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

The stranger turned, striding in the opposite
direction. The plain’s rolling waves stretched before
him. Fields lay in patches of black and dirty snow-
gray. Winter crops showed green in sheltered spots.
The air was potent, the earth pulsing with urge. Over
narrow field paths, wet earth clumping on his boots,
the sausage-skinned man marched toward his goal.
At last, Sankt Leonhard am Horner Wald’s tower
rose over a ridge. Three or four houses clustered near
the church; the village’s other farms scattered across
the plain. Dark woods filled the hollows.
As fitting, the houses by the church were two inns
and a large general store stocking every farmstead
need.
Entering Alois Fürst’s tavern-room, the stranger
found carters by the stove, discussing weather. Talk
halted as they scrutinized him.
Finally, Mathes Dreiseidel von Vorderschluder,
pointing with his pipe stem, said to his neighbor,
“That’s the daft professor livin’ with us.”
“A professor?” others whispered hoarsely. “He
can’t wait for summer.”
“He ain’t no summer guest. He’s doin’ studies
round here.”
“Oh… is that so?”
They fell silent, eyeing the professor, who’d shed
his sausage coat and sat at a nearby table. Thick blue
smoke curled from their pipes. Mathes Dreiseidel
drained his glass, rapping the table for another quart.
“Say, then,” the Wegschaid carter, who drove
twice weekly through Sankt Leonhard to Gars,
resumed, “our roads are a mess. I tell ye, some folk
meddle in everything. Big mouths get their way.
Look at our roads—they ain’t built for all’s best, but
for them loudmouths. Roads take big detours. Why?
‘Cause someone’s got a tavern there. I name no
names. Anyone crossing the Wolfshofen land knows
who I mean.”
“Aye… true enough,” others agreed. The
Idolsberg bergmaster added, “Plenty to fix round
here. Couldn’t the gentry build a road from
Rosenburg to Wegschaid? I’ve studied the Kamp
valley close. Two blasts, no more. It’d profit them
too. Now they float logs from Rosenburg. Half’s
lost—twenty percent gone. What arrives is half-
rotted.”
“Pardon, gentlemen,” the stranger cut in. “You
mention the Kamp. Do you know why the river’s
called that?”
Mathes Dreiseidel nudged the Idolsberg
bergmaster. He grunted, catching the hint. Those
studies. But what to say to such a daft question?
The Wegschaid carter spoke, slipping into High
German. “Well, since the Herr asks, I must say we
don’t rightly know. The river’s always been called
that. It’s marked Kamp on maps too.”
“That’s so,” the bergmaster growled.
The professor pressed on. “Haven’t you heard
older folk call the river something else? Idolsberg’s
an intriguing name too. There’s a wealth of ancient
names here.”
“Nah!” the carters said. The Wegschaid carter,
once a waiter at Graz’s Golden Elephant, added,
“No! No memory of it remains.”
“Hm!” the professor grunted, then continued, “By
the way, you’re quite right about what you said
earlier. The Kamp valley needs a road. It’d boost
traffic tremendously.”
“Aye, but that Rosenburger does naught. Always
off in Africa,” grumbled a farmer.
“There are other landowners. Rotbirnbach has a
stake, too. And Herr von Boschan in Vorderschluder,
most of all. He’s said to be a capable man.”
The farmers exchanged glances. “Herr von
Boschan’s only been in Vorderschluder a few
months,” said the Idolsberg bergmaster. “If he lasts
longer, he might do somethin’.”
“What do you mean? Is he strapped for cash?” A
brief silence followed. The Wegschaid carter, eager
to show his worldliness, spoke up. “Well, money’s no
issue, but folks say he won’t last long, ‘cause none of
Frau von Boschan’s husbands ever do.”
The professor smiled. “Yes, I recall now. I was
told. He’s her third husband.”
“Pardon! Beggin’ yer pardon! He’s the fourth.”
“Right, the fourth. Yes, yes! And the last, if I’m
not mistaken, was a certain Herr Sangwart.”
“Dankwardt, his name was. A right kind
gentleman, but knew nothin’ ‘bout farmin’. Always
buried in books.” The Wegschaid carter shared what
he knew of Herr Dankwardt.
The others cloaked themselves in smoke and
silence. The professor dipped his bucket of questions
into the carter’s well of eloquence.
