Anarchistbanjo's World

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

They discussed the year’s events. Hugo extracted
Helmina’s promise to attend every festivity.
The afternoon passed. They took a short drive.
The weather had cleared, the thinning clouds hinting
at the sun. Hugo wished to prolong the day, but
evening approached, they returned to the castle,
dined, and his departure loomed.
“I feel so at ease here, madam,” Hugo sighed.
“You may return if you enjoyed it,” Helmina
smiled. Then she excused herself. The fresh air had
tired her, she had a headache, and wished to retire.
The men adjourned to Ruprecht’s study. “A cigar,
a glass of wine, eh?” Ruprecht suggested, ringing the
bell. The Malay appeared at the door.
“Tell Lorenz to fetch a bottle of 1882
Schönberger,” Ruprecht said.
“Lorenz isn’t here.”
“Oh, right—he’s on leave. Linz, or somewhere.
Get the keys and fetch it yourself. You’ll find it. It’s
at the back of the cellar, red-sealed.”
Meanwhile, Hugo surveyed the study’s
furnishings. At the café’s regular table, they had an
arts-and-crafts enthusiast skilled in style
comparisons, giving Hugo a rough sense of Gothic,
Renaissance, and Rococo to prove his cultured
credentials. Here were charming relics: a heavy
cabinet with carved columns and armored men on its
doors; a desk with dainty, curved legs and an oddly
uncomfortable top, fit only for brief love notes, not
serious work. For that, Ruprecht used a cozy
Biedermeier desk, its genial polish beside a sleek
black filing cabinet with lapis lazuli and marble-lined
drawers, supported by two gilded, snarling griffins.
“Ancestral heirlooms,” Hugo said. “The castle’s
full of them.”
“Yes… some are exquisite. Next visit, I’ll show
you a Wenzel Jamnitzer goblet. Dankwardt even
started a medal and seal collection. I know too little
about it.”
“These pieces likely came with the castle from
earlier owners?”
“Not many. The Counts of Moreno, from whom
Helmina’s first husband bought it, stripped it bare.
Later owners were collectors, gradually bringing
things back.”
“Fine pieces… truly! They hold their own. The
whole castle…”
“Yes, the castle’s worth seeing.”
“You’re a lucky man… and your wife…” Hugo
stretched in his seventeenth-century armchair. “You
have a delightful wife.”
Ruprecht glanced at him briefly, saying lightly,
“You haven’t fallen for her, have you?”
A reassuring laugh should’ve followed, but it
sounded forced. “It’d be no wonder,” Hugo said, then
continued, “Tell me, aren’t you ever jealous of your
wife’s past? You’re her fourth husband.”
“It’s not my way. I find that kind of jealousy
absurd.”
“But in this castle… everything must remind you
of your predecessors.”
“It wasn’t entirely pleasant at first. Life’s a
ceaseless flow, washing away past impressions
quickly. The past clings more to dead things. These
furnishings and rooms reflect my predecessors far
clearer. In Helmina, they’re dissolved, swept away by
life.”
“Haven’t you thought of building a new home?
One where… only you exist?”
“Helmina’s attached to these walls… oddly so.
She craves city lights, glamour, noise—she had a
wild Carnival. But this castle holds her. She always
returns. She’d never agree to live elsewhere. And… I
find this grim house intriguing. It has charm… it’s,
how to say… an adventure, a romantic danger…”
Ruprecht’s nonchalance emboldened Hugo,
tempting him to play with fire. “And the present… I
mean, Helmina’s present?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Aren’t you jealous of that?”
“Oh, I’m pleased when people pay Helmina
tribute. Besides, I’m certain of her.”
He’s insufferable, Hugo thought, fuming, and it’s
maddening that he’s right.
Jana returned with bottles, fetched glasses from
the armored-men cabinet, and poured. Ruprecht took
a cigar box from a filing cabinet drawer. Hugo
glimpsed a revolver inside.
“You’re armed,” he said. “Even here?”
