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

“That’s wholly Austrian,” Ruprecht said,
sketching the castle’s character for Hedwig. “You
might think someone’s aloof and, despite simplicity,
unapproachable, then find you can chat quite
comfortably. Our great men all have a back road,
bypassing the official facade.”
They entered the tournament courtyard. Hedwig
was lifted from the carriage and placed in her
wheelchair. Maurerwenzel resumed his duty. Hedwig
wished to stay in the wide, open courtyard; the
castle’s stair-laden tour was not for her. Ruprecht
offered to keep her company. The others departed
toward the octagonal tower at the entrance, after Fritz
Gegely took tender leave, pressing a kiss on
Hedwig’s forehead.
The carriages drove out to stable at the tavern by
the courtyard. Maurerwenzel watched them
enviously. Ruprecht understood the look. “You can
go over too,” he said. “If you’re thirsty. Here—have
a quarter of wine.” Maurerwenzel cupped his hand
like a nest for a silver egg, tipped his cap, and
shuffled out the gate with his “quick” gait, bound for
the inn.
“Shall we move to the shade?” Ruprecht asked,
hands on the wheelchair’s backrest.
“No, please, if it’s no trouble, let’s stay in the sun.
It’s not too hot… and the breeze cools nicely. I love
the sun… I feel it’s kind to me. I let it soak through
me… I feel it in my limbs… like a new strength…”
Ruprecht pulled the wheelchair close to the wall,
where reflected rays could work, and sat beside
Hedwig on a fallen stone. The vast courtyard, ringed
with double arcades, lay empty before them. Hedwig
reclined, basking in full sunlight, motionless.
Ruprecht saw her body drink the hot light. Through
half-closed eyes, a shimmering curtain of light
flickered. He tried to decipher the faded wall
paintings in the arcades. A brown-red hue remained,
other colors long extinguished. These might once
have been emblems, coats of arms, allegories—
symbols of families who once pranced their horses in
glittering carousels here.
From the castle’s past, he gently slipped into his
own. He smiled. “Do you remember, Frau Hedwig,”
he said, “when we danced in the woods? It was a
school outing from our gymnasium. Your girls’
school was there too… and suddenly, we paired up.
Youths and maidens… to the horror of teachers and
governesses…”
Hedwig turned to him. “Yes… dancing’s over for
me,” she said, smiling.
Ruprecht fell silent, dismayed. How thoughtless,
how careless he’d been. He longed to speak more of
those days—how they’d climbed walls and back
gardens at night, like thieves, to reach Hedwig’s
courtyard, bursting into four-part song: “Why are you
so far, oh my love!” The next day, stern professorial
faces and a disciplinary probe for nocturnal mischief.
Everything teetered… then ten hours’ detention as
penance. Ten glorious hours, filled with the thrill of
suffering for her, proving his heroism. They’d called
her Silvia then, for its melodic flow, redolent of
forest scent and soft leaf-rustle, no other name
seeming to fit. A touch of Shakespeare’s winged
Midsummer Night’s Dream. She’d been like a
lizard—slender, agile, gleaming.
“But… you’re happy,” Ruprecht said, consoling
himself. “Few preserve such pure joy in life as
you…”
“Yes… I’m happy,” she said gratefully, offering
her hand. “There’s still so much I needn’t forgo.”
Ruprecht steeled his heart. “Above all, you’ve
found the happiness of love… Your husband is full of
gentle care…”
Hedwig closed her eyes, lying still. The sun
poured into her like a hot draught. The sun is clarity
and truth, she thought. One shouldn’t lie in its light.
“Why should I deny you the satisfaction I owe you?”
she said after a pause. “You’re mistaken, Ruprecht,
the world’s mistaken. I’m a burden to my husband.
My frailty irks him. Yes… he masterfully plays his
role before others. I know how I hurt you then. Your
strong confidence looked down on the pampered
prince Gegely. But I was vain… yes, let me
confess…”
She paused, and Ruprecht saw her fingers twitch
on the wheelchair’s armrest, betraying agitation.
