Anarchistbanjo's World

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

“That’s wholly Austrian,” Ruprecht said,
sketching the castle’s character for Hedwig. “You
might think someone’s aloof and, despite simplicity,
unapproachable, then find you can chat quite
comfortably. Our great men all have a back road,
bypassing the official facade.”
They entered the tournament courtyard. Hedwig
was lifted from the carriage and placed in her
wheelchair. Maurerwenzel resumed his duty. Hedwig
wished to stay in the wide, open courtyard; the
castle’s stair-laden tour was not for her. Ruprecht
offered to keep her company. The others departed
toward the octagonal tower at the entrance, after Fritz
Gegely took tender leave, pressing a kiss on
Hedwig’s forehead.
The carriages drove out to stable at the tavern by
the courtyard. Maurerwenzel watched them
enviously. Ruprecht understood the look. “You can
go over too,” he said. “If you’re thirsty. Here—have
a quarter of wine.” Maurerwenzel cupped his hand
like a nest for a silver egg, tipped his cap, and
shuffled out the gate with his “quick” gait, bound for
the inn.
“Shall we move to the shade?” Ruprecht asked,
hands on the wheelchair’s backrest.
“No, please, if it’s no trouble, let’s stay in the sun.
It’s not too hot… and the breeze cools nicely. I love
the sun… I feel it’s kind to me. I let it soak through
me… I feel it in my limbs… like a new strength…”
Ruprecht pulled the wheelchair close to the wall,
where reflected rays could work, and sat beside
Hedwig on a fallen stone. The vast courtyard, ringed
with double arcades, lay empty before them. Hedwig
reclined, basking in full sunlight, motionless.
Ruprecht saw her body drink the hot light. Through
half-closed eyes, a shimmering curtain of light
flickered. He tried to decipher the faded wall
paintings in the arcades. A brown-red hue remained,
other colors long extinguished. These might once
have been emblems, coats of arms, allegories—
symbols of families who once pranced their horses in
glittering carousels here.
From the castle’s past, he gently slipped into his
own. He smiled. “Do you remember, Frau Hedwig,”
he said, “when we danced in the woods? It was a
school outing from our gymnasium. Your girls’
school was there too… and suddenly, we paired up.
Youths and maidens… to the horror of teachers and
governesses…”
Hedwig turned to him. “Yes… dancing’s over for
me,” she said, smiling.
Ruprecht fell silent, dismayed. How thoughtless,
how careless he’d been. He longed to speak more of
those days—how they’d climbed walls and back
gardens at night, like thieves, to reach Hedwig’s
courtyard, bursting into four-part song: “Why are you
so far, oh my love!” The next day, stern professorial
faces and a disciplinary probe for nocturnal mischief.
Everything teetered… then ten hours’ detention as
penance. Ten glorious hours, filled with the thrill of
suffering for her, proving his heroism. They’d called
her Silvia then, for its melodic flow, redolent of
forest scent and soft leaf-rustle, no other name
seeming to fit. A touch of Shakespeare’s winged
Midsummer Night’s Dream. She’d been like a
lizard—slender, agile, gleaming.
“But… you’re happy,” Ruprecht said, consoling
himself. “Few preserve such pure joy in life as
you…”
“Yes… I’m happy,” she said gratefully, offering
her hand. “There’s still so much I needn’t forgo.”
Ruprecht steeled his heart. “Above all, you’ve
found the happiness of love… Your husband is full of
gentle care…”
Hedwig closed her eyes, lying still. The sun
poured into her like a hot draught. The sun is clarity
and truth, she thought. One shouldn’t lie in its light.
“Why should I deny you the satisfaction I owe you?”
she said after a pause. “You’re mistaken, Ruprecht,
the world’s mistaken. I’m a burden to my husband.
My frailty irks him. Yes… he masterfully plays his
role before others. I know how I hurt you then. Your
strong confidence looked down on the pampered
prince Gegely. But I was vain… yes, let me
confess…”
She paused, and Ruprecht saw her fingers twitch
on the wheelchair’s armrest, betraying agitation.
Alarmed, he leaned to see her face, but her eyes
were shut.
