Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

The guests pressed to the edges, those in back climbed up on
chairs and tables. They watched, breathless.
“I congratulate you, your Excellency,” murmured Princess
Wolkonski.
The Privy Councilor replied, “Thank you, your Highness. You
see that our efforts have not been entirely in vain.”
They changed directions, the Chevalier led his Lady diagonally
across the hall, and Rosalinde opened her eyes wide, throwing quiet,
astonished glances at the crowd surrounding them.
“Shakespeare would kneel if he saw this Rosalinde,” declared the
professor of literature.
But at the next table little Manasse barked from his chair down to
Legal Councilor Gontram.
“Stand up and look just this once, Herr Colleague! Look at that!
Your boy looks just like your departed wife–exactly like her!”
The old Legal Councilor remained sitting quietly, sampling a
new bottle of Urziger Auslese.
“I can’t especially remember any more how she looked,” he
opined indifferently.
Oh, he remembered her well, but what did that have to do with
other people?
The couple danced, down through the hall and back. Rosalinde’s
white shoulders rose and fell faster, her cheeks grew flushed–but the
Chevalier smiled under his powder and remained equally graceful,
equally certain, confident and nimble.
Countess Olga tore the red carnations out of her hair and threw
them at the couple. The Chevalier de Maupin caught one in the air,
pressed it to his lips and blew her a kiss. Then all the others grabbed
after colorful flowers, taking them out of vases on the tables, tearing
them from clothing, loosening them from their hair, and under a
shower of flowers the couple waltzed to the left around the hall
carried by the sounds of “Roses of the South”.
The orchestra started over and over again. The musicians, dulled
and over tired from nightly playing, appeared to wake up, leaning
over the balustrade of the balcony and looking down. The baton of the
conductor flew faster, hotter rushed the bows of the violinists and in
deep silence the untiring couple, Rosalinde and the Chevalier de
Maupin, floated through a sea of roses, colors and sounds.
Then the conductor stopped the music. Then it broke loose. The
Baron von Platten, Colonel of the 28th cried out with his stentorian
voice down from the gallery:
“A cheer for the couple! A cheer for Fräulein ten Brinken! A
cheer for Rosalinde!”
The glasses clinked and people shouted and yelled, pressing onto
the dance floor, surrounding the couple, almost crushing them.
Two fraternity boys from Rhenania carried in a mighty basket
full of red roses they had purchased downtown somewhere from a
flower woman. A couple Hussar officers brought champagne. Alraune
only sipped, but Wolf Gontram–overheated, red-hot and thirsty,
guzzled the cool drink greedily, one goblet after another.
Alraune pulled him away, breaking a path through the crowd.
The red executioner sat in the middle of the hall. He stuck out his long
neck, held out his axe to her with both hands.
“I have no flowers,” he cried. “I myself am a red rose. Pluck
me!”
Alraune left him sitting, led her lady further, past the tables
under the gallery and into the conservatory. She looked around her. It
was no less full of people and all of them were waving and calling out
to them. Then she saw a little door behind a heavy curtain that led out
to a balcony.
“Oh, this is good!” she cried. “Come with Wölfchen!”
She pulled back the curtain, turned the key, and pressed down on
the latch. But five coarse fingers rested on her arm.
“What do you want there?” cried a harsh voice.
She turned around. It was Attorney Manasse in his black hooded
robe and mask.
“What do you want outside?” he repeated.
She shook off his ugly hand.
“What is it to you?” she answered. “We just want to get a breath
of fresh air.”
He nodded vigorously, “That’s just what I thought, exactly why I
followed you over here! But you won’t do it, will not do it!”
Fräulein ten Brinken straightened up, looked at him haughtily.
“And why shouldn’t I do it? Perhaps you would like to stop us?”
He involuntarily sagged under her glance, but didn’t give up.
“Yes, I will stop you, I will! Don’t you understand that this is
madness? You are both over heated, almost drenched in sweat–and
you want to go out onto the balcony where it is twelve degrees below
zero?”
“We are going,” insisted Alraune.
“Then go,” he barked. “It doesn’t matter to me what you do
Fräulein–I will only stop the boy, Wolf Gontram, him alone.”
Alraune measured him from head to foot. She pulled the key out
of the lock, opened the door wide.
“Well then,” she said.
She stepped outside onto the balcony, raised her hand and
beckoned to her Rosalinde.
“Will you come out into the winter night with me?” she cried.
“Or will you stay inside the hall?”
Wolf Gontram pushed the attorney to the side, stepped quickly
through the door. Little Manasse grabbed at him, clamped tightly onto
his arm. But the boy pushed him back again, silently, so that he fell
awkwardly against the curtain.
“Don’t go Wolf!” screamed the attorney. “Don’t go!”
He looked wretched, his hoarse voice broke.
But Alraune laughed out loud, “Adieu, faithful Eckart! Stay
pretty in there and guard our audience!”
She slammed the door in his face, stuck the key in the lock and
turned it twice. The little attorney tried to see through the frosted
window. He tore at the latch and in a rage stamped both feet on the
floor. Then he slowly calmed himself, came out from behind the
curtain and stepped back into the hall.
