Anarchistbanjo's World

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

But now she turns around, and it’s quite strange to see the change that comes over her. It’s as if a picture comes to life, as if the rigidity of a statue melts into hesitantly probing life. The woman looks around; there’s a room she doesn’t know—a simple room with a round table before a rep-covered sofa, a lithograph of the good Emperor Ferdinand on the wall, and a bed and a nightstand behind a half-drawn floral, printed cotton curtain. And there stands young Reinhold at the door, looking bewildered, with one arm in a sling and the sleeve of his coat hanging loosely over it.

“For God’s sake,” the woman groans, “what has happened to me?”

But then she suddenly understands what has happened; that, that horrible thing has happened again—the darkness has overtaken her again. The woman realizes she is delivered up to it and that it will keep returning, and she sinks onto the rep sofa with a small, quiet sob, covering her face with her hands.

Reinhold stands there, not knowing what to do. There sits the Hofrätin, evidently utterly miserable on the sofa, sobbing—and truly, tears well up between her fingers—good heavens, she’s crying, and Reinhold is completely clueless as to why. What should one do, what should one do at all? And Reinhold sinks to his knees before the sofa, touching the weeping woman’s hip with a tender, caressing hand, stammering only: “But gracious lady… but gracious lady…!” and a gentle warmth enters his lovesick, yearning heart. A kind of happiness comes over him at being able to offer comfort.

On that spring-like yet stormy March 13, something astonishing also occurred in the house of Freiherr von Reichenbach for him. Of his children, only Hermine had appeared at the midday table.

Chaos reigned in the city, and Hermine was beside herself with worry about her siblings. The Freiherr was also agitated, but his anger outweighed paternal fear—at least he showed none of it and only raged about the recklessness of these wayward children. The afternoon passed, and evening came, and as they were about to sit down for dinner, Ottane suddenly appeared. Hermine, who had been wrestling with the most dreadful imaginings and found it cruel to sit down to eat as if nothing had happened, jumped up and threw herself around Ottane’s neck with a joyful cry.

Reichenbach merely looked up from his plate and asked: “Where have you been, Ottane?”

Ottane was very pale and frightened. Where had she been? Oh, she had been at a friend’s house, making a visit, and then suddenly the uprising broke out; there was shooting, the streets full of people—it had been impossible to get through. She had tried several times, but by God, it was impossible. She had to wait. Now the citizens’ guard had marched out, and strong patrols roamed the streets, and it was said the students would be armed to restore order. And it was even said Metternich had resigned or would resign…

“Why don’t you let Severin or one of the others accompany you?” asked Reichenbach, ignoring the political events. “You know I can’t stand it when you wander the city alone. Which friend were you with?”

“At Frau von Riva’s,” said Ottane without batting an eye. She had prepared what she had to say; she had gone through her friends one by one and finally settled on Frau Josephine von Rivo, the young widow of an imperial official, a solitary woman without family ties, so no one could easily inquire further. But there was no other way; at least Frau von Rivo had to be brought in, and Max had also seen that the secret now had a confidante, leaving Ottane paralyzed by the thought of having to profane it.

To Hermine’s surprise, Reichenbach made no reproaches to Ottane; he only asked further: “And where is Reinhold?”

Where Reinhold was, Ottane couldn’t say; she knew nothing of him and guarded herself from admitting she had spotted him among the students.

“I can’t always be running after you,” said Reichenbach, standing up, “but it seems it’s necessary for someone to come into the house and take the reins in hand.”

Ottane’s heart cried out. No, she already knew what her father meant—no, not that, that mustn’t happen. She spoke about it with Hermine; they agreed on this, though Hermine assented shyly and reservedly—how could they rebel against the father’s will? The sisters lay in bed and talked about it, then grew anxious again about Reinhold. He had been among the students—where had he ended up?

They lay awake, listening to see if they could hear him come. Reinhold didn’t come; he didn’t come. Finally, it was perhaps ten o’clock, they heard the house bell, and then Severin spoke with someone downstairs in the hall. Someone climbed the stairs quickly. Ottane opened a crack in the door; the steps passed by, faded in the direction of Reichenbach’s study.

“It’s Hofrat Reißnagel,” said Ottane, disappointed, and closed the door.

Yes, the nighttime visitor was Hofrat Reißnagel, and he stood panting from the quick walk before Reichenbach, asking: “Is my wife here? Severin says she isn’t, but perhaps…?” He meant perhaps Paulme was there to conduct experiments with Reichenbach, and Severin might not know.

No, Frau Hofrätin was not there!

“She’s been out of the house since morning, and with this tumult… You know my wife sometimes has such states… but she’s never been gone this long.”

“It seems the whole world has gone mad,” said Reichenbach angrily, striking the notebook before him with his strong hand. “Ottane has only just returned. Ruf was summoned for a settlement; I waited for him all day in vain; finally, in the evening, he staggers in, drunk as a lord, spouting nonsense about freedom of the press and a constitution. One can’t get a sensible word out of him. And Reinhold isn’t home at all.”

“Yes… but… my wife… my wife!” The Hofrat shook his head; perhaps the Freiherr was right—the world had gone mad, even imperial Vienna had been outraged; it was heard that Metternich had left; as a Hofrat, one had to press along the walls of the street—it was certainly unpleasant to be recognized as a Hofrat now, all bonds were loosened.

That was the collapse, and Paulme was gone, and there was nothing to do but hide.

Reinhold didn’t come all night; he arrived only the next morning at nine, when the gates to the suburbs were reopened. He was exhausted but composed, with his right arm in a sling and the sleeve hanging empty over it.

“So the wandering lord is back?” said Reichenbach mockingly, ignoring the bandage and empty sleeve. “The freedom fighter honors the paternal home with his return? Does the politician not plan to head the Austrian government?”

Reinhold could have mentioned the Hofrätin, and in moments of discouragement, he had considered it. But now he grew entirely defiant and stubborn, offering no form of apology.

It wouldn’t have helped him anyway. The father didn’t mince words with him; he locked him in his room, and while his comrades donned the armbands of the academic legion, while the national guard was formed and finally the proclamation of the constitution was celebrated, Reinhold sat in his room with water and bread. But Ottane provided meat, dumplings, and wine; she lowered a well-filled basket from the floor above Reinhold’s prison, and when Reinhold’s healthy arm grabbed the basket and pulled it through the window, she could smile a little for the first time in days.