“Old habit,” Ruprecht smiled. “In Alaska, I
worked months with a rifle beside me…”
As Ruprecht raised his glass to toast Hugo, he
noticed dirty smudges, like wet earth, on Jana’s white
turban.
“Bumped your head, Jana?” he asked.
“I fell, Master,” the Malay replied. “Water’s
seeped into the cellar, washing it out a bit…”
“Hope the bottles don’t float away.”
Hugo hadn’t heard, spreading the subscription
sheet before Ruprecht, who signed.
“Enough?” the castle lord asked.
“Oh, you’re an angel. Thank you. Truly, I name
you chief patron, top of all sponsors… I’ll honor you
somehow, just need to think how.” Hugo launched
into his anthology, its hopes, its prospects for
recognition from high places. His wine-fueled
imagination bloomed like a Jericho rose. This
anthology would be an event. All notable authors
would contribute. Bystritzky had connections, even
inviting Gegely, though that awkward incident…
“Ah, Gegely,” Ruprecht said, suddenly animated
after listening politely. “I’ve heard nothing of him
lately. I don’t read papers—waste of time. What’s
our famous poet up to?”
Hugo slapped the chair’s smooth arms. “You
really don’t know? Nothing about Gegely… my God,
it was a European scandal…”
“I swear, I know nothing…”
“Well, Gegely… it’s unthinkable… psychologists
are baffled. Our great Gegely, our hope, our pride,
poet of Marie Antoinette… what do you think? He…
he took a manuscript from Heidelberg’s university
library… let’s say, accidentally.”
Oh, the thrill of breaking such news first, asserting
one’s importance. It was a hearty delight, a bold
affirmation of self.
How it shook his friend. Ruprecht paled, his brow
damp. “Is it possible…” he stammered, “he stole…?”
“Well—stole? Legally: yes. Psychologically: a
momentary lapse.”
What bliss to cause such a stir. Gegely, another
carefree glutton for wealth, ignorant of the grind of
being rank-bound, salary-tied.
“How could it happen?” Ruprecht asked, still
reeling.
“No idea what possessed him. He could’ve bought
such scraps by the dozen at an antiquarian’s. It
kicked up a storm… a European scandal, as I said.
They tried to save him, of course… spun theories
about the phenomenon… and finally draped a nice
veil over it…”
“What happened to him?”
“He was put in a sanatorium… a ‘U’ became an
‘X,’ as such cases go. You’ll see… Bystritzky invited
him to contribute to the anthology before this
happened. It’s awkward now. If he sends something,
can we accept it?”
“Poor woman,” Ruprecht said thoughtfully,
swirling his wine.
“Frau Hedwig… yes, terrible for her!” A sudden,
delicious thrill hit Hugo. A memory surged. “Frau
Hedwig, the blonde… say, didn’t you once…?” He
squinted gleefully. “It hurt you deeply, didn’t it,
when Gegely took her from you? You were smitten.
Still think of her?”
“Oh, come now!” Ruprecht said softly, stiffening
in resistance. “A youthful acquaintance. It was long
ago… I pity her… having to endure that.” He stood,
pulling out his watch. “If you want to catch your
train, it’s high time to leave.”
Hugo regretted leaving his scene of triumph. He’d
have savored it longer. Ruprecht escorted him to the
courtyard. They lingered, shivering, in the renewed
rain. The carriage emerged from the stable, its dim
lights casting trembling patches at their feet. The
horses snorted, restless, loath to leave the warm
stable. The courtyard felt like a pit’s bottom,
darkness rising in steep walls around them.
“Well, thanks for everything,” Hugo said,
climbing in. “Hand-kiss to your wife. So… our
anthology? What do you think…” He poked his
pinky through his overcoat’s buttonhole. “How’d this
suit me?”
“Splendidly!” Ruprecht replied evenly. “You were
born for a medal…”
“Here’s hoping!” Hugo laughed, closing the
carriage door. The carriage arced around Ruprecht
and out the gate.