Evening fell. A red sky peered through the
windows. The Idolsberg bergmaster, first to stir,
decided it was time to head home. He tapped out his
pipe, spat on the floor, and stood.
Mathes Dreiseidel offered the professor a seat on
his cart. They rolled into the dusk. Dreiseidel smoked
on the driver’s bench; the professor, jostled on straw
in the back, jotted notes in a red book as best he
could.
At Achenwald, he tapped the farmer’s shoulder.
“Thanks kindly, Herr Dreiseidel,” he said. “I’ll cut
through the woods—much shorter.”
“Know the paths? It’s pitch dark.”
“When you roam as much as I do, you’re
prepared. Got my pocket lantern.” He climbed down.
“So, thanks again. Next time, you ride my cart.”
Dreiseidel clattered off, the night swallowing the
rumble. The professor stood alone in the dark. He
carefully drew his folding lantern from its oilcloth
case, snapped it open, and fitted a candle. A match
flared, and after some effort, the bent wick caught.
He plunged into the woods. On the narrow path,
the light danced in wild leaps ahead. With sure steps,
the stranger followed, his gait confident, springy. He
mulled over today’s haul from the Wegschaider’s
well.
After a while, he looked up, startled. A light
flickered toward him through the trees. He stepped
aside. A man approached in a short hunting jacket
and high boots. A jolt of joy shot through the
professor. By God, it was none other than Herr von
Boschan.
The professor stepped back onto the path,
shoulders slumped, trudging with a despairing air.
Facing Boschan, he raised his lantern. “Excuse me,”
he said.
Boschan lifted his lantern, revealing a distressed,
pitiful face.
“Pardon, good sir,” the professor said again. “Can
you tell me if I’m on the right path?”
“Where are you headed?” Boschan asked, amused.
What was this man in his yellow overcoat doing in
the pitch-black woods?
“I think I’m lost. I’m new here, don’t know my
way yet.”
“Where do you live?”
“With Rotrehl, the violin-maker. They told me this
wood path cuts a good distance.”
“You’re on the right track. Keep going, take the
left at every fork, then left down at the forest’s edge.”
“That’s a relief. I’m not familiar yet, as I said…
always left! Thank you kindly, sir! Allow me—
Schiereisen… from Vienna!”
Ruprecht bowed briefly. “Boschan.”
Schiereisen’s wide mouth gaped. “What, Herr von
Boschan? An honor and pleasure… truly. Since
arriving, I’ve hoped to make your acquaintance…
and now chance brings us together at night in the
woods… ha… ha! Quite something, no? I’m here for
studies. This area’s remarkably interesting; I
suspect—”
He’s liable to lecture me here, Ruprecht thought,
cutting in. “I knew at once you were a professor,” he
said, smiling.
“Not quite! I’m more a private scholar,
researching for pleasure. I haven’t sold out to the
state. Once you’re dubbed professor, free inquiry’s
done. Look at our dear Austria’s state of affairs.
What do you say? I’d rather forgo titles and honors,
stay independent. I can do and write as I please… no
one’s leash on me. I’m working on a study of Central
European culture, and your region—”
“Pardon,” Ruprecht said, a touch impatient, “my
wife’s expecting me. I was delayed at a quarry…”
Schiereisen laid a hand on Ruprecht’s arm. “One
more word, Herr von Boschan… I’ll let you go… I’m
thrilled to meet you… There’s a bit of self-interest,
too. I heard your predecessor, Herr Dankwardt, had a
vast library and loved books. It’s only natural some
might… I mean, he likely took interest in this land’s
prehistory, and I could find valuable resources.
Amateurs often stumble on books scholars seek in
vain. If you’d…”
“It’d be my pleasure to host you. The library’s at
your disposal.”
The lantern-lit talk on the narrow forest path
ended. They shook hands and parted. Schiereisen’s
candle had burned low. He paused after a few steps to
adjust it, whistling softly with a smile. His lantern’s
Marienglas crackled in the heat.
Then he strode briskly to reach home.