Alarmed, he leaned to see her face, but her eyes
were shut.
“I hurt you. I know you loved me. I’m still
happy… thinking of those times. Yet I chose Fritz
Gegely. I was a foolish, vain girl. He was a poet, the
gymnasium’s pride, already famous at university,
destined for greatness.”
“Stop, Hedwig, please… I don’t want to know
more. Don’t make me unhappy…”
“You needn’t be. I’m past that disappointment.
Only sometimes I think it could’ve been different. I
soon realized he was an aesthete—one who doesn’t
take life directly but through a colored lens, feigning
mood. Then one hope: a child. But you see what’s
left of that. A paralyzed woman… That was the
darkest night of my life. Then… things brightened:
the clarity of limitation. I can’t even blame my
husband for his sullenness. I’m truly a burden. But he
draws benefit in his way. He plays a second
Browning couple before the world. As he wears
famous poets’ vests, coats, and wallets, I’m useful as
a paralyzed wife. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. But I
don’t complain—I’m still happy…”
“Why tell me this… why?” Ruprecht groaned.
“Why? I’m beyond passion’s good and evil. I’m safe
from all danger.”
“But I’m not, Silvia, I’m not…”
Hedwig opened her eyes. Her hat shaded her
brow, a blonde strand fluttering across it. “You call
me Silvia… like then… I think you invented the
name…”
“Yes… I think I found it: it was there, flowing
around you like song. I only sang it… Silvia…”
A car horn blared a triad on the forest road.
“The children,” Hedwig said, sitting up to greet
them. She felt a faint twitch in her right foot… but
surely she was mistaken. The car rolled through the
courtyard gate, halting before her wheelchair. The
children leapt out, rushing to Hedwig and Ruprecht.
Miss Nelson followed, slim, refined, silent as ever.
“Here already, you rascals?” Ruprecht teased,
laughing. “Your studies today… must’ve been half-
done!”
Lissy and Nelly each brought a bouquet of
meadow flowers, picked along the way. Lissy gave
hers to Hedwig, Nelly to Papa. Hedwig and Ruprecht
exchanged glances—a continuation, a symbolic close
to their talk. Two tears lingered in Hedwig’s eyes.
Laughing, she shook her head, pulled Lissy close,
and kissed her small red mouth.
Meanwhile, Helmina and her group had ventured
into the castle. The castellan, a young man not yet
ossified in his role, was lively enough to answer
unusual questions. Ernst Hugo flaunted his style
knowledge, gleaned from café art enthusiasts. He
spoke of form, material, line, and ornament. The
Major hunted for old locks and keys. In his spare
time, he tinkered with locksmithing and was fond of
gunsmithing. “Everyone’s got their hobby,” he said.
“Locksmithing’s my secret passion.”
And storytelling’s your creepy one, thought the
court secretary, but he didn’t say it, for he and the
Major were in a holy alliance against Fritz Gegely.
The poet of Marie Antoinette paid little heed to his
allied foes. He walked beside Helmina, speaking of
spatial sense. “You see, it’s a peculiar thing… a sixth
sense, so to speak. It brings exquisite delights and
torments… imagine, I enter a room and instantly feel
its spatial design like a physical impression. Without
tape or ruler, I know at once if its proportions are
balanced or left to chance. Proportions are immediate
certainty to me. The harmony of the Golden Ratio is
a heartfelt, if somewhat bourgeois, pleasure. Round
walls make me breathless, restless, caught in a whirl.
Alcoves, odd angles, slanted walls, sloping ceilings
give me strangely romantic sensations. This makes
old castles so fascinating, each room unique. It sours
me on city tenements with their uniformity—
everything cut from one mold, dull, barracks-like,
lacking even basic, natural harmony.”
But Helmina wasn’t listening. She gazed
distractedly out the windows they passed, letting
Gegely’s words flow by. Halls, corridors, vaulted
rooms, and alcoved chambers followed one
another—a glance into the inner courtyard, then at
the verdant moat and an old, gray turret.