“So it is fate,” he growled.
He bit his strong, tangled teeth together, went back to his
Excellency’s table, let himself fall heavily into a chair.
“What’s wrong, Herr Manasse?” asked Frieda Gontram. “You
look like seven days of rainy weather!”
“Nothing,” he barked. “Absolutely nothing–by the way, your
brother is an ass! Herr Colleague, don’t drink all of that alone! Save
some of it for me!”
The Legal Councilor poured his glass full.
But Frieda Gontram said quite convinced, “Yes, I believe that
too. He is an ass.”
The two walked through the snow, leaned over the balustrade,
Rosalinde and the Chevalier de Maupin. The full moon fell over the
wide street, threw its sweet light on the baroque shape of the
university, then the old palace of the Archbishop. It played on the
wide white expanses down below, throwing fantastic shadows
diagonally over the sidewalk.
Wolf Gontram drank in the icy air.
“That is beautiful,” he whispered, waving with his hand down at
the white street where there was not the slightest sound to disturb the
deep silence.
But Alraune ten Brinken was looking at him, saw how his white
shoulders glowed in the moonlight, saw his large deep eyes shining
like opals.
“You are beautiful,” she said to him. “You are more beautiful
than the moonlit night.”
He let go of the stone balustrade, reached out for her and
embraced her.
“Alraune,” he cried. “Alraune.”
She endured this for a moment, then freed herself, and patted
him lightly on the hand.
“No,” she laughed, “No! You are Rosalinde–and I am the boy, so
I will court you.”
She looked around, grabbed a chair out of the corner, dragged it
over, beat off the snow with her sword-cane.
“Here, sit down my beautiful Fräulein. Unfortunately you are a
little too tall for me! That’s better–now we are just right!”
She bowed gracefully, then went down on one knee.
“Rosalinde,” she chirped. “Rosalinde! Permit a knight errant to
steal a kiss–”
“Alraune,” he began.
But she sprang up, clapped her hand over his lips. “You must say
‘Mein Herr!’” she cried.
“Now then, will you permit me to steal a kiss Rosalinde?”
“Yes, Mein Herr,” he stammered.
Then she stepped behind him, took his head in both arms and she
began, hesitated.
“First the ears,” she laughed, “the right and now the left, and the
cheeks, both of them–and your stupid nose that I have so often kissed.
Finally–lookout Rosalinde, your beautiful mouth.”
She bent lower, pressed her curly head against his shoulder under
his hat. But she pulled back again.
“No, no, beautiful maiden, leave your hands! They must rest
quietly in your lap.”
He laid his shivering hands on his knee and closed his eyes. Then
she kissed him, slowly and passionately. At the end her small teeth
sought his lip, bit it quickly so that heavy drops of red blood fell down
onto the snow.
She tore herself loose, stood in front of him, staring blankly at
the moon with wide-open eyes. A sudden chill seized her, threw a
shiver over her slender limbs.
“I’m freezing,” she whispered.
She raised one foot up and then the other.
“The stupid snow is everywhere inside my dance slippers!”
She pulled a slipper off and shook it out.
“Put my shoes on,” he cried. “They are bigger and warmer.”
He quickly slipped them off and let her step into them.
“Is that better?”
“Yes,” she laughed. “I feel good again. For that I will give you
another kiss, Rosalinde.”
And she kissed him again–and again she bit him. Then they both
laughed at how the moon lit up the red stains on the white ground.
“Do you love me, Wolf Gontram?” she asked.
He said, “I think of nothing else but you.”
She hesitated a moment, then asked again–“If I wanted it–would
you jump from the balcony?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Even from the roof?”
He nodded.
“Even from the tower of the Münster Cathedral?”
He nodded again.
“Would you do anything for me, Wölfchen?” she asked.
“Yes, Alraune,” he said, “if you loved me.”
She pursed her lips, rocked her hips lightly.
“I don’t know whether I love you,” she said slowly. “Would you
do it even if I didn’t love you?”
His gorgeous eyes that his mother had given him shone, shone
fuller and deeper than they had ever done and the moon above,
jealous of those eyes, hid from them, concealing itself behind the
cathedral tower.
“Yes,” said the boy. “Yes, even then.”
She sat on his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck.
“For that, Rosalinde–for that I will kiss you for a third time.”
And she kissed him again, still longer and more passionately and
she bit him–more wildly and deeply. But they couldn’t see the heavy
drops in the snow any more because the jealous moon had hidden its
silver torch.
“Come,” she whispered. “Come, we must go!”
They exchanged shoes, beat the snow off their clothing, opened
the door and stepped back inside, slipped behind the curtain and into
the hall. The arc-lamps overhead were glaring; the hot and sticky air
stifled them.
Wolf Gontram staggered as he let go of the curtain, grasping
quickly at his chest with both hands.
She noticed it. “Wölfchen?” she cried.
He said, “It’s nothing, nothing at all–just a twinge! But it’s all
right now.”
Hand in hand they walked through the hall.
Wolf Gontram didn’t come into the office the next day, never got
out of bed, lay in a raging fever. He lay like that for nine days. He was
often delirious, called out her name–but not once during this time did
he come back to consciousness.
Then he died. It was pneumonia. They buried him outside, in the
new cemetery.
Fräulein ten Brinken sent a large garland of full, dark roses.

