Anarchistbanjo's World

by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Beautiful lady,” says the man with the cap cheerfully, in his best high German, “it’s a great imprudence for Your Grace to wander alone like this. There are so many bad people down here in the Prater—a young, beautiful lady with so much jewelry, that doesn’t bode well. You can be glad you’ve met us, and we will permit ourselves to escort you.”

Since the woman still says nothing, the man takes her hand and pulls her deeper into the bushes, while the old man closes his shaded lantern and follows, watching to ensure she doesn’t suddenly run off.

And nearby, beyond the thicket, the stream roars in the darkness—

At first, the Hofrat had hoped his wife would return home, as she had on that March day, once she awoke from her state, and he had resolved to follow Doctor Eisenstein’s advice to send her to his brother-in-law’s estate near Graz. Country air, the doctor suggested, was what she needed—this noisy Vienna was unsuitable for her, and he hinted it was especially important to shield her from the experiments with which Reichenbach further disrupted her weakened nervous system. He was now quite opposed to these experiments, stating as her family physician he could no longer endorse them.

The Hofrat waited, inwardly indignant but not overly alarmed, until the evening of the next day. Then fear overtook him, and he reported his wife missing to the police.

From Ottane, they learned the Hofrätin had been at the hospital, leading them to conclude she had wandered toward the Alservorstadt and prompting a search of the city’s west side.

When the rumor of the Hofrätin’s disappearance spread through the city, people came forward claiming to have seen her on the street. The statements contradicted each other, offering no clear picture; the poor woman seemed to have wandered aimlessly. It was Reinhold who insisted on searching the Prater. A chestnut vendor at the end of Jägerzeile had given a description that seemed to match Frau Pauline. Had she gone there? A hunch had led him to Jägerzeile, and the vendor’s account deepened his fears. Reinhold took leave from the factory, scoured the entire Prater, and kept returning to the Danube, its yellow, muddy waters swollen with meltwater, its roar seeming to drown out a beloved voice.

On the fifth day, the Hofrätin’s body was pulled from the stream.

The police doctor noted signs of assault, with strangulation as the likely cause of death; the commissioner confirmed the jewelry she was known to have taken was missing.

Yes, yes, it was clearly a robbery-murder, no doubt about it.

The fishermen, with their dripping waders and long poles used to probe the riverbed, stood around the body. Year in, year out, they A multitude of bodies from the Danube was nothing new to them; they were hardened to death. But a Hofrätin had never been among them, let alone a murdered one! Yes, there she lay, looking no different from the other waterlogged corpses that had spent five days in the Danube.

Reinhold walked away; what came next was a matter for the police—he had no further business here. He didn’t want the image he carried within him to be destroyed as well. That image lived in him, and he wanted to keep it alive.

He went to Ottane at the hospital, and Ottane knew at a glance at his face that something terrible had happened. Still, she asked, “What has happened?”

“The Hofrätin has been murdered and thrown into the Danube.”

“So that’s what had to happen!” Ottane had sensed how things stood with her brother; now it became certainty as she saw his haggard features and noticed the trembling of his hands. She wanted to comfort him, taking those trembling hands gently and tenderly between her own.

But Reinhold only shook his head, withdrew from her, and left.

The Freiherr was at home. Reinhold entered the study without knocking, unaware that he still had his hat on.

Reichenbach looked up from his work on the book about the sensitive human with disapproval. The written pages had accumulated into a considerable stack; the desk was covered with countless notes, excerpts from the diary, hasty remarks, and nearly every one bore the Hofrätin’s name.

“The Hofrätin has been murdered and thrown into the Danube,” Reinhold repeated.

“Murdered? That’s horrific!” Reichenbach exclaimed.

“And you are her murderer,” said Reinhold in the same calm, toneless voice.

“What are you saying?”

“You are to blame for her death. You’ve only ever thought of your Od. You shouldn’t have misused her for your experiments; she perished because of it. Her delicate health couldn’t withstand it; her condition worsened since you tormented her with these things.”

Reichenbach stood up and stepped threateningly toward Reinhold: “Have you gone mad? Where do you get these insane accusations? I’ll have you locked up.”

But threats and intimidation no longer worked on Reinhold. He didn’t lower his gaze or crumple to stand at attention afterward; he looked his father in the eyes and said, “You won’t do that. I’m not a schoolboy anymore, and I want nothing more to do with you. Our paths are parted from today onward.”

“Go to the devil for all I care!” shouted Reichenbach, throwing himself into the armchair at the desk, scattering the notes in a whirl. He paid no further attention to Reinhold—let him do as he pleased; he was done with him.

Toward evening, Severin entered the study and announced that the meal was served; after some hesitation, he added that the young master had left and ordered his belongings prepared in his room to be sent to the factory.

Reichenbach sat at the desk, head in his hands, not looking up or turning around. “Very well!” he said wearily.

It seemed, however, as if Reinhold had at least voiced part of public opinion. Initially, people had watched the Freiherr’s endeavors with smiling disbelief; then his Od became a veritable fad. Now, it was almost falling into disrepute. While some continued to smile or resumed doing so, voices emerged claiming that the case of Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel showed the matter wasn’t so harmless or safe, and that the police should actually intervene. Hofrat Reißnagel himself wasn’t among those voicing such opinions; he displayed a dignified and appropriate mourning expression, as befitted a man so heavily struck by misfortune, and he continued to associate with the Freiherr. After all, he was in a business partnership with Reichenbach—one hopefully profitable—and he didn’t hold the rumors blaming Od against the Freiherr. However, while the Hofrat remained silent, the deceased’s family physician, Doctor Eisenstein, openly admitted that Reichenbach’s experiments had adversely affected the poor woman’s soul, hastening her tragic end—and as the family doctor, who else would know better?

Among Reichenbach’s neighbors on Kobenzl—the small farmers and vintners—a wariness toward the Freiherr spread. They had never understood what he was trying to do; he locked people in a pitch-black chamber, engaged in the oddest practices with magnets and hand-laying. No one knew what good it served. He had always seemed strange to them; now he became eerie. They called him the Wizard of Kobenzl, avoided passing his castle at dusk or night, and crossed themselves when they saw light in his study.