Anarchistbanjo's World

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

Sixteenth Chapter
A kind chance had led Ruprecht to a charming
secret. A chance, playful and teasing like a putto, to
which he could’ve blown kisses. Ruprecht had driven
a stretch along the Kamp valley toward the
Schaumburg ruin. They’d stopped by a weathered
forest bench, where Hedwig rummaged through her
purse for small necessities—handkerchief, mirror,
and the like. Later that day, Ruprecht returned alone
to the bench. Something urged him: Go back! As he
strolled closer, he spotted a tiny, slim book lying
there. It was a forgotten calendar, and Ruprecht
opened it joyfully to see if Hedwig’s days were
marked with the same ordinary numbers and names
as others’. He felt her calendar must be extraordinary,
with unique saints marching through her year. He
found a page highlighting days to do kind things for
friends. Ruprecht’s name topped the list by March 7.

At the end was a date, noted: “Oh dear—twenty-
eight! Getting old!” That date was just three days
away.
Ruprecht pocketed the calendar, keeping the secret
to himself.
Those three days, he wore a constant smile. Only
with Helmina did his joy fade. He withdrew,
avoiding her touch. Her mocking face went
unheeded. Seeing her, he recalled a nocturnal trek
through forgotten vaults and a glimpse through a
tower wall. A shudder gripped him.
On the morning of the festive day, he hurried to
the garden at dawn, plucking the loveliest roses—
pale yellow, pure white, lilac-tinged—and bound
them together. Hesitantly, he added a single deep
purple rose to the center.
In his study, he wrote a letter.
Dear, dear gracious lady! Who told me it’s your
birthday today? Suppose it was a kind summer
breeze, a white cloud in the blue sky, or the Kamp,
my close confidant. I won’t betray the good friend
who shared it. I even know your age. But I’ll strive to
forget it, if you wish. On such days, one feels
generous, especially someone as good as you. Grant
me two requests: kindly accept these roses and the
small box accompanying them. Second: come this
afternoon with your husband to our castle. Let’s
celebrate your birthday a little, better at home than in
a village inn, even one as fine as the Red Ox. You’ll
come, won’t you? I want to tell you today how
grateful I am. You’ve reshaped my life on new
foundations. Through you, I’ve discovered a new
world. A great error has fallen away. From the
tangled snare of senses, I’ve climbed to clearer
heights. Until now, I saw life’s essence in asserting
the self—standing victorious, foes crushed beneath,
forcing the defiant to my will, smiling amid dangers.
That was my greatest prize. But through you, I’ve
learned: not this endless struggle is life’s highest joy,
not this constant hostility, but surrender, giving
oneself… I owe that to you. Today, I must say it. The
fight and tension are over… Oh, you’ll come, won’t
you?
Your Ruprecht.
Finishing the letter, he called old Johann to deliver
it with the roses and a small box containing a pearl
necklace. But as Johann reached the door, Ruprecht
called him back. Hedwig shouldn’t receive this letter.
It was too candid—a confession and an accusation. A
venomous vapor rose from it. No, Ruprecht wouldn’t
cloud these summer days or disturb Hedwig’s serene
joy. He imagined her leaving Vorderschluder—
everything gray, icy. He wanted to savor each present
day, not summon dark questions or fears. She knew,
without words, his gratitude. Hadn’t her eyes, the day
after Rosenburg’s miracle, pleaded: No more of that?
He tore the letter to bits and wrote another, light
and jesting to the end. Opening the box, he admired
the pearls again—large, softly gleaming, perfectly
round on lilac silk. He’d bartered them from Indian
divers, deeming them worthy of Hedwig.
At breakfast, he told Helmina he’d invited the
Gegelys for the afternoon. She laughed scornfully,
learning it was Hedwig’s birthday. Ruprecht barely
restrained himself from lashing out before the
children and Miss Nelson. A thought, restless in the
shadows lately, flared into harsh light. Helmina was
in his power. One clenched fist, and she’d be
destroyed. A fierce revulsion surged… he rose and
left, almost ashamed, as if his face betrayed his
wretchedness.
Near noon, crossing the courtyard, he heard his
name called. Turning, he saw Schiereisen hurrying
after him, buttoned tightly in a black frock coat as
he’d once been in his yellow overcoat. He looked
rosy and cheerful, moved by the joy of reunion.
It struck Ruprecht he hadn’t seen Schiereisen in
ages. “An eternity, dear Baron,” the scholar said,
looping his arm through Ruprecht’s with clumsy
familiarity, his guileless blue eyes beaming.
“Where I’ve been?” he chattered loudly, climbing
the stairs beside Ruprecht. “Following my old Celts,
tracking a lead. My work’s nearly done—I’ve found
splendid new material. I think they’ll be pleased with
me.”
They sat in the Indian room. The prayer wheel
caught Schiereisen’s eye. He took it from the wall,
letting it clatter on his lap. His delight wasn’t wholly