“I hurt you. I know you loved me. I’m still
happy… thinking of those times. Yet I chose Fritz
Gegely. I was a foolish, vain girl. He was a poet, the
gymnasium’s pride, already famous at university,
destined for greatness.”
“Stop, Hedwig, please… I don’t want to know
more. Don’t make me unhappy…”
“You needn’t be. I’m past that disappointment.
Only sometimes I think it could’ve been different. I
soon realized he was an aesthete—one who doesn’t
take life directly but through a colored lens, feigning
mood. Then one hope: a child. But you see what’s
left of that. A paralyzed woman… That was the
darkest night of my life. Then… things brightened:
the clarity of limitation. I can’t even blame my
husband for his sullenness. I’m truly a burden. But he
draws benefit in his way. He plays a second
Browning couple before the world. As he wears
famous poets’ vests, coats, and wallets, I’m useful as
a paralyzed wife. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. But I
don’t complain—I’m still happy…”
“Why tell me this… why?” Ruprecht groaned.
“Why? I’m beyond passion’s good and evil. I’m safe
from all danger.”
“But I’m not, Silvia, I’m not…”
Hedwig opened her eyes. Her hat shaded her
brow, a blonde strand fluttering across it. “You call
me Silvia… like then… I think you invented the
name…”
“Yes… I think I found it: it was there, flowing
around you like song. I only sang it… Silvia…”
A car horn blared a triad on the forest road.
“The children,” Hedwig said, sitting up to greet
them. She felt a faint twitch in her right foot… but
surely she was mistaken. The car rolled through the
courtyard gate, halting before her wheelchair. The
children leapt out, rushing to Hedwig and Ruprecht.
Miss Nelson followed, slim, refined, silent as ever.
“Here already, you rascals?” Ruprecht teased,
laughing. “Your studies today… must’ve been half-
done!”
Lissy and Nelly each brought a bouquet of
meadow flowers, picked along the way. Lissy gave
hers to Hedwig, Nelly to Papa. Hedwig and Ruprecht
exchanged glances—a continuation, a symbolic close
to their talk. Two tears lingered in Hedwig’s eyes.
Laughing, she shook her head, pulled Lissy close,
and kissed her small red mouth.
Meanwhile, Helmina and her group had ventured
into the castle. The castellan, a young man not yet
ossified in his role, was lively enough to answer
unusual questions. Ernst Hugo flaunted his style
knowledge, gleaned from café art enthusiasts. He
spoke of form, material, line, and ornament. The
Major hunted for old locks and keys. In his spare
time, he tinkered with locksmithing and was fond of
gunsmithing. “Everyone’s got their hobby,” he said.
“Locksmithing’s my secret passion.”
And storytelling’s your creepy one, thought the
court secretary, but he didn’t say it, for he and the
Major were in a holy alliance against Fritz Gegely.
The poet of Marie Antoinette paid little heed to his
allied foes. He walked beside Helmina, speaking of
spatial sense. “You see, it’s a peculiar thing… a sixth
sense, so to speak. It brings exquisite delights and
torments… imagine, I enter a room and instantly feel
its spatial design like a physical impression. Without
tape or ruler, I know at once if its proportions are
balanced or left to chance. Proportions are immediate
certainty to me. The harmony of the Golden Ratio is
a heartfelt, if somewhat bourgeois, pleasure. Round
walls make me breathless, restless, caught in a whirl.
Alcoves, odd angles, slanted walls, sloping ceilings
give me strangely romantic sensations. This makes
old castles so fascinating, each room unique. It sours
me on city tenements with their uniformity—
everything cut from one mold, dull, barracks-like,
lacking even basic, natural harmony.”
But Helmina wasn’t listening. She gazed
distractedly out the windows they passed, letting
Gegely’s words flow by. Halls, corridors, vaulted
rooms, and alcoved chambers followed one
another—a glance into the inner courtyard, then at
the verdant moat and an old, gray turret.
The guide opened the door to the balcony over the
Kamp valley. At that moment, the Major called him
back. He’d spotted an intricate lock on a grand
Renaissance cabinet. A key moved seven bolts back
and forth. The fittings depicted Saint George slaying
the dragon—a small marvel. The Major eagerly
questioned the castellan, holding Hugo fast.