Anarchistbanjo's World

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

What should Ruprecht reply? Her words didn’t
wound him, for he knew Hedwig was on the path to
health. That was a secret for him alone. So he only
nodded to Helmina and left the room.
Schiereisen had spent the afternoon on the small
bench outside Rotrehl’s house. He’d spread out all
his notes, reviewing his reasoning. When the rain
began, he gathered his papers and wrapped himself in
his waterproof loden coat. He let the water stream
down, only retreating to his room when the coat’s
hems grew heavy with damp.
What would happen now? The decision loomed. If
Ruprecht spoke, all efforts might be for naught. It
was almost certain he would. Lorenz had already
slipped away; Helmina would likely try to escape too.
Could he allow that? His duty was to detain her, but
he lacked direct evidence against her. Still, this night
must be used. He wrote a detailed letter to Herr Peter
Franz von Zaugg, delivered it to the post himself that
evening, and sent two coded telegrams—one to the
prosecutor’s office, one to his agency. Then he dined
at the Red Ox. The landlady mentioned Fritz Gegely
and his wife had been invited to the castle. That was
the poet with the sick wife, whose connection to the
castle lords he’d observed before leaving.
Pensively picking his teeth, he walked the village
street. The ground was soft from rain. At a large
puddle, Mathes Dreiseidel stood with the head
teacher, discussing politics sagely. Schiereisen saw
Dreiseidel’s urge to draw him in and kept to this side
of the water. He crossed the bridge and climbed the
castle hill under the deep shade of chestnut trees. The
rain had stopped, but drops fell from the branches,
some sliding coldly down his collar, jarring his
nerves.
The castle windows still glowed. Schiereisen
decided to wait. He wore his yellow overcoat, the
winter one being damp, and buttoned up, leaning
against a tree trunk. Two hours passed. Schiereisen
waited calmly, unsure what for. At career peaks, after
completing preparations, he surrendered to intuition.
A voice must call, a light must flare, illuminating his
path. Impatience was foreign to him.
When voices and a carriage’s rumble sounded in
the courtyard, he retreated deeper into shadow. The
heavy gate opened, clanging against the wall. A
carriage emerged, brakes grinding down the hill.
Three people sat within—the Gegelys and another,
perhaps the Major, part of their circle.
The gate closed, but Schiereisen didn’t hear it
lock. The sleepy gatekeeper, loath to rise again when
the carriage returned, left the task to the driver.
Schiereisen waited, then opened the gate a crack
and slipped inside. The outbuildings were dark; only
the overseer’s apartment showed light, now
extinguished. Only the main building stayed awake.
Above dark roofs, the sky slowly brightened.
Schiereisen crossed the courtyard silently, senses
sharp, each impression vivid and swiftly processed.
Sleeping and waking people, stone blocks, courtyard
walls—they merged into his being, parts of his skin.
He passed under the main building’s archway to
the inner courtyard. Below were the servants’
quarters. There was Lorenz’s former room. Opposite,
a dim light burned where old Marianne, the
madwoman who spent nights praying and singing,
was housed. She was awake. A murmur crept across
the courtyard, simmering around Schiereisen’s ears.
He decided to see what the old woman was doing.
Suddenly, he froze.
How could all his cunning, experience, and
caution have overlooked this? How far was he from
mastery in his craft, neglecting such a crucial detail?
He’d searched everywhere, yet ignored this old
woman. Now, intuition struck. Hadn’t Johann said
she was a Moreno heirloom, inherited by Helmina’s
first husband? She’d lived here since Helmina
arrived, witnessing all events. Her madness emerged
under Dankwardt. How had Schiereisen failed to
probe its roots? She’d once been quiet, content with
small chores for the modest keep the last Moreno
secured her. What if her simple mind was later
shattered by something horrific, a dread, an unwitting
knowledge of a secret too heavy?
