Anarchistbanjo's World

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

The farmers watched. Some, dull-witted, grasped
nothing of the stakes. Others, with schadenfreude,
relished the “gentry” taking a hit. But they didn’t join
in. The factory workers, mostly outsiders, found no
local allies. They gathered at the “Hotel Bellevue” at
the village’s lower end, stoking each other’s fervor.
They tore their foes apart in rhetoric, devouring one
with each meal. Meals still came—the strike
committee had secured ample funds from Vienna.
They could live and let live.
The Bellevue’s landlord profited. A sort of fallen
genius, he’d roamed the world before settling here,
marrying into a peasant family to the father’s dismay.
Gradually, he’d seized control. With the family’s
savings, he’d turned their farm into the “Hotel
Bellevue,” its “fine view” aimed at summer tourists’
wallets. The grand name was otherwise unearned.
Before the veranda, the Kamp flowed murky and
sullen, confined yet lacking the beauty of frothy
rapids. Across was a near-bare gneiss wall,
perpetually wet-looking. A few birches clung to
crevices, seeming to regret it, gazing miserably
down, yearning to escape. The rear windows faced a
gaping hole in the hillside, where the landlord had
dug clay for bricks. It always looked untidy, hardly
picturesque, despite what a kind soul might claim.
The “Red Ox” landlady held her own. Her clean,
cheerful, well-fed warmth was untouched by worry.
Guests preferred her plump comfort to the Bellevue
landlord’s frantic hustle.
Foiled in his capitalist dreams, the Bellevue
landlord sided with the workers. His hotel became
their meeting place, their headquarters.
Here, Rauß delivered fiery speeches, rousing his
followers to bold deeds. They began, per tradition, by
smashing the factory’s windows. Not one pane
survived in the director’s home.
Evenings, they roamed the village, shouting.
Farmhands and maids returning from fields endured
their jeers.
One fine early summer evening, someone was
beaten. None other than Jérome Rotrehl, the
“Krampulljon.” His ill fate had drawn him to the
village, where they needed a target. Rauß, impartial
despite old ties, joined in. Principles trumped people.
Farmers at the “Red Ox” discussed the events,
their schadenfreude gone, but they couldn’t decide
what to do. The head teacher recalled 1848,
proposing a citizens’ militia to keep order.
“We ain’t citizens,” grumbled the alderman. True
enough. The teacher’s idea fell on barren ground—no
one had heard of a farmers’ militia.
Later, Rauß and two comrades stormed into the
“Red Ox” taproom—an outrageous affront. He
belonged at the Bellevue! The farmers huddled,
glared darkly, and spat from their left mouth-corners,
except Peterlehner, who spat from the right, his
mouth skewed that way.
They listened as Rauß ranted, pounding the table,
cursing the “sulfur gang,” the “clay-scratchers”
needing holes drilled in their thick skulls for funnels
to pour in human rights. Buying a costly church
banner while workers starved and fought for survival
was vile—a pro-vo-ca-tion! They’d show them
tomorrow at the banner consecration. The working
folk wouldn’t be mocked—damn it all!
But the Red Ox landlady’s plump warmth hid a
heroic soul. She mustered the courage the men
lacked, confronting Rauß. She wouldn’t tolerate
brawls in her inn. This was a decent establishment,
and he should return to the Bellevue where he
belonged.
Rauß grew fiercer, pounding a rhythm for a glass-
dance, yelling she’d learn her place—she’d fattened
on workers’ sweat and blood.
That struck her reputation. She wouldn’t stand for
it. With blazing eyes, she declared his workers could
stay wherever, and if she was round, it was from
potatoes and maybe dumplings—not, fie!—sweat and
blood. She stormed out, slamming the kitchen door,
to her guests’ approving smirks.
Rauß held the battlefield, raging on. Not for long.
Schorsch, the Red Ox’s house servant, entered
meekly through the same door, asking Rauß if he
preferred the door or the window. Schorsch, the only
man in the village unafraid of Rauß, was a Kamptal
legend for feats during his service with Infantry
Regiment No. 49, Freiherr von Hess, in Brno. He’d
been with the machine-gun unit—a rare honor—
proving his worth. He stood before the troublemaker,
rolling his sleeves to his armpits.
Rauß, unyielding, sneered that throwing him out
took two. Schorsch wasted no time, grabbed him by
the collar, wrapped massive arms around his chest,
and carried him to the door, ejecting him with a twist
and a well-placed kick. The table and glasses toppled.
Rauß’s comrades, Maurerwenzel among them,
seemed poised to avenge him. But Schorsch raised
his right hand, palm open.
