Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
“Oh,” Schiereisen resisted, “I can’t just,
unannounced…”
“Yes, you can,” Ruprecht laughed, “come on.” He
took Schiereisen’s arm, ushering him out.
Downstairs, Rotrehl and Rauß stepped out the
door. Rotrehl bowed stiffly; Rauß glared at Ruprecht,
his gaze a mix of scorn and fanatical hate.
Ruprecht untied his horse from the fence, walking
beside Schiereisen down the hill.
The village below began ringing noon. The sound
arched grandly, brazenly over the valley, rising into
the sunlight, fading among spring sky’s lamb-white
clouds. Again and again, it swelled upward, resonant
and brazen, filling the world.
“It’ll end,” Rauß said venomously. “All this—the
ringing, praying, processions, banners… until
workers’ battalions march, thundering over the earth,
and the proletariat sweeps away all that didn’t heed in
time. No capital, no titles, no ‘Herr von’… all must
go… him down there too…”
Rotrehl gave no reply, staring skyward, as if
chasing the newspaper slogans’ flutter.
“You, Krampulljon,” Rauß said, grabbing
Rotrehl’s collar, “don’t dawdle. Join us. You’re a
proletarian too, even with your little house. We must
stand against exploiters. Farmers are too dumb to see
it. Who do those cider-heads toil for? After taxes and
usurers’ interest, what’s left? Barely enough to live.
And the gentry fund church banners! In our time…
instead of pensions or hospitals… or roads… We’ll
make ‘em pay. That banner’ll cost ‘em dear.”
Rotrehl shook his Napoleonic head. “I’m not for
such things. Leave me out. I’m neither for banners
nor proletarians. I don’t belong here… my French
blood…”
“Keep your French blood,” Rauß roared, furious.
“Let it sour, your French blood… you… clown.” He
seemed ready to punch Rotrehl but thought better,
yanked his cap’s brim forward, spat left and right,
and stormed off.
Rotrehl stood petrified, unable to move. What was
this, when people disrespected even bloodlines?
Where was the world headed? He’d never faced such
a thing. Regaining himself, he fumbled for his pipe
with trembling hands, stuffed it, and lit it. After a few
puffs, he forgot to smoke, the pipe dangling limply
between his teeth…
Slowly, he entered his room, stood before
Napoleon’s lithograph, and searched its features
anxiously, fearing it had heard the blasphemy.
Frau Helmina had fun with the lunch guest
Ruprecht brought. She recognized the comical man
who’d leapt before her carriage from the woods. A
scholar straight from a caricature—ponderously
formal, his clumsy solemnity failing to hide his
insecurity. His meticulous shoe-cleaning before
entering a room was a spectacle. He clung to carpets,
dreading bare floors.
When introduced, Helmina slyly noted they’d
already met, making Schiereisen blush and stammer
apologies. She let him flounder, offering no help, her
smiling silence relentless. Ruprecht stepped in—he
didn’t want the man crushed. Something drew him to
this simple soul, a liking, a wish to connect with
someone he could talk to. Trust began to sprout.
At the table, Helmina watched her guest’s anxious
care to avoid blunders. He glanced left and right,
touching no utensil until he saw its use. Lorenz and
old Johann served. Lorenz kept his iron mask;
Johann, too well-bred, hid his recognition.
Schiereisen nodded awkwardly at Johann, unsure if
he should acknowledge the tie. A prime specimen,
Helmina thought.
After the meal, Ruprecht showed the Celt scholar
his library, between the study and the Indian temple.
Schiereisen came alive, rifling books, climbing
ladders to upper shelves, rummaging eagerly, red-
faced, muttering a monologue more for himself than
Ruprecht. He splashed in tomes and folios like a fish
in water, visibly at ease.
Ruprecht watched, smiling. “Hope you find
something useful,” he said. “Come whenever you
like. Use the library freely. Take your time.”
After an hour, Schiereisen, sweat-soaked and
spent, collapsed onto a chair by a stacked pile of
books. “Yes—I must come often. There are splendid
old things here…”
“I believe Count Moreno laid the library’s
foundation. Some of his collection likely remains.”
“Is this the Moreno crest?” Schiereisen asked,
opening a dusty copperplate volume with a stamp on
its first page.
“Yes… Herr Dankwardt was keen on Indian
philosophy. That’s my interest too. I know the land
and try to understand it, though I’m just a dilettante.
Here’s the Indian temple he set up.”
Schiereisen followed Ruprecht into the adjacent
room, inspecting everything with polite attention, but
his heart wasn’t in it. It clung to ancient Celts,
leaving no room for other peoples. As Ruprecht
explained, animating painted landscapes and odd
artifacts with memories, Jana entered, reporting a
messenger from a distant farm with urgent news. His
gaze shifted from his master to the guest.
Ah, Schiereisen thought. The Malay, the Indian, as
they call him. He saved his master once. I’d know
what he knows. That look—like a wary dog, sizing up
anyone near. He’s guarding his lord.
Ruprecht excused himself for the pressing matter,
leaving with Jana. Schiereisen darted back to the
library, diving into his books. Dust swirled in small
clouds. He searched the shelves again. Earlier, behind
the hefty Theatrum Europaeum, he’d spotted a slim
booklet, the most vital of all. It outshone every
weighty Celtic tome. He’d nudged it out slightly to
find it later.
It was a manuscript, neatly bound in red leather,
adorned with baroque gold-pressed arabesques. The
first page held a watercolor view of Vorderschluder
Castle, sober but precise. The second bore the title:
Singular and Curious Description of the High-Count
Moreno’s Castle at Vorderschluder, Particularly of
All Hidden Passages, Stairs, Rooms, Secret Doors,
and Other Noteworthy Features, Compiled and
Brought to Light on the Occasion of His High-Count
Grace Louis Juan de Mereus’s Fiftieth Birthday by
Adam Zeltelhuber, Count’s Tutor, 1681.
A seventeenth-century tutor’s work. Schiereisen
owed Zeltelhuber gratitude. Honor his memory! He
couldn’t resist a quick peek. The text included neat
plans and cross-sections, marked with letters and
measurements, foolproof. A priceless find.
Hearing steps, Schiereisen slipped the booklet into
his breast pocket. Ruprecht found the Celt scholar
amid thick folios, wreathed in century-old scholarly
dust.
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