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

People like me come once a generation. Who grasps the irresistible
urge of a soul whose sole element is beauty? Beauty
as the condition, the air, the only law. We few should
take whatever we need to nurture our genius. Private
property loses meaning before us. For the artist,
there’s no private property; we’re the rightful owners
of beauty in all forms. Everything bows to us. What
our consecrated hands touch is ours—by right. We
craft new beauty, gifting it to the world. What do
those dull Heidelberg scholars get from a
manuscript? They count syllables, write
commentaries, and every decade, one pens a
monograph, borrowing a few artist’s phrases to dress
up their dry drivel. Who among them feels the
delicate wonders of an old monk’s manuscript, the
scent rising from its lines, the symbolism of its
images, the deep, glowing colors that sear our souls,
birthing bold, unheard thoughts… but you’re like
them. You wield the tongs, grasping the coal to spare
the bourgeois parlor’s floor from burns.”
Hedwig fell silent. When Fritz Gegely reached this
point, he had to go to the bitter, painful end. He
paced behind the table. “You’ll drive me to…
renounce my name… I won’t hide—in a place like
Vorderschluder…”
A clatter arose on the stairs. Gegely opened the
door. The luggage and wheelchair arrived. The
stableman, the butcher, and two other Cyclopes
panted and sweated up the steps. The landlady had
marshaled all her male staff. The chambermaid led,
switching on electric lights everywhere. They
brought the baggage piece by piece, a considerable
haul. The rooms filled with trunks and boxes. It
looked chaotic. Fritz Gegely fled. “You, country
lass,” he addressed the chambermaid, “you’ll unpack
the trunks under my wife’s supervision.”
“Oh, yes,” the girl, who’d stood reverently, said
with eager goodwill.
Hedwig beckoned her husband, wanting to speak,
but, realizing it was futile to hold him back, only
nodded. “Don’t let time drag, dearest,” he said. “I’ll
be back soon. My heart stays with you. You know
that, don’t you?” He returned from the door, leaned
over, and kissed her forehead with a tender, soft kiss.
The chambermaid melted. It was like the finest
novels. My heart stays with you! he’d said. She must
remember that. Her next letter to Schorsch, the
gallant Forty-Niner, would end with this phrase,
which seemed imbued with magic.
She set to work, guided by Hedwig’s brief
instructions. She was rarely so deft and willing.
When unpacking ran smoothly, Hedwig gazed out the
window. Below, summer guests spoke softly. A girl’s
laughter swirled playfully. The evening was gentle,
as if the day had lived much and grown wise and
infinitely kind. Twilight lingered over rooftops,
forested hills, and the castle opposite. It fell from the
sky like fine, soft cigar ash, settling on green
shingles, golden-brown thatch, or rust-red tiles. As
impartial as all heavenly messages, for the just and
unjust alike. So Hedwig mused, looking out. A
distant accordion stretched and sighed in yearning
tones. Suddenly, a goose shrieked, as if jolted from
sleep by a rough grasp. The castle up there, Hedwig
thought—how it stands, firm and sure like him. She
remembered him thus, as he was then, and surely still
was. He’d have breathed his spirit into those old
walls; he needed no setting to create, shaping his
world to his will. Tomorrow, perhaps, she’d see him.
The thought surged like a hot wave, but its glow
faded, leaving her chilled. She trembled, fearing his
gaze. Why had she come?
These thoughts followed her into the first night’s
sleep. They say, she thought before drifting off, the
dream of the first night in a new place comes true,
with special power. But Hedwig dreamed nothing,
though she urged herself somewhere deep within to
dream. No images formed. Only a gentle floating in
lightness remained, a caress like comforting hands,
silencing all sobs. That was as good as a dream.
Morning brought dense fog to the Kamp valley.
The village was submerged, only houses jutted with
green-black shingles, golden-brown thatch, and rust-
red tiles from the curdled milk. The castle basked in
morning clarity. As the sun climbed, boldly
beckoning the wooded valley, the fog dissolved,
