmed her.
He was so good. She would beg him so fervently that he demand nothing from her, only stay with her and talk to her.
“But he won’t stay; he’s leaving!” She jumped up.
“Yes, he’s already gone… gone… gone!”
She ran through the room in frantic unrest, pressing her head with both hands.
Yes, she knew it exactly: gone—he’s gone!
And again, a long, choking sob tore from her throat.
No, no—it’s impossible—he’s so good—so good; he won’t leave me.
Erik—Erik, she whimpered; I’m with you, I’ll do anything, just don’t go away!
Her thoughts confused themselves; she listened to her own sobbing. Don’t pray—don’t pray! I don’t want any kingdom of heaven! I want Him—
Him!
But the unrest grew and foamed and boiled; she couldn’t bear this torment any longer… God, these grinning shadows on the wall, and this punishing judgment of the Virgin.
She had to get away.
She dressed in a fever and ran down to the park.
The cold wind calmed her. She felt strangely light. She thought of nothing. No, she really couldn’t think.
She walked up and down the park avenue; it grew colder and colder, violent rain showers soaked her to the skin.
She went back up and lay down in bed. Suddenly, falling asleep, she clearly saw Falk’s face.
He stared at her, then his face contorted into a devilish grimace; he bit her with his vampire eyes, he literally devoured her soul.
She looked horrified. She wanted to hide from him. But it was as if a whole heavy world lay on her heart; she had to stare at him unwaveringly.
With her last strength, she gathered herself: the face faded, only a mocking grin did she still see in the dissolving features.
She breathed deeply and sat up.
She listened. Something was in her that wanted to speak. It reared up; higher and higher. A gruesome secret she would now hear: Falk’s soul.
She had never seen him like that. Her brain struggled for clarity. With uncanny fear, she listened to her doubts. There—: had he lied?
He? Yes! She heard him as he spoke that name to her on the first evening—Fräulein Perier.
No, he doesn’t lie… But? what? what? what was it…
She couldn’t think anymore. She was too tired. She lay and stared into the shadows.
Outside, it had grown still; outside, the wind had laid itself. On the graciously inclined face of the miraculous Virgin played the shimmer of the candle.
No, she thought of nothing more. Before her eyes was a great, bright field with flowers, and from afar she saw Falk coming, and now she went to him… he was so good, so good…
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 23
When little Karl Schuh was two years old and already a very independent gentleman, Frau Hermine decided it was finally time to introduce him to his grandfather.
He marched stoutly through all the rooms on his chubby legs, and if someone tried to take his hand on the street, he’d swat it away and say, “All by myself!” He climbed onto every chair and recently pulled the crocheted cover off the dresser, along with vases, clocks, glass eggs, porcelain lambs, and other knickknacks, then tried to excuse himself for the mess. He dipped his finger in stove soot, smearing the walls with wild drawings, and held hour-long conversations with himself—in short, he was such a wonder that his mother could no longer justify withholding him from his grandfather.
She had planned a visit to Kobenzl soon after settling the ugly lawsuit business, where the father now lived permanently after selling his Vienna house. But with a small child, it was a cumbersome affair, and when they might have managed, the Freiherr was traveling abroad.
It was said he had conducted experiments on sensitivity and Od in London at Lord Cowper’s house, Palmerston’s stepson, then traveled to Berlin for an extended stay. The university there had even provided him two rooms, but the Berlin scholars had been utterly dismissive, impossible to convince. They either didn’t attend his demonstrations or, when they did, sniffed, nitpicked, and criticized so much that nothing fruitful came of it.
Karl Schuh sometimes brought home newspapers with mentions of Freiherr von Reichenbach. They recalled the Freiherr who, years ago, made waves claiming to discover a new natural force called Od, asserting the boldest claims about it. He had locked his unfortunate victims in a darkroom until their eyes began to glimmer in the gloom. Science had long moved past this quirk of an otherwise distinguished man, but the Freiherr kept the learned world on edge with his fierce attacks. The fiery old gentleman lashed out like a berserker, and his polemics, flooding the public, were as notable for their lack of logic as for their excessive tone. Yet all this couldn’t gain recognition for his Od, and recently the Berlin scholars had unequivocally rejected Herr von Reichenbach and his supposed force.
Schuh brought the papers to Hermine but didn’t comment further. “Whatever may be said of the Od,” Hermine remarked, “I think it’s unnecessary to mock such honest endeavor!”
Karl Schuh shrugged.
