Anarchistbanjo's World

Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

The stranger turned, striding in the opposite
direction. The plain’s rolling waves stretched before
him. Fields lay in patches of black and dirty snow-
gray. Winter crops showed green in sheltered spots.
The air was potent, the earth pulsing with urge. Over
narrow field paths, wet earth clumping on his boots,
the sausage-skinned man marched toward his goal.
At last, Sankt Leonhard am Horner Wald’s tower
rose over a ridge. Three or four houses clustered near
the church; the village’s other farms scattered across
the plain. Dark woods filled the hollows.
As fitting, the houses by the church were two inns
and a large general store stocking every farmstead
need.
Entering Alois Fürst’s tavern-room, the stranger
found carters by the stove, discussing weather. Talk
halted as they scrutinized him.
Finally, Mathes Dreiseidel von Vorderschluder,
pointing with his pipe stem, said to his neighbor,
“That’s the daft professor livin’ with us.”
“A professor?” others whispered hoarsely. “He
can’t wait for summer.”
“He ain’t no summer guest. He’s doin’ studies
round here.”
“Oh… is that so?”
They fell silent, eyeing the professor, who’d shed
his sausage coat and sat at a nearby table. Thick blue
smoke curled from their pipes. Mathes Dreiseidel
drained his glass, rapping the table for another quart.
“Say, then,” the Wegschaid carter, who drove
twice weekly through Sankt Leonhard to Gars,
resumed, “our roads are a mess. I tell ye, some folk
meddle in everything. Big mouths get their way.
Look at our roads—they ain’t built for all’s best, but
for them loudmouths. Roads take big detours. Why?
‘Cause someone’s got a tavern there. I name no
names. Anyone crossing the Wolfshofen land knows
who I mean.”
“Aye… true enough,” others agreed. The
Idolsberg bergmaster added, “Plenty to fix round
here. Couldn’t the gentry build a road from
Rosenburg to Wegschaid? I’ve studied the Kamp
valley close. Two blasts, no more. It’d profit them
too. Now they float logs from Rosenburg. Half’s
lost—twenty percent gone. What arrives is half-
rotted.”
“Pardon, gentlemen,” the stranger cut in. “You
mention the Kamp. Do you know why the river’s
called that?”
Mathes Dreiseidel nudged the Idolsberg
bergmaster. He grunted, catching the hint. Those
studies. But what to say to such a daft question?
The Wegschaid carter spoke, slipping into High
German. “Well, since the Herr asks, I must say we
don’t rightly know. The river’s always been called
that. It’s marked Kamp on maps too.”
“That’s so,” the bergmaster growled.
The professor pressed on. “Haven’t you heard
older folk call the river something else? Idolsberg’s
an intriguing name too. There’s a wealth of ancient
names here.”
“Nah!” the carters said. The Wegschaid carter,
once a waiter at Graz’s Golden Elephant, added,
“No! No memory of it remains.”
“Hm!” the professor grunted, then continued, “By
the way, you’re quite right about what you said
earlier. The Kamp valley needs a road. It’d boost
traffic tremendously.”
“Aye, but that Rosenburger does naught. Always
off in Africa,” grumbled a farmer.
“There are other landowners. Rotbirnbach has a
stake, too. And Herr von Boschan in Vorderschluder,
most of all. He’s said to be a capable man.”
The farmers exchanged glances. “Herr von
Boschan’s only been in Vorderschluder a few
months,” said the Idolsberg bergmaster. “If he lasts
longer, he might do somethin’.”
“What do you mean? Is he strapped for cash?” A
brief silence followed. The Wegschaid carter, eager
to show his worldliness, spoke up. “Well, money’s no
issue, but folks say he won’t last long, ‘cause none of
Frau von Boschan’s husbands ever do.”
The professor smiled. “Yes, I recall now. I was
told. He’s her third husband.”
“Pardon! Beggin’ yer pardon! He’s the fourth.”
“Right, the fourth. Yes, yes! And the last, if I’m
not mistaken, was a certain Herr Sangwart.”
“Dankwardt, his name was. A right kind
gentleman, but knew nothin’ ‘bout farmin’. Always
buried in books.” The Wegschaid carter shared what
he knew of Herr Dankwardt.
The others cloaked themselves in smoke and
silence. The professor dipped his bucket of questions
into the carter’s well of eloquence.
Evening fell. A red sky peered through the
windows. The Idolsberg bergmaster, first to stir,
decided it was time to head home. He tapped out his
pipe, spat on the floor, and stood.