That evening, he wrote to Herr Peter Franz von
Zaugg, Section Councilor in the Railway Ministry:
“Dear Sir, It is with sincere satisfaction that I report,
after a relatively short stay, some not insignificant
successes. I have diligently gathered material. You
will understand that this case, which you kindly
entrusted to me, presents considerable challenges. I
reserve a full account for later. Today, I wish only to
note that a fortunate chance introduced me to Herr
von Boschan. I have secured unobtrusive, harmless
access to the castle, and rest assured, I will seize
every opportunity to advance my goal. I hope soon to
provide you and your esteemed wife with clarity on
the dark, mysterious circumstances surrounding your
late brother-in-law’s fate and, should your suspicions
prove founded, to ensure justice for a heinous crime.
With utmost respect, Your devoted, Josef Tängler.”

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Seven
Shares the things that occurred when Alraune was a young
girl.
FROM the time she was eight years old until she was twelve
Alraune ten Brinken was raised in the Sacré Couer convent
in Nancy. From then until her seventeenth birthday she
lived at Mlle. de Vynteelen’s finishing school for young
ladies on Du Marteau Avenue in Spa. During this time she went to the
ten Brinken home twice a year to spend her vacations.
At first the Privy Councilor tried to have her taught at home. He
hired a girl to teach the child, then a tutor and soon after that another
one. But even with the best intentions in a short time they all
despaired of ever teaching her anything. It was simply not going to
happen. It was not something they could point out. She was not wild
or unruly. She just never answered and there was nothing that could
break through her stubborn silence.
She just sat there quiet and still, staring straight ahead and
blinking with half-open eyes. You could scarcely tell if she was even
listening. She would pick up the slate in her hand but she would not
move it, not up, down, or to make a letter–If she did use it, it was to
draw some strange animal with ten legs or a face with three eyes and
two noses.
What she learned at all she learned before the Privy Councilor
sent her to the convent, before her separation from Wölfchen. This
same boy that failed miserably in every class in school and looked
down with contempt on any schoolwork had an unending patience
with his sister at home.
She had him write long rows of numbers, write out his name and
her name hundreds of times and she enjoyed it when he made a
mistake, when his dirty little fingers cramped up on him. It was for
this purpose that she would take up the slate, the pencil or the writing
quill. She would learn a number, a word or its opposite, grasp it
quickly, write it down, and then let the boy copy it for hours. She
always found something to correct, there, that stroke was not right.
She played the teacher–so she learned.
Then one day the principal came out to complain to the Privy
Councilor about the pathetic performance of his foster son. Wölfchen
was especially weak in the sciences.
Alraune heard this and from then on played school with him,
controlled him, made him study till dark, listened to him recite his
lessons and made him learn. She would put him in his room, close the
door and not let him come out until he had finished off his homework.
She acted as if she knew everything already and would not
tolerate any doubt of her superiority. She learned very easily and
quickly. She did not want to show any weakness in front of the boy so
she took up one book after another grasping its contents and moving
on to the next in a wild and chaotic manner without tying them
together. This went on until the youth would come to her when he
didn’t know something. He would ask her to explain it to him because
she must surely know it. Then she would put him off, scold him and
tell him to think it over.
That gave her some time to search in her books. If she couldn’t
find the answer she would run off to the Privy Councilor and ask him.
Then she would come back to the boy and ask if the answer had
occurred to him yet. If it hadn’t she would finally give him the
answer. The professor noticed the game and it amused him. He would
have never even considered placing the girl out of the home if the
princess hadn’t kept pressuring him again and again.
The princess had always been a good Catholic and it seemed as if
she became more devout with every Kilo of fat that she put on. She
was insistent that her Godchild must be brought up in a convent. The
Privy Councilor had been her financial advisor for several years now
and invested her millions almost as if they were his own. He thought
it prudent to go along with her on this point. So Alraune went to the
Sacré Couer convent in Nancy.
There were several exceptionally short entries in the Privy
Councilor’s hand during this period and several long reports from the
Mother Superior. The professor grinned as he filed them, especially
the first ones that praised the girl and the extraordinary progress she
was making. He knew his convents and knew very well that a person
could not learn anything of this world among these pious sisters.
He enjoyed how the first letters filled with the praise that all the
parents received very soon took a different tone. The Mother Superior
reported more and more urgently on various cruelties and these
complaints always had the same basis. It was not the behavior of the
girl herself, not her performance in giving presentations. It was
always about the influence she exerted on her schoolmates.