retreating to the forests, lingering as a thin,
opalescent haze over the Kamp. By noon, Frau
Hedwig could venture out for the first time.
Through the Red Ox landlady, Gegely had found a
man to push Hedwig’s wheelchair. It was
Maurerwenzel, jobless and pleased with the task, as it
required no shift from his “slow” gait.
Gegely walked beside his wife’s wheelchair.
Summer guests watched, confident these were people
worth gossiping about. The spectacle wasn’t baseless.
A beautiful, young, paralyzed woman in a
wheelchair, and Gegely, never lifting his hand from
the chair’s armrest, tenderly poised to fulfill her
wishes. He’d traded his pressed travel suit’s
correctness for a bohemian nonchalance, signaling:
here I’m at home. He wore purple velvet slippers,
loose bohemian trousers, and a velvet jacket once
owned by Gustave Flaubert. His walking stick, with
an ivory duck-bill handle, came from Jules de
Goncourt’s estate, and for larger bills, he used a
crocodile-leather wallet embossed with Oscar
Wilde’s name in tiny gold letters.
They went down the village street and over the
bridge with its twisting baroque saints, who turned
their heads to the invalid, lamenting their stone forms
couldn’t help.
“That’s Saint Nepomuk,” Maurerwenzel said of
one. “When he hears midnight strike, he turns a
page… in the book he holds…”
“A folk tale?” Hedwig smiled kindly.
Maurerwenzel grinned. “Nah… he turns when he
hears… but does he hear?”
“Oh, a jest!” Fritz Gegely said, his glance adding:
You’re hired to push, not joke.
Maurerwenzel nodded, pleased. A jest! For a
Social Democrat, who knew the divide between
capital and labor, this was much. Had steadfast Rauß
heard, he’d have chewed him out.
They followed the Kamp a stretch, on the soft
meadow path to the paper factory. On the tennis court
behind, balls flew back and forth. A slender, lithe
woman deftly caught and returned them with graceful
precision. Hedwig halted, wanting to watch. She took
selfless joy in beautiful movement, with just a faint
ache in her heart. Having been so near death, she was
grateful for life’s remaining light and joy.
“Who’s the lady?” she asked the tamed
Maurerwenzel.
When he named her, she flinched slightly. So, that
was Helmina von Boschan, Ruprecht’s wife. Such
radiance, elegance, beauty, and grace. The ache in her
heart reared, threatening her eyes.
Fritz Gegely grew alert. “What did you say,
Helmina von Boschan?” he asked Maurerwenzel.
“What’s her husband’s name?”
He learned Ruprecht von Boschan resided at
Vorderschluder Castle, noting the respectful tone.
Maurerwenzel couldn’t deny respect for a man who’d
once so neatly floored Rauß and himself.
“Did you know, Hedwig?” Fritz turned to his wife.
“Did you know Ruprecht lives here?”
This was the question Hedwig had dreaded. Fritz
wouldn’t erupt before a third party, but she felt his
tension. She couldn’t lie. “Yes,” she said. “Some
time ago, I read his name in a paper, a report about a
festival in Vorderschluder. There were riots, and it
said the district captain and… Herr von Boschan’s
decisive actions prevented the worst. That’s how I
knew he’s settled here.”
Maurerwenzel held back details of Ruprecht’s
decisive actions. Hedwig looked at her husband; his
quivering nostrils signaled rising menace. But with a
third party present, no outburst came. “And so you
thought we should spend the summer here,” he said.
She placed her hand on his, feeling angry,
twitching fingers. “Yes… I believe his calm and
balance will do you good. You were friends. You’ll
see, he’s as he was… I didn’t tell you, or you
might’ve refused…” That was a lie, but unavoidable.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Gegely said venomously.
“Ruprecht, the flawless knight, free of prejudice.
He’ll shake Fritz Gegely’s hand.”
The game on the white-lined court, between high
wire nets, ended. Two men joined Helmina for lively
talk, soon turning toward the wheelchair. One stared
steadfastly over.
“I think there’s another acquaintance,” Fritz
Gegely said. “Shall we move on?”
But a rider approached along the meadow path,
trotting past the onlookers. A fleeting glance fell on
them, the horse took a few more steps… a jolt ran
through man and beast. The rider turned and came
back…

