Anarchistbanjo's World

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

Seventh Chapter
When Ruprecht returned from Krems at noon,
Helmina informed him that Herr Anton Sykora had
visited—an old friend of her late husband. He’d
regretted missing Ruprecht, but business had forced
him to leave early that morning.
Ruprecht listened half-heartedly, murmuring, “Is
that so?” His mind was brimming with agricultural
matters. He’d thrown himself into work with fervor.
There was much to do. Herr Augenthaler soon
realized the new master held the reins tightly. The
golden age was over; the iron one began. Ruprecht
was everywhere, impossible to deceive. He lifted
every lid to see what lay beneath. Even in winter, he
tolerated no idleness. He’d found gaps in his
stewards’ theoretical knowledge, which he meant to
fill. From Krems, he brought a stack of farming
books and pamphlets, distributing them among his
staff.
Sighing, the manager lugged a pile of scholarship
across the courtyard. The assistant sat in the office,
rolling a cigarette, gazing at Helmina’s window row,
hoping she’d appear.
When the manager handed him his assigned
books, the assistant tossed them on the table and
slammed his fist down. “Ridiculous!” he shouted.
“To cram this into your head… as a grown man—I’m
no schoolboy!”
“Don’t yell,” the manager said. “What’s gotten
into you? And don’t speak so disrespectfully of our
master.” Secretly, though, he relished the assistant’s
outburst, echoing his own thoughts.
Helmina cared little for her husband’s efforts.
Such matters were alien to her. The land held no life
or meaning. Growth, decay, bloom, and fruit were
self-evident, unremarkable. When Ruprecht sat in his
study, she wandered from room to room, played with
the children, chatted with Miss Nelson, or sang in a
not-unpleasant but untrained voice. Deep down, she
was bored. She sometimes thought of Dankwardt,
who’d been no different—immersed in Indian
philosophy while Ruprecht tackled plant physiology,
agricultural chemistry, audited accounts, or drafted
estate plans. Occasionally, he retreated to the Indian
temple, a room Dankwardt had furnished with
mementos from an Indian journey. Between painted
lotus columns, a mural depicted palms and a distant
broad river. A small library held travelogues and
India’s literary treasures on fragrant cedar shelves.
Ornate lamps hung from the ceiling. In corners,
Buddha statues gazed at their navels. When the door
opened, a prayer wheel, tied to the handle by a cord,
clattered.
In that Indian temple, any difference between
Ruprecht and Dankwardt vanished. Helmina passed
the door, casting venomous glances. He’d better not
leave her to boredom. This man was no wiser than
the others. Sometimes, his gaze seemed to pierce her
depths, unearthing hidden truths, sending shivers
through her. Did he truly touch her secrets, strip away
her veils? After passionate nights, a strange urge
gripped her—to shed her mask, confess everything,
stand bare-souled before him. Let him prove if his
love could follow her into the realm of horrors. In
those moments, silence was heavy.
When Ruprecht returned to work, she
congratulated herself on her resolve. Her scornful
smile mocked her own fervor and him, dutifully
fulfilling his self-imposed tasks like an iron
necessity.
“It’s a need,” Ruprecht said, sensing her subtle
derision. “I can’t help it. I can’t lie idle on a bearskin.
I need motion, work. Before, I roamed the world,
busy with sights and vivid experiences, claiming all
there was. Now I’m rooted in one place. I must be all
the busier. It’s the law of energy conservation.”
Helmina delighted in breaching Ruprecht’s
fortified camp. She tore him from work, besieged
him, and triumphed when she toppled his idol, Duty.
Then she let out a wicked laugh. Ruprecht noticed,
calling it a mermaid’s laugh.
The Christmas holidays approached. Snow lay
thick on the mountains, fitting for the season. In the
valley, black wagon tracks ran beside the frozen
river, among groaning firs trembling before their
killers. Peasants trudged through forests, saws and
axes in thick mittens, shaking snow from firs and
pines. They sought Christmas trees. Finding a victim,
iron teeth bit through bark and frozen pith. Axes
struck the trunk, and its fall drew a fearful sigh from
the surrounding woods.
Ruprecht and Helmina skied over steep slopes. He
showed her tricks learned from Norwegian hunters,
teaching her to leap, delighted by her fearlessness.
She kept her legs tight and jumped, her short skirt
flapping around ankles and knees. When she fell, she
rose before he could help, laughing as she brushed
snow from her red jacket. In those moments, he
forgot her wicked smile, unmindful of danger.
From Amnisbühel, a splendid sledding run
descended. Ruprecht and Helmina zoomed down on a
two-seater, black firs blurring into a solid wall. Snow
sprayed, stinging their faces in wild sparks, trailing a
white cloud. The children had a small sled and were
allowed to ride. They tipped over, tumbling downhill,
68piling atop their sled. Squeals and laughter erupted.