feigned; he was genuinely fond of Ruprecht.
“You look splendid,” he said, “healthy, strong. I
must say, last time I was here, you worried me. But
you’ve recovered remarkably… Yes! I’ve been in
Germany, a bit in France too. Now I have all I need.”
“You make me curious about your work. When
will it appear?”
Schiereisen studied the prayer wheel, reading its
Buddhist mantra: Om mani padme hum… “My work!
When will it appear? That depends solely on you
now.” He spoke with sudden gravity.
Ruprecht knew the reckoning had come. “On me?
I don’t understand! I can’t assist you in any way.”
Schiereisen ignored the deflection. “Oh, but I’m
counting on you. You can’t deny me your help. I can
call on you in the name of truth and justice.”
“Is it necessary to invoke such weighty terms?”
Ruprecht asked, still attempting a smile.
“I’d rather reach my goal with you than without.”
“You must see I can’t help. What do I know of
ancient Celts?”
“Let’s drop the Celts. I needn’t tell you this isn’t
about them.”
Ruprecht fell silent. Continuing to evade was
absurd. He asked, hard and firm, “What do you want
from me?”
“I hear your valet Lorenz is gone.”
“Yes, he resigned and left a few days ago for a
new post.”
“And you don’t know where he is now?”
“No… I didn’t ask. I let my people go when they
wish, without troubling them.”
“Haven’t you wondered why Lorenz left?”
“No!” Trying one last time to steer the talk,
Ruprecht asked, “Do you really find a servant’s
departure so significant?”
“Yes,” Schiereisen said. “This man’s exit is very
meaningful. I suspect a surprise awaits us.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know. It’s a pity we no longer have him
here. It’s almost unsettling to know he’s out there,
behind me. Did he sense suspicion and slip away in
time? I’d rather have him under my eye, where I
could watch him.”
“You speak like a tamer of a vicious beast.”
“Dear Baron, let’s be frank. I believe you trust me.
Must I prove my credentials? You know as well as I
that Lorenz murdered your servant Jana. If I didn’t
neutralize him then, it was only because I had a
greater task. I didn’t want to spoil it.”
“What led you to believe Lorenz committed a
murder?”
Schiereisen had anticipated that by speaking
plainly and revealing himself, he’d find Ruprecht
equally open and trusting. Now he felt like someone
who walks a long way to meet another, only to find
them unmoved from their spot. He began to regret
not keeping his mask. Irritated, he said, “Please
follow me closely for a moment. You’ll agree my
suspicions are well-founded, my conclusions sound.
Your servant Jana dies under odd circumstances. The
judicial commission investigates and finds nothing
remarkable. Jana fell through a wooden bridge in a
remote part of the castle at night. A young, agile man,
surely with enough presence of mind in such a
moment to attempt self-preservation, to grab
something at the last second. That’s strange, isn’t it?
Shouldn’t there have been a cry, the scream of a
falling man…? I examined that ill-fated bridge. You
were there and must have noticed what struck me.
There was a trace of sawdust—a child could deduce
the accident was staged. The already decayed planks
were sawed through. But that’s not all. I found a spot
on the old wood, cleared of dust and recently washed
with water. For what purpose, if not to erase a trace?
A tiny clue showed what that trace was: a small
blood splash, overlooked on the dark wood. Your
experience as a hunter and traveler is my ally. You
can’t pretend not to understand. How does blood
appear at the fall site in such an accident, unless a
struggle, a murder, preceded it? Wouldn’t the blood
otherwise be only on the stones below? Taken
together, one can only conclude Jana was killed and
thrown from the bridge to feign an accident. Now,
who’s the culprit? Why was the Malay murdered? He
was devoted to you. His virtues, as you once told me,
were loyalty and discretion. He existed not as an
individual but as your tool—a projection of your will,
an extension of your arm. A strike against him was a
direct blow at you. Someone aimed to hit you by
stopping him from carrying out your order.”
“Stop!” Ruprecht said. “That conclusion’s
wrong!” Swept by the marvelously precise, steel-
braced reasoning, Ruprecht felt only the thrill of a
vigorous nature in a perilous game. He forgot his
deep involvement, seeing himself as an object among
others.
Schiereisen smiled, satisfied that he’d captivated
Ruprecht. By objecting here, the Baron admitted the
rest was correct. “Good!” Schiereisen continued. “So
he wasn’t acting on your orders. That’s not decisive.
But he surely undertook his nocturnal errand in your
interest, whether you knew it or not. What interest
could you have had in Jana prowling the castle’s
remotest part at night? He was utterly honest, so no
shady motives fit. Nor was it a love affair. I know he
spurned the castle and village girls, who were quite
fond of him. So, as I said, he went somewhere for
you. Why at night, in secret? We don’t know—it’s a
mystery. Let’s call it a big X for now. May I have a
glass of wine?”