Mathes Dreiseidel offered the professor a seat on
his cart. They rolled into the dusk. Dreiseidel smoked
on the driver’s bench; the professor, jostled on straw
in the back, jotted notes in a red book as best he
could.
At Achenwald, he tapped the farmer’s shoulder.
“Thanks kindly, Herr Dreiseidel,” he said. “I’ll cut
through the woods—much shorter.”
“Know the paths? It’s pitch dark.”
“When you roam as much as I do, you’re
prepared. Got my pocket lantern.” He climbed down.
“So, thanks again. Next time, you ride my cart.”
Dreiseidel clattered off, the night swallowing the
rumble. The professor stood alone in the dark. He
carefully drew his folding lantern from its oilcloth
case, snapped it open, and fitted a candle. A match
flared, and after some effort, the bent wick caught.
He plunged into the woods. On the narrow path,
the light danced in wild leaps ahead. With sure steps,
the stranger followed, his gait confident, springy. He
mulled over today’s haul from the Wegschaider’s
well.
After a while, he looked up, startled. A light
flickered toward him through the trees. He stepped
aside. A man approached in a short hunting jacket
and high boots. A jolt of joy shot through the
professor. By God, it was none other than Herr von
Boschan.
The professor stepped back onto the path,
shoulders slumped, trudging with a despairing air.
Facing Boschan, he raised his lantern. “Excuse me,”
he said.
Boschan lifted his lantern, revealing a distressed,
pitiful face.
“Pardon, good sir,” the professor said again. “Can
you tell me if I’m on the right path?”
“Where are you headed?” Boschan asked, amused.
What was this man in his yellow overcoat doing in
the pitch-black woods?
“I think I’m lost. I’m new here, don’t know my
way yet.”
“Where do you live?”
“With Rotrehl, the violin-maker. They told me this
wood path cuts a good distance.”
“You’re on the right track. Keep going, take the
left at every fork, then left down at the forest’s edge.”
“That’s a relief. I’m not familiar yet, as I said…
always left! Thank you kindly, sir! Allow me—
Schiereisen… from Vienna!”
Ruprecht bowed briefly. “Boschan.”
Schiereisen’s wide mouth gaped. “What, Herr von
Boschan? An honor and pleasure… truly. Since
arriving, I’ve hoped to make your acquaintance…
and now chance brings us together at night in the
woods… ha… ha! Quite something, no? I’m here for
studies. This area’s remarkably interesting; I
suspect—”
He’s liable to lecture me here, Ruprecht thought,
cutting in. “I knew at once you were a professor,” he
said, smiling.
“Not quite! I’m more a private scholar,
researching for pleasure. I haven’t sold out to the
state. Once you’re dubbed professor, free inquiry’s
done. Look at our dear Austria’s state of affairs.
What do you say? I’d rather forgo titles and honors,
stay independent. I can do and write as I please… no
one’s leash on me. I’m working on a study of Central
European culture, and your region—”
“Pardon,” Ruprecht said, a touch impatient, “my
wife’s expecting me. I was delayed at a quarry…”
Schiereisen laid a hand on Ruprecht’s arm. “One
more word, Herr von Boschan… I’ll let you go… I’m
thrilled to meet you… There’s a bit of self-interest,
too. I heard your predecessor, Herr Dankwardt, had a
vast library and loved books. It’s only natural some
might… I mean, he likely took interest in this land’s
prehistory, and I could find valuable resources.
Amateurs often stumble on books scholars seek in
vain. If you’d…”
“It’d be my pleasure to host you. The library’s at
your disposal.”
The lantern-lit talk on the narrow forest path
ended. They shook hands and parted. Schiereisen’s
candle had burned low. He paused after a few steps to
adjust it, whistling softly with a smile. His lantern’s
Marienglas crackled in the heat.
Then he strode briskly to reach home.
That evening, he wrote to Herr Peter Franz von
Zaugg, Section Councilor in the Railway Ministry:
“Dear Sir, It is with sincere satisfaction that I report,
after a relatively short stay, some not insignificant
successes. I have diligently gathered material. You
will understand that this case, which you kindly
entrusted to me, presents considerable challenges. I
reserve a full account for later. Today, I wish only to
note that a fortunate chance introduced me to Herr
von Boschan. I have secured unobtrusive, harmless
access to the castle, and rest assured, I will seize
every opportunity to advance my goal. I hope soon to
provide you and your esteemed wife with clarity on
the dark, mysterious circumstances surrounding your
late brother-in-law’s fate and, should your suspicions
prove founded, to ensure justice for a heinous crime.
With utmost respect, Your devoted, Josef Tängler.”