Anarchistbanjo's World

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

Indeed, the new and old faiths had collided. For
now, the new faith gripped the old by the scruff,
thrashing it. Bolstered by numbers and fueled by
fervor from the Hotel Bellevue, the new faith
outmatched the old, still seeking its zeal at the Red
Ox.
The banquet guests had barely settled at the long
tables in the Red Ox’s transformed dance hall when a
man burst in, shouting, “The socialists are coming!
They’ve a red flag and are all drunk!”
This news pierced Mathes Dreiseidel’s heart. He
feared losing his feast’s reward. He cursed his God
and parson for scheduling the rite before the meal,
robbing him of his due.
The district captain, seated at the head table to
Helmina’s left, set down his napkin and glared at the
alderman. “This is disastrous!” he said. “Such things
in my district. I don’t tolerate this. If only the
gendarmes were here. Such sloppiness…”
But the rebels were already there, launching a
furious assault on the pious crowd outside, scattering
them into alleys and over fences. They filled the
street, yelling, waving hats and cudgels, flaunting
their defiance of authority.
The plump, appetizing Red Ox landlady stood at
the kitchen door, lamenting Schorsch’s absence at
military drills. Glancing at the tables, she debated
clearing them before the brawl began. Half her dishes
were borrowed from Gars, and such occasions risked
breakage.
The parson stepped to the window, hoping to pour
soothing words over the uproar. But they drowned
him out with murderous howls, brandishing the red
flag to flaunt their oath.
The district captain tried next, pale but composed,
regretting no reporter was there to immortalize his
poise. He thrust out his chest, summoning his voice
to pierce the din. But his words were swept away like
a mandolin’s note in a gale.
He retreated, snapping at the alderman, “Now you
stand there, mute… why didn’t you prepare? This
happens in my district…”
The rebels, emboldened, surged forward. The door
flew open, Rauß stormed in, Maurerwenzel close
behind, and a dense throng of comrades packed the
steps, head to head.
The factory director mustered courage, advancing
toward them. “Dear people…!” he began.
Rauß flailed the air, bellowing, “What do you
want? Do what we want, and we’ll be your dear
people again. Not before! Got it? We’re here to
watch the gentry gorge on our sweat and blood…”
God, if Schorsch were here, the landlady thought,
ordering the tables cleared.
Rauß saw and roared, “Oh no—leave it! That’s set
for us too. We’ll sit at this table. We’ll show you the
future state!” From the stair’s crush, a voice shouted,
“Long live the republic!”
“Come,” Ruprecht said to Helmina, “we’re
leaving. I’ve had enough.”
“We can’t get out,” Helmina whispered, terrified.
“Just come!” He pulled her up, striding toward the
door. Rauß’s dull mind dredged up irony. “Your
Grace, Herr Baron… perhaps you’d like an honor
guard?”
“Let me out, I said,” Ruprecht repeated calmly.
“And the lovely Frau Baronin—no, that won’t do.
She gave so much for the banner; she can’t run now.
The best part’s coming. The real fun. Our
consecration.”
The workers jeered. Maurerwenzel slapped his
knees in glee. Ruprecht glanced around. Helmina’s
entourage stood frozen. Some twitched, but caution
quashed their bravery: a fight now would spark a
slaughter. The farmers’ faces gleamed with delight at
this woman’s humiliation, their instincts and wives’
gossip aligned against her.
Then, something unexpected happened. Ruprecht
released Helmina’s arm, stepping toward Rauß as if
to speak. Suddenly, two fists shot out, slamming like
steel pistons into the ruffian’s gut. Rauß yelped,
doubling over. In the same breath, Ruprecht seized
his arm, twisted it back, and hurled the lanky man
over his shoulder into the hall, landing at the district
captain’s feet—a lithe, tripping jiujitsu move from Japan.
The farmers gaped. Even the wildest fair hadn’t
seen such a feat.
Rauß groaned on the floor. Another followed—
Maurerwenzel, loyal aide, lunging to avenge his
leader. Ruprecht took Helmina’s arm and strode
down the steps through the rebels, who now parted
for him.
At the bridge, where baroque saints gazed at their
rippling reflections, their carriage trailed, dust
swirling. The coachman grinned, cracking his whip in
victory. Ruprecht and Helmina climbed in. Just then,
a cart with eight gendarmes rolled up from the other
side. The scrawny horses trotted frantically,
gendarmes clinging to seats and ladder rungs to
arrive intact for battle.
Their task was easy, the fight swiftly won. The
rebels glimpsed the eight cork helmets’ gleaming
spikes and felt the rifles’ persuasive butts, then fled.
With limping, whimpering Rauß and Maurerwenzel— sporting a swollen bruise over his
left eye—at their core, they retreated to the Hotel
Bellevue.
The red flag was found next day in the alderman’s
garden, drooping sadly in a thornbush, flapping
feebly.
The interrupted banquet resumed. The Red Ox
landlady reset what she’d cleared, and appetites
surged. Only Mathes Dreiseidel lacked hunger.
During the fray, he’d slipped into the kitchen behind
the dishes. To salvage something, he’d embraced a
platter of pork roast and kraut salad so fervently that
his insides had no room left.
When Helmina and Ruprecht returned to the
castle, she immediately retreated to her room and
locked the door. She wanted to see no one. She was
beside herself. Ruprecht’s victory over the rabble-
rouser Rauß felt like her own defeat. Two crushing
blows in one day for her. Two triumphs for Ruprecht.
He had thwarted her cunning with his vigilance and
caution. And he had lifted her from fear—yes, a
trembling fear. She had seen clear proof of his
regained strength. Helmina raged against herself. In
the afternoon, Lorenz knocked, reporting that Herr
Anton Sykora had arrived and wished to see her. But
she was ill, she’d stay in her room, she regretted…
Lorenz’s urgent tone availed nothing.
“No… no… no!” Helmina screamed. “Tell him to
go. I won’t see him!” Only in the evening did she
emerge from her lair. Ruprecht hadn’t approached
her door all day. He’d dined without her, chatted with
the children, and sent them off with Miss Nelson.
Now he sat in a fine, comfortable Biedermeier chair,
smoking a cigarette, awaiting Helmina.
She came. A hesitant shadow in the doorway.
Then she entered, slowly closing the door. A glowing
ember in the dark showed where Ruprecht sat. She
approached him slowly.
“Ruprecht!” she gasped.
“It’s you, Helmina,” his voice calm as ever.
She lunged at him, furious, hate-filled, biting his
hand, pressing her lips to his throat. Ruprecht smiled.
She couldn’t see it in the dark, but she felt it. She
gripped him fiercer, as if to kill that smile.