“There might be a force, invisible rays, so to speak, carriers of the soul’s faculties in people.”
Hermine received no response to this either.
“And I find it petty and mean when they hint here that Father lost his fortune and now owns nothing but the Kobenzl castle. I’ll finally visit him in the next few days. You don’t mind, do you?”
No, Schuh had no objections. Hermine could go and take the boy. He himself would hold back; he couldn’t be expected to make the first move, having been so gravely insulted. The Freiherr would have to come first.
The Freiherr had long since returned and was hurling invectives against his adversaries from his study. Hermine planned week after week to visit her father, but something always intervened—bad weather, little Karl’s cold, a big laundry day. As a housewife and mother, she couldn’t just leave at will.
Then came that letter from Italy, from Venice. Such letters from Venice didn’t arrive often but came at intervals, so Hermine was never too long in the dark about Ottane’s fate. She now knew Ottane’s story but hadn’t initially dared to share the truth with her husband.
Schuh, when he finally learned, showed much understanding and heart. He stood on a higher plane, with a broad view of the world; his notions of morality weren’t so narrow. They had arranged things—fine, he wasn’t appointed Ottane’s judge. He only asked once, “Why don’t they marry?”
Hermine passed the question to Venice and received a reply after some weeks. Ottane felt she should no longer conceal how things stood with Max Heiland. He was at risk of going blind—or perhaps, it wasn’t clear from her letter—he was already blind, and he resisted binding Ottane to him with an indissoluble bond. As long as her heart urged her to stay with him, he accepted it as heaven’s grace, but he didn’t want her free sacrifice turned into a rigid duty.
“He’s actually a damned decent fellow,” Schuh said after reflection. “I wouldn’t have expected that from him.”
The envelope of today’s letter from Venice bore not Ottane’s handwriting but that of a stranger. An unknown wrote on behalf of Herr Max Heiland, prevented by his eye condition from writing himself. He wrote that he regrettably had a deeply sorrowful message to convey, which he received with resignation to God’s will. Fräulein Ottane von Reichenbach had died after brief, severe suffering, comforted by religion’s rites, from typhus. Unfortunately, the undersigned, a German doctor, had been called too late, after the Italian colleagues declared themselves unable to save her. A few lines were enclosed for comfort, and it was noted that notices had also gone to Freiherr von Reichenbach and Professor Semmelweis in Pest, the undersigned’s esteemed teacher, whom the dying woman had wished notified.
“So these wretched papists botched the poor thing,” Schuh said angrily. He channeled his grief into furious rage, railing against Italy, its doctors, the climate, and life there—but at bottom, he raged against fate for inflicting such incomprehensible cruelty on the person, after Hermine and his boy, he loved most.
Hermine battled her pain for two days, while little Karl cowered under the table, uncomprehending why his mother wept ceaselessly and his father cursed.
Then Hermine said, “Tomorrow I’ll go to Kobenzl to see Father. I imagined my first visit with him differently, bringing the child. But perhaps the boy will be some consolation and joy to him.”
When she and the child prepared to leave the next day, Schuh opened his wardrobe and began dressing too.
“Not going to the factory?” Hermine asked.
“No, I’m coming with you,” Schuh grumbled. He had the right to use the factory carriage but rarely did. Today, however, he’d ordered it; it waited outside, and they drove off together into the blissful summer day, full of sun and colors. For little Karl, the ride was a journey to fairyland—wonders followed one after another; he crowed endlessly with delight. Over his blond head, the parents exchanged glances; they understood each other, full of confidence. However sadly and incomprehensibly cruel some decrees were, there were consolations bringing light even to the darkest soul.
The access roads to Reisenberg were far from good, torn up by deep ruts where the carriage jolted forward, sometimes throwing their heads together with a sudden lurch. The mulberry trees the Freiherr had planted stood wild along the roadsides. There were now enough leaves for armies of silkworms to gorge themselves, but where were the silkworms, where was the careful husbandry of the estate’s model days? It was clear Reichenbach had sold the estate, and the creditor to whom it was transferred cared little for it, thinking only of further sales.
The castle itself showed Reichenbach’s neglect. It wasn’t just the subtle signs of decay but an indefinable air of cold, surly rejection that made Hermine uneasy. It no longer gazed freely and cheerfully into the landscape; it lay closed off, ill-tempered, like a sullen fortress. And the great cast-iron dog on the terrace, the Molossus from Blansko’s foundry, with its grim face, seemed now the true emblem of the house. Little Karl was transfixed by the iron beast, standing before it as if waiting for it to suddenly bark.
