Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Seventeenth Chapter
Ruprecht crossed to the dining room. He tried to
order his thoughts. After a few steps, he succeeded.
The act of walking steadied him. A temptation had
been overcome. Good, very good! What next? What
could Schiereisen achieve without him? Nothing. His
chain of deductions was worthless—mere
circumstantial evidence, gaining weight only through
Ruprecht’s testimony. What would he do now?
Yet despite this firm resolve, despite all defenses,
a pull tugged at him: You should have spoken. You’d
be on the path to freedom. The horror would be gone,
and you’d have severed ties to the tower’s dreadful
secret.
Lissy and Nelly ran into his arms in the corridor.
“We had to eat without you, Papa,” Lissy cried.
“Where were you so long? Mama grumbled that you
let that boring professor keep you.”
Oh, Ruprecht thought, Mama wouldn’t find the
professor boring if she knew what I know.
Lissy grabbed both his hands, spinning with him
in a circle. The corridor walls bore old Morenos—
grim Spanish lords in black robes and rigid ruffs. The
one above this scene was the grimmest, but seeing
the children’s exuberance below, even he couldn’t
help smiling. Sunlight no longer slid impotently off
his pale cheeks but gathered in hollows, radiating
over his high brow like living skin.
“Papa, Papa,” Lissy called, “don’t you notice
anything?”
“What, little one?”
“My new hairstyle!”
“Sapperment.” Indeed, two large blonde spirals
clung to Lissy’s ears. Her braids were tightly twisted,
coiled snail-like on both sides of her head—a motif
of prehistoric fibulae, sweet and alive in the present.
Ruprecht gaped.
“How do you like it, Papa?” Lissy pressed
impatiently.
“Very good! Splendid! You wild imp!”
Lissy triumphed. “See, Nelly! See! Papa likes it. A
lot, right? Papa likes it a lot! Nelly says she doesn’t,
but she’s just saying that.”
A faint envy crossed Nelly’s face. “Oh, no! Keep
your hairstyle. I don’t care. I’m too big for that. It’s
for little kids. And—and Aunt Hedwig said she’ll do
my hair tomorrow, a different one… even prettier.”
“So Aunt Hedwig did your hair?”
“Yes… we were with her this morning. She sends
her greetings and says she’ll come this afternoon.”
A slender black figure appeared at the corridor’s
end. Miss Nelson approached, passing the stern
Morenos, and took the children away. At once, the
old Spaniard on the wall ceased smiling.
Ruprecht watched them go. No shadow should fall
on their bloom; no storm should ravage their joyful
gardens. Not by his fault or aid. He’d do all in his
power to prevent the worst, a catastrophe. But what
to do eluded him.
Around five, a light rain began. It gurgled in the
gutters and pattered across the courtyard. The
chestnut treetops on the castle path rustled softly,
their leaves twisting in the rain. Ruprecht sent the
carriage to the village. It returned with the guests.
Hedwig was quiet, blissful. Fritz Gegely flaunted
his centrality. Major Zichovic arrived too, full of
soldierly grandeur, as the gathering had a semi-
official air.
“My very best wishes, naturally,” Helmina said,
approaching Hedwig and leaning over her, lightly
touching her shoulders to suggest an embrace. “I
wish you all your dreams fulfilled—at your
husband’s side.”
Ruprecht stood by. He wanted to tear Helmina
away, shield those touches. She shouldn’t dare
approach the saintly.
Helmina asked about the court secretary. He’d
traveled, the Major reported; his leave was ending.
Eight days remained, and he wanted to spend them
here, so he’d visited his elderly mother in Linz first,
as briefly as possible, to return soon.
They sat in the balcony room, conversing through
various topics. The Major, too, saw his leave’s sad
end nearing. Softened, he later rallied with several
jokes. They laughed politely. Only Fritz Gegely
didn’t crack a smile.
“You’re so serious today,” the Major said.
“What’s wrong? You can stay as long as you like.
Who waits for you? No one commands you. You
shouldn’t be so glum.”