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

Fourteenth Chapter
Summer had arrived, and with it the summer
guests, bringing streams of sunlight and wealth to the
Kamp valley.
On a June evening, a carriage descended the final
curves of the forest road from Gars. An ordinary
vehicle, like any other, but extraordinary for its cargo
of compassion and purest love. Two people sat
within. A pale, beautiful young woman with gently
waved blonde hair wore a soft, flowing dress loosely
gathered beneath her chest. Half-reclining in her
corner, she let her wise, slightly sorrowful eyes
wander. They were drinking eyes, filled with much
yearning and joy, but also much resignation. The man
beside her strove for a correctness softened by
devotion. His clothing, collar, English mustache, and
manicured hands were mirrors of fashionable
perfection. His devotion was expressed by the arm
curved behind her shoulders, as if to make his ever-
present protection a comforting delight.
When the carriage jolted over the drainage ruts of
the steep road, like an old circus horse recalling
forgotten tricks, he shouted at the driver, “Drive
carefully… I told you!”
The driver grumbled, braking harder, so the
carriage creaked and groaned, inching along like a
snail. Thus, they reached Vorderschluder and the
door of the “Red Ox,” where the landlady offered her
warmest, most unctuous smile of welcome. These
were the distinguished guests who had reserved all
five front rooms on the first floor two weeks earlier.
The man leapt from the carriage, the driver
clambered down, but the young woman remained
leaning in her corner. Her smile was anxious, sad,
pleading the world’s forgiveness.
“Bring a chair,” the man told sturdy Resi. She
stared, astonished. One never stopped learning. Did
city women now need chairs to alight? Surely a
pampered princess, one who supposedly slept in
gloves.
But, reluctantly fetching the chair, she saw the
beautiful young woman wasn’t spoiled but a poor
paralytic, needing to be carried upstairs in the chair.
With infinite care and tenderness, the husband
oversaw the transport, supporting her back, holding
her dangling hand, asking ten times if all was well,
and snarling at helpers for any minor misstep.
“Let it be,” the invalid protested.
“No… we must insist you’re treated gently from
the start.”
Tears welled in the Red Ox landlady’s eyes. First,
the pity was unbearable—such youth, beauty, and
sweetness so afflicted. Second, balm flowed for the
husband, so devoted and tender. Her late husband, the
Ox landlord, could never have shown such sacrifice.
He’d turned surly when she ailed. With these
thoughts, she went to the kitchen, mingling tears with
the cook, chambermaid, and Resi, who’d returned
from upstairs with touching details. Schorsch, sadly
absent, would’ve wept too, the chambermaid said,
despite being a man with a less soft heart.
Unable to bear it, she grabbed a registration form
and pencil, rushing upstairs. With her finest curtsy,
she said, “Please,” placing paper and pencil on the
table. The man eyed the short, grubby pencil, licked
from use, then drew a gold fountain pen from its case
and wrote.
The young woman, still in the chair she’d been
carried in, gazed out. My God, how beautiful she
was. The chambermaid swallowed, her simple heart
yearning to do something kind for her. Such tiny,
rosy ears—not just the evening glow spreading wide
outside. Oh God, she thought, what use is wealth if
she can’t take a step?
The man finished. “When the luggage arrives,” he
said, “send the yellow suitcase and wheelchair up at
once—they’re essential.”
On the stairs, the chambermaid read the form:
Surname and First Name: Fritz Gegely, Occupation:
Writer, Birthplace: Linz, and so forth, ending with a
proud flourish: Travel Documents: None! Amid the
questions, it noted: Accompanied by: Wife. This
irked her; her pity and affection so fixed on the
paralyzed woman that, if justice ruled, she should’ve
topped the form, with the husband relegated to
“Accompanied by.”
Meanwhile, Fritz Gegely toured the five rooms of
their summer quarters, lips curled in mockery. It was
rurality supreme. Furniture painted a ghastly yellow,
walls daubed with hideous patterns, and the
pictures… Christ on the Cross, a garish van Dyck
print, hair-raising. In the bedroom, the late Ox
landlord in oil and vinegar, painted by an artist who’d
bartered a two-week stay. The artist supplied the oil
of mischief, the landlord the vinegar of forced
cheer—or vice versa. The deceased looked ready to
step from his frame at night and perch on a sleeper’s
chest. Under a glass dome crouched a wax scene: a
blind beggar with a child, a fitting companion to the
landlord. A plaster poodle in the last room completed
the set, perched on the white tiled stove, bearing
years of dust in its folds with canine stoicism.
Fritz Gegely returned from his sardonic survey to
Frau Hedwig. “Well, here we are…” he said.
Hedwig turned to him. “Do you like it?” she
asked, uncertain.
“Oh, yes!” he laughed. “We’re in a curiosity
cabinet… an ethnographic museum of Kamp valley
life.”
Hedwig grew uneasy. “You can’t expect these
simple folk to match your refined taste. When our
trunks arrive, you’ll set out your comforts, your dear
trinkets, and make these rooms your own…”
“Never,” Fritz snapped, glaring around. “These
rooms resist it. They’re steeped in smug, peasant
malice. Look—the cupboard doors squeak; to fetch a
shirt button, you get a concert, scales up and down.
The windows don’t close. A breeze will give us a
nightly rattle. There’s surely mouse holes behind the
furniture. I’m certain the beds creak. That’s a
summer retreat—for rustic art fools, not me. For
blockheads diving into the ‘folk soul,’ seeking the
‘wellspring’… how did I end up here? How does
Fritz Gegely land in Vorderschluder?”
“I feared you’d be unhappy,” the invalid said
softly. “We won’t stay long… I don’t want you
always cross.”
“Oh, please,” the poet retorted sharply. “We’ll
stay as planned. I have a will too. I’ll adapt…
protective mimicry… surely I can muster that much
resolve… or do you think me incapable even of
that?”
Hedwig waved off his words.
“Stop,” he said, irritated. “I know why you
dragged me to this backwater. You want me out of
the world’s sight. Yes… we could’ve gone to Ostend
or a Swedish spa… but you insisted on
Vorderschluder. Why? I’m not that foolish. I know
you think little of me. But I’m not that dim. I’m to
vanish… into oblivion… curtain down, show’s over.
Fritz Gegely’s memory must fade… because my
name carries scandal. The man who stole a
manuscript from Heidelberg’s university library…”
“We’ll go to Ostend tomorrow if you wish,”
Hedwig said, tears in her eyes. Silent, clear tears
traced a familiar path from wide, unblinking, fearful
eyes. Her translucent, invalid hands twisted in her
lap.
Fritz Gegely strode to the door, peered out, then
returned, lowering his voice. “Run off again? That’d
be rich. My name’s in their hands now… passed from
mouth to mouth. ‘Oh, that’s the poet of Marie
Antoinette, the Heidelberg thief—you know!’ And
we’d flee tomorrow? No, the hypocrites would say,
‘See, he can’t stay put, it’s his conscience, he’s
restless, cursed like Ahasuerus.’ We must stay.”
Hedwig reached out both hands. “Fritz, why
torment yourself… and me? That wretched affair
must be forgotten. The doctors ruled you weren’t
responsible. Everyone knows. Those aware of your…
confusion know you were acquitted and in a
sanatorium.”
But Gegely stayed clear, pacing behind the table.
Her hands sank alone.
“That’s it. Everyone knows—they handle my
name with tongs… like a hot coal. The tongs are
‘temporary insanity.’ They smirk with pity. Pity
shames.”
Hedwig shook her head. “Fritz,” she whispered,
timidly, “what should I say, then?”
He ignored her. “Those sheep-heads… instead of
explaining my case through the radiant phenomenon
of the artist, they pin it to their paltry judicial medical
terms. Fine for tailors and glovemakers dealing in
‘temporary insanity.’ Talk that way about a fifteen-
year-old schoolboy killing himself or his fourteen-
year-old sweetheart from grammar school. Or a
hysterical maid swallowing phosphorus.