The guide opened the door to the balcony over the
Kamp valley. At that moment, the Major called him
back. He’d spotted an intricate lock on a grand
Renaissance cabinet. A key moved seven bolts back
and forth. The fittings depicted Saint George slaying
the dragon—a small marvel. The Major eagerly
questioned the castellan, holding Hugo fast.

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

He searched for Alraune and took it as a good omen that no
guests were there. He heard from the maid that she had dined alone
and was now in her rooms so he went up there. He stepped inside at
her, “Come in.”
“I must speak with you,” he said.
She sat at her writing desk, looked up briefly.
“No,” she cried. “I don’t want to right now.”
“It is very important,” he pleaded. “It is urgent.”
She looked at him, lightly crossed her feet.“Not now,” she
answered. “–Go down–in a half hour.”
He went, took off his fur coat, sat down on the sofa and waited.
He considered how he should tell her, weighed every sentence and
every word. After a good hour he heard her steps.
He got up, went to the door–there she stood in front of him, as an
elevator boy in a tight fitting strawberry red uniform.
“Ah,” he said, “that is kind of you.”
“Your reward,” she laughed. “Because you have obeyed so
beautifully today–now tell me, what is it?”
The Privy Councilor didn’t gloss things over, he told her
everything, like it was, each little detail without any embellishments.
She didn’t interrupt, let him speak and confess.
“It is really your fault,” he said. “I would have taken care of it all
without much trouble–but I let it all go, have been so preoccupied
with you, they grew like the heads of the Hydra.”
“The evil Hydra”–she mocked, “and now she is giving poor,
good Hercules so much trouble! By the way, it seems that this time
the hero is a poisonous salamander and the monstrous Hydra is the
punishing avenger.”
“Certainly,” he nodded, “from the viewpoint of the people. They
have their ‘justice for everyone’ and I have made my own. That is
really my only crime. I believed that you would understand.”
She laughed in delight, “Certainly daddy, why not? Am I
reproaching you? Now tell me, what are you going to do?”
He proposed his plans to her, one after the other, that they had to
flee, that very night–take a little trip and see the world. Perhaps first
to London, or to Paris–they could stay there until they got everything
they needed. Then over the ocean, across America–to Japan–or to
India–whatever they wanted, even both, there was no hurry. They had
time enough, then finally to Palestine, to Greece, Italy and Spain.
Where ever she wanted–there they could stay and leave again when
they had enough. Finally they could buy a villa somewhere on Lake
Garda or on the Riviera. Naturally it would be in the middle of a large
garden. She could have her horses and her cars, even a yacht. She
could fill the entire house with people if she wanted–
He wasn’t stingy with his promises, painted in glowing colors all
the tempting splendors that awaited her, was always finding new and
more alluring reasons that she should go.
Finally he stopped, asked his question, “Now child, what do you
say to that? Wouldn’t you like to live like that?”
She sat on the table with her slender legs dangling.
“Oh yes,” she nodded. “Very much so–only–only–”
“Only?”–he asked quickly, “If you wish something else–say it! I
will fulfill it for you.”
She laughed at him, “Well then, fulfill this for me! I would very
much like to travel–only not with you!”
The Privy Councilor took a step back, almost fell, grabbed onto
the back of a chair. He searched for words and found none.
She spoke, “With you it would be boring for me–you are
tiresome to me–I want to go without you!”
He laughed, attempting to persuade himself that she was joking.
“But I am the one that must be leaving right away,” he said. “I
must leave–tonight yet!”
“Then leave,” she said quietly. “I’m staying.”
He began all over again, imploring and lamenting. He told her
that he needed her, like the air that he breathed. She should have
compassion on him–soon he would be eighty and wouldn’t be a
burden to her very much longer.
Then he threatened her again, screamed that he would disinherit
her, throw her out into the street without a penny.
“Just try it,” she threw back at him.
