Anarchistbanjo's World

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

At breakfast, Helmina asked casually where he’d
been.
“Oh,” Ruprecht replied just as casually, “at the
notary in Gars.”
Helmina perked up. “The notary? So you’re
buying the communal fields?”
“No, not as your steward—personal business.”
“I’m not allowed to know, of course,” she said
mockingly, masking unease. “You’ve been so
mysterious lately.”
“Why not tell you? I was there… about my will.”
Ruprecht spoke slowly, without emphasis, but
Helmina felt it like a harpoon.
“What’s that mean?” she snapped, turning sharply.
“I thought… those matters were settled by our
marriage contract.”
Ah, she was hit, writhing. Good. “I haven’t
touched that, Helmina,” Ruprecht said. “It stands,
naturally. I’d never dream of altering such an
agreement unilaterally… without telling you. How
could you think that? That’d lack gallantry. No, it
stays as is.”
Helmina stared, eyes wide, their sparkle gone,
gray and ashen. Ruprecht’s tone held menacing
confidence; she dropped her mask.
“I don’t understand how you’d think of this,”
Ruprecht continued, a light reproach dancing like
jest. “Have you given me reason to regret our
agreement? You’re a charming wife overall. Moody
at times? My God, what woman isn’t? I’m quite
content in our marriage. We still love each other,
don’t we? I feel fulfilled. I have my purpose. You’ll
grant I can be proud of my successes. If my
management plan holds and weather permits, your
estate will yield a much higher profit this year… it
was downright clever to plant beets and onions…”
He drifted, rambling about onions, beets, and
wine, as if that were the point, while Helmina’s throat
tightened, her fingers twitching. Behind his words,
she sensed a raised fist. “You still haven’t said what
you did at the notary,” she interrupted, unable to bear
the uncertainty.
“Oh, right…” Ruprecht said. “I just added a
codicil… to our inheritance contract… for my death.”
“Your death?” Helmina swallowed. Suddenly
facing danger, her instincts tensed. “Was that
necessary? Who thinks of dying?” she said warily.
“I decided after much thought, for precise reasons.
‘Step’ is too strong—it’s a steplet. Just conditions for
my death; I want assurance certain wishes dear to me
are followed. I’ve detailed what must happen if I die,
sealed it, and left it with the notary. No one will
know its contents until I’m gone… not even you,” he
added, smiling.
“I just think,” Helmina said, forcing steady
breaths, “you’ve time to ponder such things.”
Ruprecht shrugged, looking abashed. “You
know… death strikes swiftly. We’ve had a recent
example. Poor Jana… who’d have thought it?”
“That frightened you?” Helmina’s voice was clay-
heavy.
“And another thing,” Ruprecht went on. “I’ve felt
unwell lately. You must’ve noticed. A general
malaise… headaches, limb pain. I tried hiding it, but
it was stronger than me… I wasn’t at my best. You’ll
understand, in such weakness, one’s less resilient.
Thoughts of death creep in. You realize you’re frail,
with so many ways death can catch you.”
A pale, subterranean smile tried to rise on
Helmina’s face, failing to break through. “I say you
got scared.”
“Wouldn’t you call it caution? Lately, I’ve felt
much better. The apathy’s gone, I’m fresher, my
strength’s returning. Now I see how ill I was. Yes…
it was an illness. But I’m recovering.”
“Why didn’t you confide in me?” Helmina said.
“I’d have cared for you…”
“I know, Helmina. By the way, my friend Wetzl,
the chemist at our wedding… a top radium research
specialist, he says… I sent him a detailed account of
my condition, and he claims it matches all symptoms
of radium poisoning. Exactly the same effects as
prolonged radium exposure. He’s experienced in this.
My description fits perfectly, he says. The scalp
redness is especially telling. Prolonged exposure can
even kill. I’ve left a full account with him… for
science’s sake.”
Helmina stood, lightly bracing her right hand on
the table. No agitation showed. Her slender hands
were eerily lifeless, knuckles white, nails blue, as if
they’d endured a painful grip. “You’ll excuse me,”
she said. “I must dress. I’ll be late for the
consecration.”
She left. In her room, rage and fear overwhelmed
her. They’d been outwitted. Ruprecht had uncovered
everything, securing himself. No doubt the notary’s
document detailed it all. This explained his improved
health, which Lorenz dismissed as a fleeting rally
before collapse. They were trapped. Ruprecht had
donned armor, invulnerable, triumphant. Helmina felt
crushed, her inner beast raging.
From her dressing chair, she saw banners waving
in the valley. Cannon shots boomed from the hills, a
parade of plump, rolling beasts. She wanted to lash
out. Rage overpowered fear. Against Ruprecht’s
homespun cunning and Indian sharpness, they were
powerless. A long hatpin lay on her vanity. For a
moment, she was tempted to jab it into her maid’s
bared arm, as Roman matrons did with slaves.
When ready, she found Ruprecht waiting by her
carriage in the courtyard. “You’re coming?” she
asked, furious.
“Of course,” he said calmly. “I don’t like it, but I
won’t have people say we’re at odds. Let them see
we’re in harmony.”