“I can’t laugh at jokes,” the poet replied coolly.
“Forgive me, Herr Major! Anecdotes and such are
like money. It’s good to have, as it holds value and
pleases company. But it’s dirty, passed through many
hands. I’m fastidious in such matters.”
The Major was inwardly stung. “Not everyone can
be a poet like you, Herr Gegely, crafting their own
witty remarks. We poor folk take what comes our
way.”
But Gegely wasn’t in the mood for a duel with the
Major. He raised his drawbridge and fell silent. Soon,
the Major asked Ruprecht’s permission to inspect the
castle’s old door fittings and cabinet locks.
Helmina and Gegely went to the music room. She
wanted to sing for him.
Thus, Hedwig and Ruprecht were left alone. He
wheeled her chair onto the balcony, where she gazed
silently into the gentle rain, an early dusk descending.
Something approached from afar, drifting closer,
softly encircling them.
Madonna, Ruprecht thought. He longed to kneel
before Hedwig. All heaviness and pain vanished;
doubt and turmoil lay far below. He stood as if on a
radiant peak above storm clouds.
“Thank you so much,” Hedwig said. “You’ve
given me great joy. Roses and pearls. There’s a
wistful glow in them, just right for me.”
“Here’s your dear friend who betrayed you.” He
handed her the little calendar.
Hedwig looked up, smiling, her eyes joyful.
“You’re so kind!” she said. “Now I’ll show you
something… but it’s our secret, just for us two…
give me your arm.”
He spread his arms, a scaffold to carry her through
the world. Hedwig gripped them firmly, braced
herself, and rose—slowly rose from her wheelchair,
by her own strength, nearly to her full, slender height.
She stood a moment, trembling slightly, laughing
happily, her gaze locked in Ruprecht’s. She barely
touched his arm. Then she leaned harder, lowered
herself slowly, sank back into her chair, exhausted
but radiant, with a soft glow like the pearls Ruprecht
had sent.
Ruprecht could no longer restrain himself. He
dropped to his knees beside her chair, seizing her
hand. Her fingers pressed against his; his kisses
stormed over the pale smoothness of her hand,
reddening the fingertips behind opalescent nails.
Meanwhile, her other hand tenderly stroked his hair.
There was a spot on his crown where the hair was
thin, sparse, gray, and wilted. Her hand lingered there
with gentle pressure, a strange feeling washing over
her, as if this spot bore the mark of a sorrow
somehow tied to her.
He felt he must tell her everything, that now was
the moment to pour out all—the painful, the sweet—
to unburden himself of all terror and secure a bright
certainty for his future. Where to begin, where to
begin? he stammered inwardly. He could only say
that once-invented name: “Silvia.”
She bent her head over him, smiling.
“Silvia.”
The Major returned. His brisk, soldierly steps
sounded in the next room. Ruprecht felt pushed aside,
tore himself away, and stumbled into confusion. The
Major brought a load of questions and remarks, soon
enveloping Hedwig and Ruprecht in superfluous,
indifferent words, allowing them to regain
composure.
Later, they sat at a festive meal, Lissy to Hedwig’s
left, Nelly to her right, Ruprecht opposite, able to
gaze at her. He was elated, full of gratitude. He
offered a toast but didn’t know what he said. They
drank several bottles of champagne; even Hedwig
sipped twice from her glass. The Major slipped into a
harmless, boisterous wine-fueled mood, telling
Bosnian tales. Gegely drank heartily but stayed silent
on his lofty perch, not descending to the lowlands.
Hedwig sensed he was bolstering his superior calm,
masking a faint unease.
Helmina sat, glancing from one to another, her lips
never losing a mocking smile all evening.
At eleven, they parted.
As the guests left and Ruprecht prepared to retire,
Helmina approached him. “You had a happy day,
didn’t you? You’re still in a trance… it seems
Dankwardt’s Indian room infected you: pity’s now
the great axis. Well—that’s not my taste! I can’t
stand sick people.”
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