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

But Wolf Gontram didn’t understand one syllable. She laughed,
left him standing there, and took the arm of Fräulein ten Brinken.
“My brother is a more beautiful girl that you are,” she said. “But
you are a sweeter boy.”
“And you,” laughed Alraune, “my blonde abbess, you prefer
sweet boys?”
She answered, “What is permitted for Héloise? It went very
badly for my poor Abalard, you know. He was slender and delicate
just like you are! There I can learn much about self-modesty.
But you, my sweet little boy, you appear like a strange priest
with a new and fresh doctrine, one that would harm no one.”
“My doctrine is ancient and venerable,” said the Chevalier de
Maupin.
“That is the best covering for such sweet sin,” laughed the
blonde abbess.
She took a goblet from the table and handed it to him.
“Drink, sweet boy.”
The countess came up with hot pleading eyes, “Let me have
him!”
But Frieda Gontram shook her head. “No,” she said sharply.
“Not him! Fair game, if you like–”
“She kissed me,” insisted Tosca and Héloise scoffed.
“Do you believe you are the only one tonight?”
She turned to Alraune, “Decide, my Paris. Who shall it be? The
worldly lady, or the pious one?”
“For today?” asked Fräulein de Maupin.
“Today–and as long as you want!” cried Countess Olga.
The fancy dressed boy laughed, “I want the abbess–and Tosca as
well.”
He ran laughing over to a blonde Teuton that was strutting as a
red executioner with a mighty axe made of cardboard.
“You–brother-in-law,” she cried. “I’ve got two mama’s. Will
you execute them, both of them?”
The student straightened up and raised both arms high.
“Where are they?” he bellowed.
But Alraune found no time to answer; the Colonel of the 28th
regiment had snatched her up for the two-step.
–The Chevalier de Maupin stepped onto the professors’ table.
“Where is your Albert?” asked the professor of literature.
“Where is your Isabella?”
“My Albert is running around here somewhere, Herr Professor,”
answered Alraune. “He appears in two dozen different versions in this
very ballroom!”
“As for Isabella”–her eyes searched around the room–“Isabella,”
she continued, “I will present her to you as well.”
She stepped up to the professor’s daughter; a fifteen year old,
timid thing that looked at her with large amazed blue eyes.
“Will you be my page, little gardener?” she asked.
The flaxen haired girl said, “Yes, gladly–If you want me to!”
“You must be my page when I am a lady,” the Chevalier
instructed, “and my maid when I go as a gentleman.”
The little girl nodded.
“How is that, Herr Professor?” laughed Alraune.
“Summa cum Laude!” acknowledged the professor. “But leave
my dear little Trudi here with me.”
“Now I ask!” cried the Fräulein ten Brinken and she turned to a
short, round botanist.
“Which flowers bloom in my garden, Herr Professor?”
“Red hibiscus,” answered the botanist. He knew the flora of
Ceylon very well, “golden lotus and white temple flowers.”
“Wrong!” cried Alraune. “Entirely wrong! Do you know, Herr
Rifleman from Harlem? Which flowers grow in my garden?”
The art professor looked at her sharply, a light smile tugged at
his lips.
“Les fleurs du mal; the flowers of evil,” he said. “Aren’t they?”
“Yes,” cried Mlle. de Maupin. “Yes, you’ve got it right.”
“But they don’t bloom for you my dear scientist. You must
patiently wait until they are dried and pressed into a book or in a
frame after the varnish dries.”
She pulled her pretty sword, bowed, saluted and snapped her
sword-cane back together. Then she turned around on her heel,
danced a few steps with the Baron von Manteuffel from Prussia,
heard the light voice of her Royal Highness and sprang quickly up to
the table of the princess.
“Countess Almaviva,” she began. “What do you desire from
your faithful cherubim?”
“I’m really disappointed with him,” said the princess. “He has
really earned a beating, scampering around the hall with one
scoundrel after another!”
“Don’t forget the Susanna’s either,” laughed the prince-escort.
Alraune ten Brinken pulled her lips into a pout. “What should
such a poor boy do,” she cried, “who knows nothing of this evil
world?”
She laughed, took the lute from the shoulder of the adjutant who
was standing in front of her dressed as Frans Hals. She strummed,
stepped back a few paces and sang:
“You, who instinctively
Know the ways of the heart
Tell me, is it love
That burns so here in mine?”
“From whom do you want advice cherubim?” asked the princess.
“Doesn’t my Countess Almaviva know?” Alraune gave back.
Her Royal Highness laughed, “You are very daring, my page!”
Cherubim answered, “That is the way of pages!”
He lifted the lace on the sleeves of the princess and kissed her on
the hand–a little too high on the arm and a little too long.
“Shall I bring you Rosalinde?” he whispered, and he read the
answer in her eyes.
Rosalinde danced past–not a moment’s rest was she allowed this
evening. The Chevalier de Maupin took her away from her dance
partner, led her up the steps to the table of her Highness.
“Give her something to drink,” she cried. “My beloved thirsts.”
She took the glass the princess handed to her and placed it to
Wolf Gontram’s red lips. Then she turned to the prince consort.
“Will you dance with me, wild outrider from the Rhine?”
He laughed coarsely and pointed to his gigantic brown riding
boots with their immense spurs.
“Do you believe that I can dance in these?”
“Try it,” she urged, and pulled him by the arm away from where
