Anarchistbanjo's World

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

Her large earrings, unforgotten, sparkled, casting long, needle-sharp
blue-green rays across the room. What’s in her mind?
Ruprecht wondered. What does she feel, seeing a
man who died for her? Stronger than pity, horror, or
feminine fears seemed a pride—perhaps satisfaction
in her vanity—that she’d been his doom. She stood,
staring at the corpse. The sight of that shattered head
seemed a pleasure. What had the peasant said? They
called her a trud—a vampire…
Ruprecht glanced around the room. The walls
displayed a series of daring paintings, frivolous nudes
reflecting the baron’s taste. Against the backdrop of
that bloody head, they struck with grotesque horror.
Most pitiful was the empty space under the silk
canopy where the bed had stood. The floor and wall
bore clear marks of its place—a dusty, gray rectangle
on the dirty parquet, proof of neglectful cleaning.
That was the impression the entire castle left on
Ruprecht.
Helmina replaced the sheet’s corner over the
corpse’s head. A faint bloodstain marked her middle
finger. She drew a handkerchief and rubbed off the
sticky red.
“Have the relatives been notified?” she asked the
servant.
“We’ve telegraphed the uncle and his sister.
They’re expected this afternoon.”
“Did the baron leave anything written? A letter,
or… a sealed package?”
“We found nothing. But the gracious lord wrote
something last night. It’s likely locked in the desk.
The mayor took the key until the commission
arrives.”
“Let’s go,” Helmina said to Ruprecht. They
descended the stairs, where workers were draping
walls with black cloth. In the hall below, two women
in coarse sackcloth aprons prepared to scrub the
floor. Outside in the courtyard, the slightly drunk
coachman clutched a village policeman’s uniform
button, speaking earnestly. “See here, what’s a man?
I’ve been around, know the whole world. What’s a
man? A bit of powder, a bullet—and he’s gone!
Gone! Gone! What’s a man? Nothing! Nothing! Ask
me—I know the world…”
On the ride home, Helmina spoke of the baron’s
manner of death. She thought shooting oneself was,
all things considered, the best way to exit the world.
She described the bullet’s destruction in detail, as if
relishing the recollection of each particular. Strange
talk for a wedding morning, Ruprecht thought. He
couldn’t resist asking if the event left no unpleasant
impression on her.
Helmina studied him. “Of course, it’s dreadful.
But what’s done is done.”
No, it truly didn’t touch her deeply. He must’ve
been a nuisance, Ruprecht thought. A woman feels no
pity for a pest.
The funeral proceeded in foul weather. The uncle,
a retired general with white hair and red face, and the
sister, an elegant, slender woman behind a thick
black veil, followed the coffin. Landowners from the
region gathered. Ruprecht noticed a cool, refined
reserve toward him and his wife. Clearly, Helmina
wasn’t absolved of blame. He realized, too, that no
local gentry had attended his wedding. Defiantly, he
mirrored their aloofness. Fine—no tedious visits or
obligations.
Two days after the funeral, Helmina received a
summons from the notary in Gars. “Something
business-related,” she said, “though I’m not sure
what.” Her manner suggested she had a guess.
Ruprecht let her go alone, staying with the children to
build a toy theater. Crafting such childhood relics
brought him new joy.
Helmina returned at dusk.
“Imagine,” she said, breathless upon entering,
“Baron Kestelli named me his heir.”
Ruprecht set down pliers and hammer. “His heir?”
“Yes! It’s not much—the estate’s heavily
mortgaged. But with some capital to clear the debts
and rational management, it could yield something.
You just need money.”
Ruprecht pondered, then sent the children out.
“You’re seriously considering accepting this
inheritance?”
“Why not? The relatives will contest the will—the
notary warned me. There’ll be a lawsuit. But I’ll win.
The will seems legally sound. Rotbirnbach isn’t
entailed; the baron could dispose of it freely.”
She stood before the grand Venetian mirror, her
figure framed by a semicircle of electric flames.
Ruprecht held a paper Samiel from Der Freischütz,
studying the wild hunter’s features.
“I can’t allow you to accept it,” he said, tossing
Samiel into the box with Agathe and Kaspar.
“Oh!” Her tone was mocking.
“Yes!” Ruprecht stepped closer. “Forgive me, but
I must ask—were you ever intimate with the baron?”
Helmina turned, her smile cold and superior.
“That’s a strange question.”
“Don’t misunderstand. I’m not reproaching you. I
find it absurd to be jealous of a wife’s past. But I
need clarity here.”
With a dismissive flick, she scattered the paper
figures. “I could refuse to answer. But you’ll have
clarity. There was nothing between us. Nothing. You
52believe I’m telling the truth, don’t you? I owe you no
account of what came before.”
Nothing, then. Good—despite his open-
mindedness, Ruprecht found this reassuring. He
softened. “I believe you. But people won’t hesitate to
assume he was your lover. You must admit, it looks
that way.”
“Oh, your lofty spirit can’t bear that? You care
what people say?”
Irritated, he snapped, “Nonsense, I don’t usually
care. People—ridiculous. But it irks me that they
might think I’m complicit in something… not
entirely clean.”
“Let’s talk of other things!”
No—Helmina was resisting, rebelling. The
rebellion had to be crushed. “No,” he said, “we won’t
change the subject. I won’t allow it.”
“You’ll have to, dear. You wanted our assets
separate. You manage yours; I’m responsible for
mine. The baron loved me unhappily, killed himself,
and left me his castle to remember him. Simple. I set
aside sentiment, treat it as a financial matter, a
business operation. I’m as detached as can be.”
She broke off, laughing brightly, a clear sound
filling the room like light. She rushed to Ruprecht,
kissing away his retort. “Our first quarrel!” she cried.
“What’s it to you? Why meddle in my affairs? Isn’t it
ghostly? The baron’s dead, yet stirs strife between us.
We won’t tolerate ghosts. Perhaps that was his
intent? We’re fighting! The living man never
could’ve done this… So, away with it…!”
She laughed again, throwing herself back, head
tilted, arms falling, forcing Ruprecht to catch her to
keep her from collapsing. He felt her body’s weight.
She laughed like a bacchante, her hair loosening, a
dry, brittle lock curving like a writhing snake. She
grew heavy in his arms. He pulled her close, feeling
her hot body… what were scruples, considerations,
against this raw beauty and boundless pleasure…
That evening, Ruprecht nursed a hangover of
regret. He faced a danger, and for the first time, he
lacked absolute confidence in mastering it.