“Look here,” he said. That hand, a marvel in
peace, was a terror in conflict. Maurerwenzel glanced
at its calloused hide and splayed fingers, then
followed his leader out with his comrade.
“That’s right!” said Mathes Dreiseidel. “Should’ve
tossed him out sooner. Can’t let that slide.” He
rewarded himself with a hearty gulp, as if claiming
the deed.
The first assault was repelled. But this fine
ejection was Schorsch’s last feat in Vorderschluder
for now. He had a military drill summons in his
pocket and had to leave that evening.
The banner consecration was set for the next
morning.
Some thought it unwise, given the tense times, and
suggested postponing the festival. But what could be
done? Preparations were complete, invitations sent,
and even the district captain had confirmed his
attendance. Stubborn heads insisted they mustn’t be
intimidated or yield. This triumph couldn’t be
granted to the infernal enemy and his minions.
Recently, old Marianne from the castle had suffered a
fit in church, crying amid prayers and tears that the
vessel of sins was full and divine grace exhausted.
This shook superstitious minds. Was it a serious
warning? They sought the protection of the holy
patron Leopold, whose image was embroidered in
gold and silk on the new banner.
The festival began with cannon shots from the
hills above the Kamp. The sound rolled into the
valley, echoing off rock walls. The sky smiled kindly,
as if Saint Leopold sat on white summer clouds,
delighted by the fine gift.
Then the bells rang, lending Vorderschluder a
solemn air. Streets were strewn with boughs and
flowers, and in farmhouses, white-clad girls had their
curls singed and adorned with ribbons. From the
church tower’s three windows hung flags in papal,
imperial, and provincial colors. The parsonage was
draped in bunting, and above the door, a bough
wreath bore a motto:
“The banner leads us forth. We follow it with
faith…
The old flag was worn. We’ve gifted one afresh.”
The head teacher, the verse’s poet, passed the
parsonage thrice that morning to admire his work in
place. He basked in glory, feeling nearly the event’s
star, save for stomach unease. Expecting the feast,
he’d fasted almost entirely the previous day, and now
his hunger defied reason.
As morning flowed into forenoon, guests arrived:
local landowners, neighboring priests, officials, and
finally the district captain. From Vienna came Anton
Sykora, honorary chairman of the Christian Progress
Friends, claiming a right to celebrate, his association
having donated generously. Spectators gathered
before the parsonage. White-clad girls waited in the
garden under the head teacher’s lead. The dignitaries
assembled in the parson’s study. Only Frau Helmina
was missing; then they could begin. The parson had
wine served for fortification. They sat where they
could. In the corner stood the Karl Borromaeus
Society committee, freshly shaved, wiping their
mouths neatly with the backs of their hands after
drinking.
The district captain was affable, beckoning the
alderman. “You’ve had troubles lately… a strike,
worker unrest… nothing serious, I hope?”
The alderman assured him the agitation would
soon subside.
“Yes, yes!” the captain nodded. “See that peace
returns quickly. I don’t like this in my district. I’m
answerable in Vienna, you understand…” The
alderman quailed at this vast responsibility. “By the
way,” the captain continued, “let’s hope no
disturbances occur today. There’ve been rumors… I
dislike such festivals marred by reckless incidents.
What would that look like? The parson informed me.
Just in case—assuming your consent—I’ve
requisitioned gendarmes from Gars. They’ll arrive
this morning. You could’ve thought of that. What’s
the gendarmerie for? Call them in time. You
should’ve considered it.” After this fatherly rebuke,
his goodwill shone again. “Still, well done, dear
Hingler, the Karl Borromaeus Society’s efforts are
commendable. I’ll note your special merits.”
The slight man with weary eyes and wrinkled
cheeks turned with a kind nod, rejoining the parson.
He made distinctions: the alderman was summoned;
to the parson, he went.
“All’s quiet in the village, Reverend,” he said.
“No sign of the troublemakers.”
“They’re all at the Hotel Bellevue. They’re quiet
unless drunk. I’d like to start. If only Frau von
Boschan would come.”
Helmina struggled with her toilette, too agitated to
be satisfied by her maid. This stemmed from a
morning talk with Ruprecht, fueled by rage and fear.
The previous day, Ruprecht received a letter from
his friend Wetzl. It was a detailed report on a
substance Ruprecht sent, identified as radium. Wetzl
confirmed receipt, described its appearance and
properties, noted its weight, and pledged to preserve
it for Ruprecht, unaltered unless requested for
experiments. The sealed letter accompanying it
would be kept safe, released only on Ruprecht’s or
the Gars notary’s order.
After reading, Ruprecht locked himself in his
study, drafting a document across several sheets,
sealing them in a sturdy envelope with five wax
seals. At noon, he drove to Gars, returning late after
Helmina had retired.