he was sitting.
“It will be alright! Only don’t trample me to death or break me,
you rough hunter.”
The prince threw a doubtful glance at the delicate thing in
perfumed lace, then put on his buckskin gloves and reached out to
her.
“Then come, my little page,” he cried.
Alraune threw a hand kiss over to the princess, waltzed through
the hall with the heavy prince. The people made room for them and it
went well enough diagonally across and then back. He raised her high
and whirled her through the air so that she screamed. Then he got
entangled in his long spurs–oops! They were both lying on the dance
floor.
She was up again, like new, reaching out her hand to him.
“Get up Herr Outrider. I can’t very well lift you.”
He raised his upper body, but when he tried to get onto his right
foot a quick “ouch!” came out of his mouth. He steadied himself with
his left hand, tried to get up again, but it didn’t work. An intense pain
took his Majesty across the foot.
There he sat, big and strong, in the middle of the dance floor and
couldn’t get himself up. Several came up and tried taking off the
mighty boot, which covered his entire leg, but it wouldn’t go. The
foot had swelled up so quickly they had to cut away the tough leather
with sharp knives. Professor Dr. Helban, Orthopedic, examined him
and determined the anklebone was broken.
“I’m done with dancing for today,” grumbled the prince-escort.
Alraune stood at the front of the thick circle that surrounded him,
near her pressed the red executioner. A little song occurred to her that
she had heard the students howling at night.
“Tell me,” she asked. “How does that song go, the one about the
fields, the forests and the strong man’s strength?”
The tall Teuton was thoroughly drunk and reacted as if someone
had thrown a coin into an automated machine. He swung his axe high
into the air and bellowed out:
“He fell on a stone.
He fell on a–crack, crack, crack –
He fell on a stone!
Broke three ribs in his body
In the fields and the forests
And all of his strength–
And then his right –crack, crack, crack
And then his right leg!”
“Shut up!” whispered a fraternity brother to him. “Are you
entirely crazy?”
That quieted him. But the good natured prince laughed.
“Thanks for the appropriate serenade! But you can save the three
ribs–My leg here is completely enough!”
They carried him out on a chair, helped him into his sleigh. The
princess left the ball with him. She was not at all happy about the
incident.
Alraune sought out Wolf Gontram, found him still sitting at the
abandoned Royal table.
“What did she do?” she asked quickly. “What did she say?”
“I don’t know,” answered Wölfchen.
She took his fan, hit him sharply on the arm.
“You do know,” she insisted. “You must know and you must tell
me!”
He shook his head, “But I really don’t know. She gave me
something to drink and smoothed back the hair on my forehead. I
believe she also squeezed my hand, but I can’t say exactly, don’t
know exactly all that she said. A couple of times I said, ‘Yes.’ But I
wasn’t listening to her at all. I was thinking about something entirely
different.”
“You are terribly stupid Wölfchen,” said the Fräulein
reproachfully. “You were dreaming again! What were you dreaming
about this time?”
“About you,” he replied.
She stamped her feet in anger.
“About me! Always about me! Why are you always thinking
about me?”
His large deep eyes pleaded with her.
“I can’t help it,” he whispered.
The music began, interrupting the silence that the going away of
the Royalty had caused. “Roses of the South” sounded soft and
seductive. She took his hand, pulled him out with her.
“Come, Wölfchen, we will dance!”
They stepped out and turned around. They were alone in the
large hall. The gray bearded art professor saw them, climbed up on
his chair and shouted:
“Quiet, special waltz for the Chevalier de Maupin and his
Rosalinde!”
Hundreds of eyes rested on the beautiful couple. Alraune was
highly aware of it and felt the admiration with every step that she
took. But Wolf Gontram noticed nothing, he only felt, as he lay in her
arms and was carried by the soft sounds. His heavy black eye lashes
lowered, shadowing his deep, dreamy eyes.
The Chevalier de Maupin led, certain, as confidant as a slender
page that has lived on the smooth dance floor since the cradle. His
head was bowed slightly forward, his left hand held two of
Rosalinde’s fingers while the right rested on the golden knob of the
sword-cane that he had pushed down through the lace trimmed sash
till the other end showed behind him. His powdered hair curled like
tiny silver snakes, a smile spread his lips revealing smooth white
teeth.
Rosalinde followed every light pressure. Her red and gold train
slid smoothly over the floor and her figure grew out of it like a
graceful shaped flower. Her head lay back, white ostrich plumes
dangled heavily from her large hat. She was worlds away from
everyone else, enraptured by the garlands of roses that hung
throughout the hall. They passed under them again and again on their
way around the dance floor.

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Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel

He looked around timidly. 

“I want to tell you something, only to you alone, because you made such an extraordinary impression on me, right the first time I saw you. The man who my wife… whom my wife seduced, also told me such extraordinary things about you.” 