Meanwhile, Schuh pulled the bell at the entrance by the garden hall, now boarded up with weathered planks in the middle of summer. It took a long time before anyone came, and even then, the door opened only a narrow crack, as far as an iron chain inside allowed. One might think the woman whose head appeared in the gap had modeled her expression on the cast-iron Molossus.
“The Herr Baron isn’t home!” she grumbled with blunt certainty, without waiting for an explanation.
“Just announce us to the Herr Baron,” said Schuh, irritated by this broad face with coarse cheekbones and thick lips.
“You’ve heard he’s not home,” the woman snapped.
“Tell him his daughter Hermine is here with her husband and child.”
The woman pulled a brazen, mocking grimace that Schuh would have loved to smash with his fist. “Even if the Emperor of China were here, he’d have to turn back. The Herr Baron wants to see no one… and you least of all, got it?”
Schuh’s patience ran out. He shoved the woman in the chest and tried to wedge his foot in the door to force entry. But the chain held, and the woman, a broad, solid, heavy figure, threw herself against the intruder, pushed him back, and slammed the door shut.
There stood Schuh and Hermine, staring at each other, at a loss for words. What kind of gatekeeper had the father hired? The house was indeed a fortress, guarded by a woman with the devil in her.
“Aren’t we going to Grandfather’s?” asked little Karl, finally tearing himself from the dog.
“No, not today,” Hermine said in a choked voice. “Grandfather isn’t home.”
They went to the carriage waiting on the road. On a terrace bench overlooking the city sat an old man.
“That’s Severin,” said Hermine. Yes, Severin—he would lead them to her father, he’d muzzle that Cerberus.
Severin nodded with an enigmatic smile and rose slowly, leaning on a stick beside him.
“What kind of fury do you have at the door?” Schuh asked, still furious.
“Oh,” Severin chuckled, “she’s got hair on her teeth!”
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
Hmm…
But he was a refined man. He was the finest cream of European society. Yes, he, Herr Erik Falk, the blonde beast. His sexuality was delicate and brittle; it was too entwined with his mind, it needed soul, and from the soul it had to be born.
Yes, and?
Yes, that means I desire Marit, I want her, I must have her: for that is my will.
Falk was feverish; he felt an insane longing for Marit.
Now she lay there in her bed: her hands chastely folded over the blanket, perhaps the brass cross he had so often seen her with in her hands.
To possess a saint! That would be a remarkable thing. Of course, he would do it; he had to do it.
This unbearable longing gnawed at him like an ulcer; it destroyed his peace, made him so nervous and torn that he couldn’t even work.
He had to do it, and he had every right to.
So, please, gentlemen: isn’t that so? Right or wrong don’t exist. They’re just empty concepts that regulate the behavior of Müller and Schulze toward each other. Well, you can read the rest in Nietzsche or Stirner. But if we want to talk about right, and we must, by the way, to calm the stupid conscience, that old heirloom that fits so poorly with modern furnishings, then I say:
I am, in any case, a man of far higher and greater significance in life than a child.
That’s what I say for those who believe in significance and the seriousness of life.
I am a man who can enjoy life far more refinedly, far more powerfully than a girl who will later only bear children and raise poultry.
That’s what I say, gentlemen, for the philosophers.
I am a man who is directly ruined by this girl—that’s for the doctors—and consequently is in a kind of self-defense—that’s for the lawyers.
Therefore, I am right!
Then comes Herr X and will say: You are an immoral man.
I will answer him, very charmingly, with the most engaging demeanor: Why, Herr X?
“Because you seduced a girl.”
“Just that? Nothing more? Well, listen: I didn’t seduce her; she gave herself to me. Do you know the passage in the Napoleonic Code about natural children? You don’t? Then you’re an uneducated man, and Napoleon was at least as great as Moses. But listen further: the holiest purpose of nature is to produce life, and for that, sexual intercourse is necessary. So: I wanted to fulfill this purpose, and accordingly, I acted entirely, yes, highly morally in the sense of nature.”
Now comes Herr Y.
“But—*mais* is the French for that, I’ll roar at him—go to the devil, understand? I am me, and that’s that!”
Falk grew more and more irritated. A wild anger built up in his brain, confusing his thoughts.
Outside, the dawn began; the world flowed in the blue wonder of morning light, and the birds started to chirp.
Falk drank cognac, lit a cigarette, and grew calmer.