Helmina shrugged, climbing in. They rode down
the castle hill in silence.
“Thank God, she’s here,” the parson said as their
carriage parted the crowd. The onlookers watched
silently as Helmina and Herr von Boschan alighted.
They knew she’d funded the banner most, yet she
hadn’t won their hearts. An instinctive resistance
held.
The parson’s study buzzed with activity.
Helmina’s followers dominated: factory clerks, her
staff, the stationmaster, and a telegraphist whose desk
brimmed with sweet verse. He was their secret king,
dreaming: If you knew, fair lady, what I could give,
none here could match. Blissful in his imagined sins,
he bowed thrice to Helmina, his life’s sacrament.
She dazzled, wearing a gray dress with black
diagonal trim accentuating her hips’ curve. The
deputy clerk gaped, entranced.
The district captain was introduced, offering witty
remarks on the day’s significance. Then Ruprecht
and Anton Sykora met. Helmina, hesitantly,
presented him as Dankwardt’s friend who’d visited
last winter. She sensed new suspicion in Ruprecht’s
measured gaze, gnashing inwardly at her wavering
confidence. A spiteful glee hissed: Sykora would
gape if he knew what had happened.
The ceremony began. The head teacher led the
white-clad girls from the garden, their song bright
and joyous. Flags fluttered in the warm air, cannons
roared. The Karl Borromaeus Society formed around
the banner. As the parson emerged, followed by
guests, the bells pealed. The procession crossed the
village square, a short path. The girls vanished into
the church’s wide door while the parsonage still
poured out dignitaries.
Among the crowd, unnoticed, stood Schiereisen.
Content to blend in, he sought to observe without
being seen. That morning, he’d passed Rotrehl’s
door, pausing to invite him. He found Rotrehl
communing with Napoleon, receiving a curt reply: let
the village fools sort their nonsense alone. Jérome
Rotrehl fit them like a sickle in a sheath or a violin in
a manger. Leave him be. Schiereisen saw the recent
beating had scarred Rotrehl’s proud, ancestral soul,
leaving bruises. He left him with Napoleon, and
downhill, violin notes trailed—soft, shy children.
Rotrehl was soothing his battered spirit.
On the square, Schiereisen joined Mathes
Dreiseidel, who stood puffing his pipe. His broad
back offered just enough cover for a stocky man like
Schiereisen. Mathes had his own story. A Karl
Borromaeus Society committee member, he’d been
excluded from the ceremony due to space limits and
the parson’s wish to balance peasant influence. Only
six of ten committee members could join, and Mathes
was among those ousted by lot. He’d rallied his
eloquence, vowing not to miss the feast if barred
from the rite as a dignitary.
After negotiations, the four excluded committee
members were allowed to attend the feast. Thus,
Mathes Dreiseidel stood among the onlookers with
mixed feelings. He belonged with those bareheaded
men circling the veiled banner toward the church.
Though humbled now, he’d be exalted later. The
church rite was more honorable, but the meal was
merrier. At the feast, no one would guess he’d missed
the ceremony.
The dignitaries emerged. The district captain
beside the parson, then Frau Helmina with Herr von
Boschan. Behind them—Schiereisen nearly jolted
forward—came Anton Sykora, head of Vienna’s
“Fortuna” matchmaking agency. He leaned in,
whispering to Helmina, who turned and nodded.
The church organ roared, all registers unleashed.
The head teacher, leading his white-clad girls to the
altar, raced to the loft, attacking the instrument with
frothing zeal. The last guests—Helmina’s clerks and
factory staff—entered, followed by the pressing
crowd. Mathes Dreiseidel parted from Schiereisen,
swept into the tide of the curious and devout, while
Schiereisen wandered through the village and down
the slope.
Under a linden, where a picnic bench stood
halfway up the hill, Schiereisen paused, tightening
his web’s threads. He was genuinely glad Ruprecht
looked hale today, as if fresh strength filled a once-
drained body. Perhaps his warning helped. Ruprecht
said nothing, and Schiereisen knew Helmina’s
husband wouldn’t aid his quest. A peculiar man, this
Boschan. Schiereisen’s focus had shifted—not
Helmina, shrouded in unsolved crimes, but Ruprecht,
whose clear confidence was more enigmatic, was
now central. Schiereisen wasn’t a mere detective; his
work was a calling, not a trade. Beyond solving
cases, he sought to deepen his understanding of
humanity, always tactful, never patronizing his
clients, upholding his profession’s dignity.
He sat a half-hour under the linden, watching
sunspots dance through trembling leaves. The bells,
the procession’s return, and their entry into the Red
Ox wove a faint tapestry of sound and color in his
mind. Suddenly, a loud jeering and howling erupted
from the village, jarring him from thought. Before the
Red Ox, a throng swirled—upraised arms with
cudgels, a red flag bleeding in the sunlight.
Schiereisen knew the old and new faiths had clashed.
But this wasn’t his concern. He dealt not with mass
unrest but errant individuals. For such spectacles, a
superior smile sufficed, rooted in his philosophical
calm.