“It is entirely true,” writes the Reverend Mother, “that the child
herself never tortures animals. At least she has never been caught at
it–But it is equally true that all the little cruelties committed by the
other girls originate in her head.
First there was little Mary, a well-behaved and obedient child
that was caught in the convent garden blowing up frogs with hollow
grass stems. When she was called to account for her actions she
confessed that Alraune had given her the idea. We didn’t want to
believe it at first and thought it was much more likely that she was
trying to shift the blame away from herself.
But very soon after that two different girls were discovered
sprinkling salt on some large slugs so that they writhed in agony as
they slowly dissolved into slime. Now slugs are also God’s creatures
and again these two children declared that Alraune had pushed them
into it. I then questioned her myself and the child admitted everything
and went on to explain that she had once heard that about slugs and
wanted to see if it was really true. As for the blowing up of frogs, she
said that it sounded so beautiful when you smashed a blown up frog
with a stone. Of course she would never do it herself because some of
the crushed frog might squirt onto her hands.
When I asked whether she understood that she had done wrong
she declared No, she had not done anything wrong and what the other
children did had nothing at all to do with her.”
At this place in the report in parentheses the Privy Councilor
wrote, “She is absolutely correct!”
“Despite being punished,” the letter continues, “a short time later
we had several other deplorable cases that we determined must have
originated from Alraune.
For example, Clara Maasen of Düren, a girl several years older
than Alraune, she has been in our care for four years now and never
given the slightest cause for complaint. She took a mole and poked its
eyes out with a red-hot knitting needle. She was so upset over what
she had done that she spent the next few days extremely agitated and
bursting into tears for no reason at all. She only calmed down again
after she had received absolution during her next confession.
Alraune explained that moles creep around in the dark earth and
it doesn’t matter if they can see or not.
Then we found very ingeniously constructed bird traps in the
garden. Thank God no little birds had been caught in them yet. No
one would tell us where she had gotten the idea. Only under the threat
of severe punishment did some girls finally admit that Alraune had
enticed them into doing it and at the same time threatened to do
something to them if they told on her.
Unfortunately this unholy influence of the child on her
schoolmates has now grown to the point where we can scarcely find
out the truth anymore.
Helene Petiot was caught at recess carefully cutting the wings off
of flies, ripping their legs off and throwing them alive onto an anthill.
The little girl said that she had come up with the idea herself and
stuck with her story in front of His Reverence, swearing that Alraune
had nothing to do with it.
Her cousin Ninon lied just as stubbornly yesterday after she had
tied a tin pot to the tail of our good old cat and almost drove it insane.
Nevertheless we are convinced that Alraune had her hand in that
game as well.”
The Mother Superior then wrote further that she had called a
conference together and everyone had concluded the best thing was to
respectfully beg his Excellency to take his daughter away from the
convent and come as soon as possible to get her.
The Privy Councilor answered that he very much regretted the
incidents but must beg them to keep the child a little while longer at
the convent.
“The more difficult the work, the greater the reward.”
He had no doubt that the patience and piety of the sisters would
be successful in clearing the weeds out of the heart of his child and
turn it into a beautiful garden of the Lord. The reason he did this was
to see if the influence of this sensitive child was stronger than the
discipline of the convent and all the efforts of the pious sisters.
He knew very well that the cheap Sacré Couer convent did not
draw from the best families and that it was very happy to count the
daughter of his Excellency as one of its students. He was not
mistaken. The Reverend Mother replied that with God’s help they
would try once more. All the sisters had declared themselves willing
to include a special plea for Alraune in their evening prayers. In
generosity the Privy Councilor sent them a hundred Marks for their
charities.
During the next vacation the professor carefully observed the
little girl. He knew the Gontram family from the Great-grandfather
down and knew that they all took in a great love for animals with their
mother’s milk. He felt that her influence on this much older boy
would at last meet its match, become powerless against this innermost
feeling of unlimited goodness.
Yet he caught Wölfchen Gontram one afternoon down by the
little pond under the trumpet tree. He was kneeling on the ground. In
front of him sat a large frog on a stone. The youth had lit a cigarette
and shoved it in the wide mouth and deep down its throat. The frog
smoked in deathly fear, swallowing the smoke, pulling it down into its
belly. It inhaled more and more but couldn’t push it back out so it
became larger and larger.

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