Marit, the good, dear child! And those eyes that looked at him alternately frightened, anxious, and again with that tender love and pleading…
Marit! No, what a beautiful name. Yes, in Kristiania, he had seen girls named Marit. Yes, yes, he remembered, she had told him: her father had been in Norway and brought back the name for the newborn girl.
Sweet, splendid Marit!
He felt her hand on his forehead; he heard her voice loving him so warmly, so passionately: My Erik, my Erik…
He felt her sitting on his lap, her arms around his neck, her boyish chest pressed against his shoulders.
Falk drank and grew more sentimental. Suddenly, he stood up, irritated again.
I know this lying beast of a brain; now it suddenly wants to cloak its desire with the mantle of sentimental rapture. I absolutely won’t have that, I thank it very much. *Mille graces, monsieur Cerveau*, for your services; I don’t need them.
What I do, I do with absolute consciousness. I love only my wife, and if I want to possess Marit, I don’t betray my wife; on the contrary, I give myself to her again, entirely.
The sky threw flames of light into the room; the lamp’s light gradually shrank.
Falk looked in the mirror.
His narrow face had something eerie in this twilight. His eyes burned as if in a feverish glow.
He sat on the sofa; he was very tired.
Ridiculous how that foolish girl suddenly became indifferent to him. That was truly strange. Not the slightest trace of desire anymore.
Yes, yes: tomorrow it will come back. But it’s madness to stay longer in this atmosphere, constantly rubbing against her presence.
No!
Falk tore himself up.
He would go to his wife today or tomorrow, back to Paris.
He saw himself in the train compartment.
Cologne! Good God, another day’s journey! He felt a hot unrest; it took an eternity. He’d rather get off and run, run as fast as he could, run without stopping… Three hours from Paris—two hours—he held the watch in his hand, following the second hand minute by minute. Half an hour left; his breath grew heavy and hot, his heart pounded like a hammer in his chest. Now the train slowly pulls into the station hall. His eyes scan the crowd. There—there: in the yellow coat—he recognized her—she stands searching, seeking, agitated. And now: they take each other’s hands, fleetingly, as if afraid of a stronger grip. Now he takes her arm, trembling with joy, and she presses against him in silent bliss.
Falk woke up.
He had to do it; he had to telegraph her immediately that he was coming at once.
Suddenly, a nervous fear seized him; it felt as if he no longer had the strength for such a journey. He sat down and let his arms hang.
No, he surely wouldn’t have the strength. Paris seemed to him somewhere in China, two years away; it kept moving further from him.
Strange that he couldn’t recall his wife’s face—the face… yes, good God: Fräulein… Fräulein… what had he called her?
He began to fidget with his fingers. He paced around; but he couldn’t remember.
A new fear gripped him, as if he were going to the scaffold. He had heard the name somewhere before, read it, or something; yes, somewhere in *Le Figaro*, in the proceedings of the French Chamber.
Well, finally!
He breathed deeply.
Fräulein Perier, Perier… Perier.
He felt almost joy; it became very light for him.
Then he grew restless again, very dissatisfied with himself.
No, this idiotic comedy! If you lie, you should at least not get caught in lies. Now he had betrayed himself: Marit must think him a liar.
Maybe not? No, impossible. Marit would sooner cut off her head than think him a liar.
Impossible. She thinks I was drunk; she’s used to that from her father.
The room grew completely bright.
Now he had to lie down. He was very tired. And how his head burned! His fingers all hot.
Something cooling! Yes, now her hands on his forehead! Whose hands?
He laughed scornfully at himself.
Marit’s hands, of course, Marit’s hands he would like to feel on his forehead now.
Marit’s… hands…
Outside, he heard the loud chirping of birds; he tore open the window.
A cool wave of air hit the room; that felt good.
He saw the thin mist fade from the meadows; the meadow lay all green—no, violet-green. Falk delighted in the expression. And above, soft, light, sun-soaked clouds of mist.
Below in the gardens bordering the meadow, he saw tree after tree in white blooming splendor, a great, billowing sea of white, and on the meadow, whole oases of yellow buttercup flowers.
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 22
Friederike was gone, and no one could say where she had gone. A beggar had been at the dairy—a ragged fellow, a vagrant. The stable hand Franz said if it had been up to him, he’d have chased him off so fast he’d lose the soles of his clubfoot. But Friederike had given him food and let him sleep in the hay; Franz couldn’t understand it—the man seemed suspicious to him.