Crashing was the best part of sledding.
Two days before Christmas, the children saw a
large sleigh piled with young firs and pines on the
road below. Its runners crunched over hard snow,
horse harnesses jingled, and the driver, in high boots
and short fur, strode alongside, puffing bright blue
smoke balls.
“Where are all those little trees going?” Nelly
asked.
“To the cities… maybe even Vienna, so the Christ
Child can decorate them for children. Every good
child gets a Christmas tree.”
Nelly looked down sadly, then said shyly, “The
Christ Child never decorated a tree for us.”
Ruprecht lifted the girl, kissing her. He knew the
children had never known true, bright Christmas
joy—the wonder of a tree, worth more than any gift.
Helmina hadn’t wanted it. “I’ve spoken to the Christ
Child,” he said. “This time, you’ll surely get one.”
That evening, he and Miss Nelson began
decorating the tree. He was bustling, childishly
gleeful, with the earnestness a proper game demands.
Glittering ornaments lined the branches.
Helmina sat at the room’s rear, watching idly with
cold eyes, a wicked smile curling her lips. Her brow
flickered with storm clouds. How Miss Nelson came
alive at work, shedding all stiffness and reserve. She
stretched to reach higher branches, bent for lower
ones, her slim body tracing graceful lines. She was all
zeal, neither she nor Ruprecht heeding Helmina,
acting as if no one else were present. They debated
earnestly where to place a chain or glass bell.
“Oh, how long since I’ve had a Christmas,”
Ruprecht said, “a true German Christmas. It’s unique.
No other people has its like. These past years, I was
always in the south. The longing was fierce. I’d have
given anything to peek through a window at a
glowing Christmas tree.”
Miss Nelson shared tales of English Christmases,
climbing a chair to fasten a porcelain angel with
tinsel wings high up.
My God, she’s speaking, Helmina thought. A
miracle. She speaks unprompted. Good. Let Ruprecht
try to betray me with her. At the first sign, he’s lost.
What holds him still? What do we share beyond those
fevered nights? Do I love him?
It always began this way for her—a sense of
superiority, as if she need only reach out to toy with a
man. Ah—how exquisite. Years ago, someone gave
her white mice. She’d cared for them well for weeks.
One twilight evening, she opened their cage and let
the yellow cat in.
Ruprecht turned, playfully tossing a chenille
monkey into Helmina’s lap. She disliked such jests.
Her face didn’t change; she said nothing. It was an
insult to offer her such harmlessness. Ruprecht met
her eyes sharply, probing. She returned the gaze.
Fine—let him at least suspect her thoughts. As he
turned back to the tree, she crushed the poor chenille
monkey between her fingers.
On Christmas Eve, the tree blazed in radiant
splendor—a winter fairy tale. Yet the children shone
brighter. They ignored their gifts, standing in shy
reverence. Four tiny Christmas trees sparkled in four
childish eyes. Four small fists clenched tight with
bliss.
Ruprecht, too, stood reverent before the tree,
bathed in light, feeling weightless, soaring, complete.
Meanwhile, Helmina drifted to her gift table.
Carelessly, she sifted through the items—every
fleeting wish fulfilled: the amethyst set, the Lalique
brooch, two Tiffany vases, all there. At the bottom
lay a heavy, angular package. She unwrapped it—a
book: Economic Studies in the Orient by Ruprecht
von Boschan. Its first page bore her name: “To my
beloved wife, Helmina!”
Ruprecht approached. “I know these things don’t
interest you. Still—it’s a memento of our
engagement. I finished it then, giving it your name as
a talisman, calling you my wife in advance. It came
out just in time for Christmas.”
“Thank you for everything,” Helmina said,
offering a cool hand. Oh, Ruprecht piled sentiment
upon sentiment—the Christmas tree, the dedication
from their betrothal! What next?
He’d said his book wouldn’t interest her, but
having written it, he’d joined the guild whose
compass swings toward praise or blame. When
Helmina, well into mid-January, hadn’t mentioned
his Economic Studies, Ruprecht grew impatient.
Dawn’s glow of fame crowned his head, yet Helmina
acted oblivious.
One day, in a measured tone, he said, “I got a
letter from Professor Zwicker today… from Vienna
University, economics. He finds my book
significant.”
“Oh?” Helmina replied indifferently. Let him
stew. Then she added, “I’m not sitting in this
wilderness all Carnival. We’ll go to Krems a few
times when something’s happening. And to Vienna—
at least once or twice. The Vienna City Ball… and
the Concordia Ball.”
“As you wish,” he said, irritated.
She scraped her fork across the plate, a squealing
screech she knew he loathed. “If it doesn’t suit you,
stay home.”