A shrill scream burst from the window, followed
by babbling clamor. Schiereisen hurried over. Red
curtains covered the lower window, but on tiptoe, he
could peer inside. Old Marianne knelt before her
table, her headscarf slipped back, gray-yellow hair
tangled, strands writhing like battling snakes. She
struck her forehead against the table’s edge, crying,
“Oh, Lamb of God, who takes away the world’s
sins!”
On the table stood a crucifix and three burning
candles, their flames flinching and flaring with each
forehead strike.
“Oh, Lamb of God, who takes away the world’s
sins!” she repeated countless times. Then she calmed,
murmuring softly. Her forehead rested on the table’s
edge, her arms, once flailing beneath, now crossed
over her chest. She rose, lifting one knee, then the
other, pulling herself up by the table.
Schiereisen saw her face for the first time. It
wasn’t contorted but wholly consumed by one
thought. This poor, muddled mind held room for
nothing else. She took the three candles and moved to
the door.
Schiereisen hurried behind a pillar to hide. He
watched her emerge and cross the courtyard, carrying
the candles in her left hand, her right shielding the
flames. Silently, he followed through the archway,
along the main building’s wall to the park gate. The
rusty grille creaked like night birds with sharp beaks
eyeing living prey. The candles’ glow dazzled,
revealing only path fragments. They passed rubble
and wet shrubs. Schiereisen couldn’t avoid rustling
bushes or snapping twigs, but the old woman seemed
deaf, pressing forward. Massive stone blocks loomed
from the dark. The tower… Schiereisen thought. She
stopped, shone the light up the wall, and crouched
before a flat stone, fixing her candles to it. She
poured melted wax onto a smooth spot, pressing each
candle’s base into it. Clumps of wax showed this
stone had often served this strange rite.
She knelt before the burning candles, seeming to
pray. Her back hunched, head bowed low, the dirty
yellow-brown pattern of her jacket lit by the glow.
Schiereisen stood behind her, part of the
darkness—formless, chaotic, lingering in torpid
waiting, indifferent to time and space. But the old
woman stayed motionless; nothing more happened.
He spurred himself; the night couldn’t be wasted.
Stepping forward, he touched her shoulder.
“What’re you doing, little mother?”
She turned, unstartled, only peeved at the
interruption. “Be quiet… the three are inside. They
don’t sleep. They wander, banging their heads on the
wall. Three candles: one for each. Three candles for
the poor souls in purgatory.”
“Who’s inside?” Schiereisen asked kindly, patting
her back.
“Oh, no, I won’t tell you,” she replied earnestly.
“No one must know who they are. If I speak, they’ll
come out, eat and drink as if nothing happened, and
live again. That mustn’t be. She won’t allow it.”
“Yes, the gracious lady is strict. We mustn’t do
what she forbids.”
With a look of great fear, the old woman spread
her thin arms. “No… no… she won’t allow it, they
must stay there. Otherwise, Lorenz comes and beats
me. He has a rubber stick; he hits my head with it. I
must watch and pray.”
“You’re right,” Schiereisen said. “Keep praying.”
“Prayer can do all. Prayer seals the hole so they
can’t get out. Prayer is the wax of the pious, sealing
entrance and exit.” She lifted her head, gazing at the
damp stone blocks.
Schiereisen saw, above, between treetops at the
edge of the candlelight, a dark hole in the tower.
Good, he thought, this night must be used.
The old woman had lowered her head again,
resuming her prayers. Schiereisen left her
undisturbed, crashing through the bushes. He
followed the garden wall until he reached a spot
where elderberry shrubs and rubble made climbing
possible. He slid down the outer side, heedless of his
yellow overcoat, its buttons tearing off. Then he
raced down the castle hill, across the bridge, and up
the slope to Rotrehl’s house.
Rotrehl was dreaming of crossing the Beresina,
fleeing in a sleigh from a horde of Cossacks with
long lances and blood-red tongues lolling like
hunting dogs. His sleigh wouldn’t budge; leaning
forward, he saw its runners were cardboard, softened
and collapsing in the snow. Cannon booms thundered
ahead—boom, boom, boom! The enemy had cut him
off, guns ready. Nothing remained but to die a hero.