Anarchistbanjo's World

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

Chapter Four
After dinner, Ruprecht wandered into the castle
garden. Frau Helmina, weary, had asked to retire
early. But Ruprecht wasn’t sleepy. Everything in him
was alert, poised, expectant.
The autumn evening was cool, dry leaves rustling
on the paths. This old castle had its romance. It must
once have been vast, for the garden was laid over a
field of ruins. Crumbling walls enclosed it; fragments
of ramparts stood among trees and shrubs. Ruprecht
passed pointed door arches or windows framed by
massive stones, upright amid rubble heaps. Near one
wing, linked by a covered wooden passage, stood a
stout tower, less decayed than the rest. Squat and
solid, it rose in a small birch grove, their white trunks
like shivering skeletons. Ruprecht pushed to the
round tower wall, spotting high above a black
opening—one of those inaccessible tower doors
reachable only by ladder.
It wasn’t exactly cozy here. The waning moon’s
light was pale and mournful, shrinking shyly from
darker shadows. Squinting, leaving only a narrow
slit, it seemed as if everything—ruined walls, trees,
shrubs—swam in a phosphorescent haze, the air of a
distant, alien star.
Ruprecht thrust his hands into his pockets, puffed
his cigar, and turned back toward the castle. Yellow-
red lights glowed in a few windows. Perhaps one was
Helmina’s bedroom. Yes—it was time to clarify
everything. Ruprecht wasn’t one for lingering
indecision. He knew Helmina drew him like no
woman since… since that one—oh, enough! He
pushed back old, painful memories. What use were
they now? A decision was needed.
Let’s be honest, dear fellow, he told himself.
We’ve already decided. Helmina retired to give you
time to think. It’s superfluous. Tomorrow, I’ll ask her
to be my wife. Oh—how beautiful she is, how
dangerous. I readily believe she killed her three
husbands—the mountaineer, the stroke candidate, the
bookworm. Cripples of life, poor devils, no match for
this splendid beast. But we, Frau Helmina, we have
fists and teeth. I’m eager to show you, lovely lady.
She’s cruel as a tigress. How she dismissed that poor
baron today—one, two, three, a stab to the heart. No
sentimentality to fear from her. I doubt she has tear
ducts. At dinner tonight, for instance. I ask, “Baron
Kestelli’s your neighbor, isn’t he?” She replies, “Oh,
he passes my time now and then.” Her teeth flashed
like a toothpaste ad, her words dripping venomous
scorn, a ruthless slaughter. Oh… I believe her soul
has regions like… like this garden—dark, filled with
secrets, whispering shadows, perhaps ruins of the
past. Let’s enter this garden… something new
awaits.*
His cigar had gone out. Striking a match, he saw
his cupped hands, shielding the flame, glow red
briefly, then darkness returned. Only the cigar’s
ember pulsed near his mouth. He walked slowly to
the castle, climbed the narrow, winding stair to his
room, and began undressing. Both windows stood
open. As he was about to lie down, a strange howling
began—starting low, rising to a high, thin quiver, like
vocal cords stretched to their limit. It was followed
by empty jabbering, clearly a prayer, words hopping
like peas on tin. Ruprecht peered out. In the servants’
wing below, a lit room glowed. Leaning forward, he
glimpsed part of it. A woman with gray, tangled hair
knelt at a table, head pressed to its edge. The
jabbering and clattering gave way to howling, now
weaving through varied modulations. Ruprecht found
it intriguing but unsettling. It didn’t last. Footsteps
crossed the courtyard. A broad back blocked the
window. “This whining again?” growled a muffled
bear’s voice. It was Lorenz, the robust valet, a mix of
sailor and masseur. A window slammed, glass
rattling.
Ruprecht withdrew. The castle fell silent, and
sleep drifted from the ceiling’s beams and the thick
Persian prayer rugs on the walls.
In the morning, Ruprecht met the castle’s mistress
in the breakfast room. The balcony door was open, a
crisp breeze wafting from the steaming meadows
around the castle. Mist prickled damply on the skin.