One of the maids said she saw Friederike bent over the stove and the fellow making strange signs behind her back—circles and crosses with his hand. Another noted how Friederike had a fixed, staring look when she fetched milk from the milk room.
Reichenbach had been away for a few days; he’d had to go straight to Ternitz from Vienna. He had confirmed the extent of the collapse—yes, only ruins were left to salvage; he could thank Hofrat Reißnagel for his fine advice. But on the journey home, above all the sorrow and frustration, the comforting thought prevailed that he had someone at home to console him. Just having Friederike near was a comfort; he would tell her everything, and she would offer kind words and a confident smile. And Reichenbach would resume his research with renewed zeal, pursuing the strange phenomena that seemed to lead ever deeper into nature’s secrets, and perhaps Friederike, with her remarkable powers, might know some viable way out.
Reichenbach returned full of longing for Friederike’s gaze and the touch of her hand, and now Friederike was gone.
From Severin, he learned that Friederike had come to the castle the evening before her disappearance, asking for him. Severin said she looked distraught, barely able to stand upright when she learned the Herr Baron wasn’t home.
Reichenbach searched the steward’s quarters for a note, something to indicate why Friederike had left and where she had gone. He still believed he’d find a letter, a scrap, or at least a clue about what had happened.
But then the stable hand Franz brought the farmhand who had seen Friederike with the stranger in the forest. What had they said? They likely hadn’t spoken—the man went ahead, and Friederike followed… as if, well, almost as if she were being pulled by a rope.
Yes… as if pulled by a rope?
The Freiherr was still lost in the bleakest confusion of his thoughts, not yet finding a fixed point to focus his gaze, when Severin came to the dairy to report that Doctor Promintzer was at the castle, requesting to speak with the Herr Baron.
Who was that? Doctor Promintzer, the opposing lawyer in the tangled web of lawsuits he was fighting. Reichenbach rose from the garden bench under the elm where he’d last sat and trudged heavily, with dragging steps, to the castle.
Under other circumstances, Reichenbach would have sent Schuh’s and Hermine’s lawyer packing without hearing him out, but today he resigned himself to the visit. Everything was trivial, even indifferent now; whatever happened, Reichenbach was a broken man, following the path of least resistance, with no strength to waste.
Doctor Promintzer had expected either to be turned away outright or, if he reached Reichenbach, to be promptly shown the door. He had armed himself with all his tenacity and eloquence. He thought he was entering a lion’s den, but found the dreaded man softened and docile to the point of unrecognizability. Something was amiss—surely the Freiherr would soon bare claws and teeth and pounce with a roar.
That had to be prevented, and Doctor Promintzer hurried to get to the point: “I didn’t want what I have to say to reach you through your lawyer. Why the detour? One lawyer is enough, hehe… I believe it’s easier to talk person to person, don’t you?”
Reichenbach nods. He thinks, I must find a starting point somewhere; once I have a starting point, it will be easier to unravel the rest.
“Yes,” says Doctor Promintzer, “one must distinguish between head and heart. The head sometimes wants one thing, the heart another. The head is hard, and people who mean nothing to each other may clash with hard heads… but people bound by ties of blood should let the heart speak. Herr Baron, your children…” Doctor Promintzer instinctively pauses and braces himself, for if he knows anything about human nature, the lion’s nature will now erupt.
But nothing of the sort happens. Reichenbach looks at Promintzer, thinking, no doubt this stranger somehow gained power over Friederike, and I can’t entirely absolve myself of guilt.
“They are, after all, your children, Herr Baron,” Promintzer continues, somewhat encouraged but still uncertain. “And you are Hermine’s father, and I assure you, Herr Schuh respects you more than you realize. It grieves your children greatly to live in enmity with you and to offer the public an unedifying spectacle. They believe this should end…”
Nothing happens still—no claws, no teeth, no lion’s roar. I am to blame, thinks Reichenbach, I must have been the one who discovered Friederike’s disposition and nurtured her sensitivity, and I should have guarded her better. In her sleep, she confessed she loves me—me, the old man. Perhaps I shouldn’t have suppressed that feeling; I should have let it flow freely. Maybe then her resilience would have been stronger, and that man would have had a harder time. Perhaps I hold one end of the thread?
Promintzer eyes the Freiherr suspiciously; the man seems not to be listening properly. But the matter must be brought to a conclusion, one way or another. Promintzer steels himself and delivers the decisive blow: “For all these reasons, especially matters of the heart, I’ve been tasked with proposing a reconciliation. Your children wish to withdraw their lawsuits against you. And they ask you to do the same in return. These disputes should be put to rest.”
