Anarchistbanjo's World

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

The beach grew livelier, so after a brief
continuation of the conversation, which turned to
other topics, Ruprecht invited his friend for a walk.
They strolled along the shore, then climbed toward
the heights between villas and hotels. Sky and sea
shimmered in boundless clarity. The setting sun
seemed to conjure all the sea’s gold from its blue
depths. A refreshing coolness rose from below,
mingled with the scents of myriad blossoms and
fruits, woven into a dense garland around the coast.
The summer was wondrously beautiful, blessed with
constant sunshine yet tempered by a lively, cooling
breeze that prevented scorching heat. No one wanted
to leave this shore. The season stretched far beyond
its usual end, into a time when all would typically
have fled.
Ruprecht and Hugo reached a rocky outcrop
offering a clear view of the coast and sea. Before the
low sun hung a narrow cloud, like a knife poised over
an orange. The sea was calm, bearing fishing boats
with a willing smile.
“There’s the scene of your heroics,” Hugo said,
pointing to the two white stone cubes among the
vineyards where Ruprecht had lassoed Mr. Müller.
“What made you get involved? It was decidedly
original, but… one doesn’t just help the police like
that, do they?”
“You can imagine I found Mr. Müller more
likable than the helpless police commissioner. Still—
why? The bit of danger intrigued me. I think danger’s
one of the sweetest pleasures life offers.”
“You find too little of it in our quiet Europe.
That’s why you roam the world, seeking wilder
places. God, you’ve got it good! No one to answer to,
money like hay, doing as you please. I’d love to
travel too—not like you, but with pleasant company,
under Cook’s care, so I don’t wake up in a Papuan’s
stomach.”
Ruprecht smiled, gazing silently at the sea. Then,
with a sweeping half-circle of his arm, he
encompassed the beauty spread before them. “Only
those who know struggle,” he said, “can truly
appreciate peace. How glorious this is. How the soul
simplifies, how wings grow.”
A faint chime rose over sea and land. Like a
delicate, firm web, the peals of church bells, ringing
the evening blessing, stretched through the clear air.
The friends sat silently for a while. Then Hugo
reminded them to head back to avoid missing dinner
at the hotel. They descended quickly through the
twilight, past orchards and vineyards, and at the
Kaiser von Österreich, Hugo parted with a promise to
visit again tomorrow.
Reaching his room, Ruprecht began changing. He
was in high spirits. The evening’s colors and sounds
had sunk into him, filling him with joy. He always
felt this way on the eve of new adventures, brimming
with expectation and eager energies. Yet he knew
only months of quiet country life awaited,
somewhere with few people and no events.
As he donned his dinner jacket, his Malay servant
entered the dressing room, standing erect by the door.
“What is it?” Ruprecht asked.
“Sir, a woman wishes to speak with you. She’s
waiting in the salon.”
Somewhat surprised, Ruprecht followed. Before
entering, he placed a hand on the Malay’s shoulder.
“Wait! Is she one of those you visited on my behalf?”
“Yes, sir.”
Well, by all the gods of Hindustan, she was
persistent! That was something! A strange way to
approach a stranger. Smiling, Ruprecht entered the
salon.
Under the chandelier stood the young widow who
enchanted all, the woman who sat front-row at the
Emperor’s celebration. She smiled too. Ruprecht
bowed.
She took a few steps toward him. Silk skirts
rustled, a faint cloud of perfume wafted over. A
peculiar scent—dried fruit, hay, and something else
Ruprecht couldn’t pinpoint.
“You thought, on your way here, that I’m
persistent,” she said. “You found it odd to answer a
refused meeting with a visit.”
“You’re very perceptive, madam!” Ruprecht
replied.
“Oh, come, that hardly takes perception—it was
clear in your smile. Well, see, I’m smiling too. And
do you know what my smile says? It expresses my
pleasure in proving you wrong.”
Ruprecht met her eyes—green, with narrow
pupils, seeming to drink in light and scatter it in a
thousand rays, as if dissecting it. Cat’s eyes, he
thought. They held that indefinable expression,
neither clearly friendly nor hostile.
“I’m no starry-eyed schoolgirl,” she continued,
“nor an adventure-seeking woman. I’m not after a
flirt or a fleeting resort acquaintance. I simply want
to meet you, exchange a few words, to know what to
make of you.”
The perfume, seeping from her exquisite lace
gown and soft brown hair, unsettled Ruprecht. He,
who’d studied the Orient’s delicate, provocative
scents, was uneasy at failing to identify this elusive
note.
“Forgive me,” he said slowly, “your letter was one
among many. It didn’t stand out.”
She laughed. “Then your perception failed you.
You should’ve seen at once I’ve no intention of
throwing myself at you with loving gestures.”
What does she want, then? Ruprecht thought. Her
gaze, accompanying those words, didn’t align with
them. It didn’t contradict, but clung to him—a
promise given and withdrawn, a granting that was
also a retreat.
“I could do so more easily than others,” she said,
“for I answer to no one. You’d only have to fight two
or three duels with my ardent admirers. That
wouldn’t trouble you, would it? But truly, I only wish
to know if you’re as vain as they say.”
Ruprecht flinched. The word stung. He
straightened slightly and said, “Madam…”
She smiled again. “Hold on… I find it improper to
parade in costume as a wild man before a respectable
audience, shooting holes in cards and shattering glass
balls. Isn’t that a far worse surrender of one’s person
than other artistic pursuits, which are already
deplorable prostitutions? My late husband studied
Indian philosophers. He called the arts silver
embroidery on Maya’s veil—something special,
glittering, yet part of the web of illusions. You know
Schopenhauer thought differently. But I believe my
husband was right.”
Ruprecht stood dumbfounded. What did this
woman want, with her odd jumble of “personality,”
“Maya’s veil,” and Schopenhauer? Was this an
original worldview or mere confusion? He grasped
only that she presumed to judge him, acting as if she
had a right to challenge him, which irked him all the
more since he hadn’t fully shaken the shame of his
performance.
“Forgive me,” he said, mustering a blunt defense,
“I believe I’ve proven vanity has no hold over me.”
“Oh, certainly,” she laughed, “you didn’t attend
the rendezvous. But… isn’t that a ploy? Perhaps
you’re spoiled. Who knows? In my presence, a bet
was made that you’re not vain. I judged from your
sharpshooting display and took the wager. Now, I
must admit—you didn’t come, and it seems I’ve lost.
Yet I’d like to know if I haven’t won precisely
because of that. I suspect you aim to stand out in a
unique way.”
“I’ve no such intention,” Ruprecht said, annoyed.
“It was a favor for my friend. I was persuaded. And
before… the lasso affair was just for the thrill of
it…”
At that moment, the dinner gong clanged in the
hall below—a long, wild peal, a hideous noise
piercing every corner of the hotel, even through the
salon’s heavy curtains, drowning all other sounds.
Three single strikes followed.
“You’re summoned to dine,” the widow said. “I’ll
go. Well… I must accept my bet is lost. What else
can I do? Thank you for listening so kindly.”
She offered her slender hand freely, meeting his
eyes with equal ease.
“Let the gong make its racket,” Ruprecht said,
agitated. “You come here, insult me with your
suspicions… yes, forgive me, I find that offensive.
Let me explain… I was deeply vexed at getting
involved. No… please, I don’t care about being late
for dinner.”
But the young widow insisted she couldn’t bear
the guilt, nor did she wish to draw attention at her
hotel by arriving late to table. Yet her eyes said
something else: Oh, foolish man, happiness stands
before you, just reach out.