Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

It wasn’t long before she received her deserved punishment for
denying her good mother. By the next day Alraune had already told
all the students about her mother’s cheese shop and it cost a lot of
effort to again win back the respect which she lost throughout the
Institute.
But things were much worse for Alraune’s schoolmates then they
were for the instructors. There was not one student in the entire school
that had not suffered because of her. Strangely enough it appeared
that every new bit of mischief seemed to make her even more popular.
She made a point to sacrifice everyone that appeared to stand against
her until they were all on her side. She was more popular than any of
the other girls.
Fräulein Becker reported some of the worst cases to the Privy
Councilor and they were mentioned in the leather volume.
Blanche de Banville had just returned from vacation with her
parents in Picardy. The hot-blooded fourteen-year-old had fallen head
over heels in love with her cousin who was the same age as she was.
She wrote to him from Spa as well and he answered, addressing her
letters B.d.B., hold at post office until claimed by addressee. Then he
must have found something better to do with his time, in any case no
more letters came.
Both Alraune and little Louison knew about her secret. Naturally
Blanche was very unhappy and cried through entire nights. Louison
sat with her and tried to comfort her. But Alraune declared that it was
wrong to console her, her cousin had been unfaithful and betrayed
her. Now Blanche needed to die of unrequited love. That was the only
way to repay her false lover and make things right. Then for the rest
of his life he would be tormented by the furies. She knew several
famous stories where it had been like that.
Blanche was agreeable to the dying part but it did not go well.
Food always tasted good to her despite her great pain. That’s when
Alraune declared that if Blanche couldn’t die of a broken heart she
must find some other way to bring it about. She recommended a
dagger or a pistol–but they didn’t have either one.
Blanche could not be persuaded to jump out the window, push a
hatpin into her heart or hang herself. She just wanted to swallow
something, nothing else. Soon Alraune had some new advice. There
was a bottle of Lysol in Mlle. de Vynteelen’s medicine chest–Louison
must steal it. Unfortunately there was only a little bit left in the bottle
so Louison had to scratch the phosphorus heads off a couple boxes of
matches as well.
Blanche wrote several farewell letters, one to her parents, the
principal and her traitorous lover. Then she drank the Lysol and
swallowed the matchheads–They both tasted horrible enough. Just to
be certain Alraune had her swallow three packets of needles–She
herself, by the way, was not present at this suicide attempt. She had
gone to her room under the pretence of being a lookout after Blanche
had sworn on the crucifix to follow her instructions exactly.
That evening little Louison sat on the bed with her friend. Crying
miserably she handed over first the Lysol, then the match heads and
finally the packets of needles. Blanche became very ill from these
threefold poisons and was soon writhing and screaming in pain.
Louison screamed with her and their screams roared through the
entire house. Then she ran out of the room and fetched the Head
Mistress and the teachers yelling that Blanche was dying.
Blanche de Banville did not die. A capable doctor quickly gave
her an effective emetic that brought the Lysol, phosphorus and needle
packets back up again. Still, one of the needle packets had opened up
in her stomach and a half dozen needles had gotten loose. They
wandered through her body and in the course of her life came out
again in all kinds of places painfully reminding the little suicide of her
first love.
Blanche lay in bed sick for a long time and had a lot of pain. It
appeared that she had been punished enough. Everyone sympathized
with her, was good to her and granted her slightest wish. She wished
for nothing else but that her two friends that had helped her, Alraune
and little Louison, not be punished. She pleaded and begged for so
long that the principal finally promised. That was why Alraune was
not thrown out of the school.
Then it was Hilde Aldekerk’s turn. She loved the Berlin style
cakes that were sold in the German confectionery at Place Royal. She
claimed she could eat twenty. Alraune bet that she couldn’t polish off
thirty. Whoever lost the bet had to pay for the cakes. Hilde Aldekerk
won–but she got so sick that she had to stay in bed fourteen days.
“Glutton,” said Alraune ten Brinken. “It serves you right!”
From that point on the only thing all the little girls called fat,
round Hilda was “Glutton”. She howled about it for awhile but then
got used to her new nickname and finally became one of Alraune’s
most faithful companions, just like Blanche de Banville.
Fräulein Becker reported that Alraune had only one time been
seriously punished at the school and strangely enough, unjustly. On a
full moon night the French teacher stumbled out of her room terrified.
She woke the entire household with her screams and yelled that a
white ghost was sitting on the balustrade of her balcony. No one
would go into her room until they finally woke up the porter who
armed himself with a club and went inside.
The ghost turned out to be Alraune who was sitting there in her
white night gown and staring with wide-open eyes into the moon. She
could not say how she got there. The principal took the playing ghost
as a very bad prank. Only much later did it come out that the girl had
been seen on several different occasions sleep walking under the
influence of the full moon.
Interestingly enough Alraune accepted this unjust punishment–to
copy a chapter out of “Tèlèmaque”–without protest and
conscientiously carried it out on a free afternoon. She would have
most certainly rebelled and resisted any just punishment.
Fräulein Becker concluded, “I fear that your Excellency will not
experience much joy from your daughter in the future.”
The Privy Councilor replied, “That might well be, but up to now
I believe that I am very well satisfied with her.”
He did not let Alraune come home for vacation the last two
years. Instead he permitted her to travel with her school friends, once
to Scotland with Maude McPherson, then with Blanche to her parents
in Paris and finally with the two Rodenburgs to their family estate in
Münster.
He didn’t have any reports from these episodes in Alraune’s life
and could only imagine how she occupied herself during these
vacations. It was a satisfaction to him to think of how this creature he
had created extended her influence outward in ever expanding circles.
In the newspaper he read that during the summer in which
Alraune was at Boltenhagen the green and white colors of the old
Count Rodenberg did exceedingly well at the track and his stud
brought in a considerable winnings.
He also learned that Mlle. de Vynteelen had received an
unexpected inheritance that placed her in the position of needing to
close the school so she didn’t take any new students and only kept her
old students until they graduated.
He attributed both of these things to the presence of Alraune and
was half convinced that she brought gold into the other houses she
had stayed at, the convent in Nancy, at Reverend McPherson in
Edinburgh and the home of the Banvilles on Haussmann Boulevarde.
She had made good threefold on her little deviltries.
He felt that all these people ought to feel gratitude to his child,
this strange girl that went abroad out into the world bringing gifts and
strewing roses upon the life paths of all those that had the fortune to
meet her. He laughed as it occurred to him that those roses also had
sharp thorns capable on inflicting many beautiful wounds as well.
“By the way,” he asked Fräulein Becker. “How are things going
with your dear mother?”
“Why thank you for asking, your Excellency,” she answered.
“Mother can’t complain. Her business has grown considerably better
during the last few years!”
“Really,” said the Privy Councilor and he gave orders that all
cheeses, the Emmenthall, Roquefort, Chester and old Höllander, from
now on were to be purchased from Frau Becker on Münster Street.

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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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