Something about lawsuits reaches Reichenbach. Lawsuits? Oh yes, with Schuh and Hermine. What do these lawsuits matter to Reichenbach—what could be more irrelevant? “Yes, yes,” he says, “I’m willing to do that.”
Promintzer is stunned. He hadn’t imagined it would be this easy; he counts himself lucky to have caught the Freiherr in such a yielding mood—an enigma, an extraordinary stroke of fortune, also in another regard. For Doctor Promintzer’s own leniency is not unconnected to the fact that, in a certain sense, he has butter on his head.
“May I then, on behalf of my clients, withdraw the lawsuits tomorrow?” he asks, and when the Freiherr nods, he adds hesitantly, “I might also take care of another matter right away. There’s something else… and I must ask for forgiveness in this regard, though the fault is only minimally mine.”
The Freiherr makes no effort to help him along; his expression remains as dull as before, his mind already chasing the thread whose end he believes he’s found.
“You know,” Promintzer continues, “that after the death of old Doctor Gradwohl, the Prince of Salm’s syndic, I took over his practice. An Augean stable—God rest old Gradwohl’s soul, but his practice was a mess. The old man had grown very forgetful, couldn’t see well anymore, yet insisted on handling everything himself, leaving behind an indescribable chaos. We sorted through his files back then, but of course, you can’t turn every page—that was impossible. You’ll understand. And now I’ve started sorting out the old, obsolete files from the Salm days to discard them. And imagine… in one such old, unimportant case file, my people found, by chance, a letter addressed to you that was never delivered.”
“A letter to me?” asks Reichenbach indifferently.
“Yes, to you, and I believe it’s from the late Count Hugo. God knows how it ended up in that case file. Old Doctor Gradwohl must have completely forgotten it, and now it’s come to light. It’s embarrassing, terribly embarrassing, but you’ll agree my own office bears little fault…”
The Freiherr raises no objections; he holds the letter Doctor Promintzer took from his briefcase—a yellowed, old letter with brittle edges and crumbling seals, the handwriting still familiar across the long span of years, that of Count Hugo. Promintzer could leave. He had handled everything remarkably well, better than he ever thought possible; there wasn’t even an outburst over the belated delivery of the letter. He talked a bit more and then left, having managed splendidly, though he had found the Freiherr in an inexplicably amenable mood.
When he was gone, Reichenbach still held the yellowed letter with fragile edges and worn seals. Yes, indeed, it was the handwriting of his dead friend, a greeting from beyond the grave, from a grave where the Od light had long since faded. He went to his study, lit the lamp, and broke the seal. The Count wrote:
“Dearest Friend! I call you that perhaps for the last time and thank you one final time for all you’ve given and been to me. My condition is such that I can only smile at my doctors’ attempts to reassure me. It will soon be over for me. Business matters between us have already been arranged. This letter is meant for you alone, addressing a matter of the heart I can entrust to no one but you. I needn’t describe the nature of my marriage—you knew my wife and will understand that I had to be devoted with all my soul’s fervor to a woman who was in every way unlike her. You’ll also testify that I knew how to control myself. I lack both the courage and the time to describe my feelings to you; I want to finish this letter before it’s too late. I count on your understanding. But you won’t immediately understand that one can love a woman with one’s whole soul and yet, momentarily, fall to another with one’s senses. Longing, the pain of renunciation, unfulfilled desires undermine the better conscience, weaken the will; favorable circumstances arise. My own wife cold as ice, the only beloved one unattainably distant, sacredly removed—then one meets a third, blazing like a flame, giving herself so recklessly that she silences all reservations and sweeps one into her fire. To be brief, you should know that the youngest child of my forester Ruf, whom your wife stood godmother to, is my child.”
The hand holding the dead man’s letter sank heavily against the desk’s edge. Later, as he heard a clock strike somewhere, Reichenbach read the final lines. The writing was shaky and uneven; the writer kept it brief, clearly having little time left, saving this letter for last. He wrote that he could make no provisions for the child that might draw attention or prompt guesses about their reasons. He entrusted the girl entirely to the care of his proven friend. And he wished to set aside a sum under some inconspicuous title for Reichenbach to cover her education and eventual marriage.
That hadn’t happened; the Count hadn’t found the time. But that was likely irrelevant. Friederike was the Count’s child, and Friederike was gone.
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