Falk became very impatient. He hardly understood half of his speech. He felt alternately heat and cold in his body. At times he believed he was near fainting. 

“Hurry; I am sick. I have a strong fever.” The stranger looked at him with a strange smile. 

“I know it, I know it very exactly. I had it very bad in the last time.” 

Suddenly he became even paler, he became quite green in the face and moved quite close to Falk. 

“He told me that I should come to you to make you happy. Today, when you ran away from me…” 

A cold shiver ran down Falk’s back. Was it really a vision? A raging fear seized him as he saw the stranger’s eyes fixed unceasingly on him. 

“How? What—what do you mean?” “I want to make you happy.” 

He was silent and seemed to brood deeply. 

Falk looked at him distractedly. Then cold sweat broke out on his forehead, he began to tremble. The lowest button was missing from the stranger’s coat. Where had he seen the man? Yesterday, yes yesterday… But then it was only in the dream, in the fever. 

The stranger seemed to struggle for expression. 

“Do you know, Herr Falk, a feeling of calm? No, you naturally don’t know it… It is actually no calm… it is a feeling of such absolute harmony… One feels no pain, one no longer feels a body; one is redeemed from all bodily. One sinks into something infinite. The spaces have widened; the miles become millions of miles, the most miserable huts become palaces… You no longer know where you are, you know no path and no direction…” 

His eyes shone in a rapt ecstasy. 

Again Falk felt slow, cold shivers run down his back. 

“In one second you can live through centuries, on a piece of earth you can see a thousand cities—oh, and the happy splendor, the splendor!” 

His eyes suddenly became quite fixed and his face distorted painfully. 

“At first I felt an inhuman fear… When the ground suddenly began to waver under me, when I suddenly felt transported to foreign cities, it happened that I threw myself on my knees in the middle of the street and begged the passers-by to hold me. I asked them to let me hold only the hem of their clothes… Oh, they were hard times of trial.” 

“Do you suffer from epilepsy?” asked Falk shaken. 

“No, no…” the stranger smiled insanely. “I am not sick. I am happy. And I came to bring you happiness, to you alone, because you made this extraordinary impression on me, and because you were his friend…” 

He moved the chair even closer to Falk so that he whispered in his ear. “It is hard, very hard, but just try it. Drive all thoughts away. All, all! They are the mightiest support of the spirit that will not believe, of the spirit that doubts eternally. Drive everything from the brain so that you remain pure from doubt, then sit down and collect yourself so that the forces of the whole organism flow together to one point, so that you feel yourself only as a point, a trembling atom in world space… Then wait long, patiently… Then it comes suddenly over you, like a horrible chaos it comes over you, you will see an abyss, terrible ghosts crawl out of all corners. 

His eyes tore unnaturally wide open. 

“You will hear horrible voices, the walls will become bodily and will step toward you to crush you… You will experience torments against which human torment is a joy, a pleasure… Suddenly everything disappears… Something leads you out, the whole life streams before the eyes in infinite clarity… there is no more riddle, no secret—one can read in the soul of another like in an open book…” 

“Why do you come to me with this, why?” whispered Falk. 

The stranger did not hear his question. 

“Then there is no more torment,” he continued, “no pain, no hate. I love the man who took the woman from me, I followed him with you, I wanted to save him, but in the moment of death one must not disturb…” 

Now it shot through Falk’s head like lightning. Everything became clear to him. He trembled violently and held onto the armrest so as not to collapse. 

“The man shot himself today!” he cried hoarsely. The stranger smiled strangely. 

“Yes,” he said after a while. Falk came completely out of himself. 

“What do you want from me?” he stammered almost unconsciously. 

“You caused his death, Falk. He was like wax in your hands, you were his god, and you destroyed his soul. You made him a criminal against himself and others. Listen to me, follow me…” 

“I did not do it! Can I help it that he perished from his debauchery?” 

The stranger looked at him sternly. 

“Oh, how hardened your heart is… You know well what you did to him. Why are you so pale, why do you tremble? He lies on your conscience.” 

“Who, who?” 

“Grodzki,” said the stranger softly. 

Falk groaned tormentingly, and his head sank to his chest. But suddenly he came completely out of his senses, he straightened up and cried: 

“I do not repent it. I want to ruin and destroy the whole world. I laugh at your mystical revelations. I don’t need them. I need no happiness. I spit on happiness. I repent that I destroyed and ruined too little, do you understand me?” 

He suddenly stopped. 

The stranger was completely transformed. His eyes expressed an uncanny fear. They ran restlessly around. 

“The spirit of evil! the spirit of evil!” he repeated with trembling lips. 

Suddenly his face became clear and his voice mild. 

“You are sick, Falk, I will not disturb you… I followed you, I was afraid for you, how you stood there at the corner and trembled and waited for the shot.” 

Again he became restless. He leaned far toward Falk, his voice trembled violently. 

“I… I…” he stammered with difficulty… “followed you. You sat long with him… did he not speak about my wife?… He left her… she is perishing.” 

“Nothing, nothing did he tell me… just go! You are killing me… go then!” 

Falk felt that he could not hold himself any longer. 

“You are so sick, Falk, so sick…” He went slowly out the door. Falk heard and saw nothing more. A dizziness seized him, the room began to turn around him, he sank and fell into unconsciousness.

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