From the balcony, one looked down on the courtyard,
the ancient linden, and beyond the castle wall, the
chestnut treetops lining the path in double rows.
Helmina wore a wide kimono of green silk,
adorned not lavishly but tastefully with gold
embroidery. Ruprecht loved such loose, comfortable
garments. He smiled. As if she knew, he thought.
“How did you sleep?” Helmina asked.
“So well, I wish I could always sleep somewhere
not too far from you.” Ruprecht looked straight at
her. She lowered her eyes, but not fast enough to hide
a glint of triumph. No doubt—she reveled in her
victory.
“I hear,” Helmina said after a brief pause,
preserving the weight of his words, “our old
Marianne had another fit last night. I hope it didn’t
disturb you too long. I can’t turn the old woman out.
She’s served me for years. Some religious mania
grips her. She must atone for our sins, so she prays
and sings in the night.”
“Nothing could spoil my stay with you.”
Helmina raised her head. Morning sunlight, soft
and golden, slid across her brow. “Thank you for
your kindness, Herr von Boschan. But please, no
such talk before others. Young widows are too easily
slandered.”
“Listen, madam, I’m independent. My wealth lets
me live as I please. I’ve no relatives, no one with
claims on me.”
With soft steps, Helmina moved to the balcony.
Ruprecht followed. They sat in low, deeply curved
wicker chairs, facing each other. Helmina leaned
back, hands clasped behind her head. “Why tell me
this, Herr von Boschan?” she asked. Her mouth
twitched with lively muscle play, shifting its
expression constantly.
“Can’t you guess?”
“Let me tell you something: I’ve been married
three times.”
“I hope that won’t stop you from trying a fourth.”
“I know you’re restless. You’ve traveled far.
Soon, that urge will return. You’ll want to leave,
unhappy if you can’t. I’m quite comfortable,
disinclined to great exertions.”
“That’s your guarantee. I’m done with it. I want to
take root somewhere. Have a purpose. The land calls
to hold me fast. I regret selling my estates when I set
out to see the world—a castle in Styria, a farm in
Upper Austria. Now my wealth sits in a bank. I’d be
happy to become a farmer again.”
“Oh! You’d have to forgo living on your estates. I
can’t leave this old nest.”
Ruprecht took her hand. “That’s half a yes,
Helmina,” he said.
“Take it as a full one, Ruprecht,” she replied. She
rose, and he stood too. They faced each other, chest
to chest. “I’m young. I’m tired of widowhood.” Her
eyes burned. He raised his arms, embraced her, and
kissed her. They trembled with fierce desire.
Two children’s voices squealed in the courtyard.
“Mama!” Lissy called.
Helmina leaned over the balcony railing. “Come
up,” she said. “You’ll find the Papa you wished for.”
Ruprecht settled into his new role with happy
ease, noting without regret that he was engaged.
Sometimes he smiled, imagining his friends’
reactions. They’d soon be surprised. In a month,
Helmina’s mourning year would end, and the
wedding would proceed without delay.
Helmina allowed Ruprecht only eight more days
at the castle. Propriety demanded the groom be kept
from the bride. Jana, his Malay servant, was
summoned from Vienna with suitcases. During those
days, Ruprecht rode with Helmina across the fields.
He found them poorly managed—much work needed
here. He resolved to oversee it himself. “What do you
expect?” Helmina laughed. “My stewards are useless.
I know it. They’re all too in love with me to run my
estate properly.”
She was right. Her stewards fumed seeing her with
Ruprecht, even before learning he was her fiancé.
The paper factory clerks glared too. Ruprecht was the
intruder, shattering a host of rapturous hopes. Despite
Helmina’s ban, news of her engagement leaked from
the castle, turning anger into silent, envious hatred.
The day before his departure, returning from a
morning forest walk, Ruprecht found Baron Kestelli
with Helmina. His entrance cut their talk short. The
baron rose, bowed to Ruprecht, and left. His face
showed he couldn’t bear the groom’s presence.
“He must be deeply in love,” Ruprecht said,
unable to suppress the victor’s thrill, despite a twinge
of pity for the young man. “He looks tortured, unable
to control himself.”