He spoke yet again, painting the wonderful splendors that he
wanted to give her. She should be free, like no other girl, to do and
have as she desired. There was no wish, no thought that he couldn’t
turn into reality for her. She only had to come with–not leave him
alone.
She shook her head. “I like it here. I haven’t done anything–I’m
staying.”
She spoke quietly and calmly, never interrupted him, let him talk
and make promises, start all over again. But she shook her head
whenever he asked the question.
Finally she sprang down from the table and went with soft steps
toward the door, passing him.
“It is late,” she said. “I am tired. I’m going to bed–good night
daddy, happy travels.”
He stepped into her way, made one last attempt, sobbed out that
he was her father, that children had a duty to their parents, spoke like
a pastor.
She laughed at that, “So I can go to heaven!”
She stood near the sofa, set down astride the arm.
“How do you like my leg?” she cried suddenly and stretched her
slender leg out toward him, moving it back and forth in the air.
He stared at her leg, forgot what he wanted, thought no more
about flight or danger, saw nothing else, felt nothing–other than her
slender strawberry red boy’s leg that swung back and forth before his
eyes.
“I am a good child,” she tittered, “a very dear child that makes
her stupid daddy very happy–kiss my leg, daddy–caress my beautiful
leg daddy!”
He fell heavily onto his knees, grabbed at her red leg, moved his
straying fingers over her thigh and her tight calf, pressed his moist
lips on the red fabric, licked slowly along it with his trembling
tongue.
Then she sprang up, lightly and nimbly, tugged on his ear, and
patted him softly on the cheek.
“Now daddy,” her voice tinkled, “have I fulfilled my duty well
enough? Good night then! Happy travels–and don’t get caught–it
would be very unpleasant in prison. Send me some pretty picture
postcards, you hear?”
She was at the door before he could get up, made a bow, short
and stiff like a boy and put her right hand to her cap.
“It has been an honor, your Excellency,” she cried. “And don’t
make too much noise down here while you are packing–it might
disturb my sleep.”
He swayed towards her, saw how quickly she ran up the stairs.
He heard the door open upstairs, heard the latch click and the key turn
in it twice. He wanted to go after her, laid his hand on the banister.
But he felt that she would not open, despite all his pleading. That door
would remain closed to him even if he stood there for hours through
the entire night until dawn, until–until–until the constable came to
take him away.
He stood there unmoving, listening to her light steps above him,
back and forth through her room. Then no more. Then it was silent.
He slipped out of the house, went bare headed through the heavy
rain across the courtyard, stepped into the library, searched for
matches, lit a couple of candles on his desk. Then he let himself fall
heavily into his easy chair.
“Who is she,” he whispered. “What is she? What a creature!” he
muttered.
He unlocked the old mahogany desk, pulled a drawer open, took
out the leather bound volume and laid it in front of him.
He stared at the cover, “A.T. B.”, he read, half out loud.
“Alraune ten Brinken.”
The game was over, totally over, he sensed that completely. And
he had lost – he held no more cards in his hand. It had been his game;
he alone had shuffled the cards. He had held all the trumps–and now
he had lost anyway. He smiled grimly, now he had to pay the price.
Pay the price? Oh yes, but in what coin?
He looked at the clock–it was past twelve. The people would
come with the warrant around seven o’clock at the latest–he still had
over six hours. They would be very considerate, very polite–they
would even bring him into custody in his own car. Then–then the
battle would begin. That would not be too bad–he would defend
himself through several months, dispute every move his opponents
made.
But finally–in the main case–he would lose anyway. Manasse
had that right. Then it would be–prison–or flee–but alone, entirely
alone? Without her? In that moment he felt how he hated her, but he
also knew as well that he could think of nothing else any more, only
her. He could run around the world aimlessly, without purpose, not
seeing, not hearing anything but her bright twittering voice, her
slender swinging red leg.
Oh, he would starve, out there or in prison–either way. Her leg–
her sweet slender boy’s leg! Oh how could he live without that red
leg?
The game was lost–he must pay the bill, better to pay it quickly,
this very night–with the only thing of value he had left–with his life.
And since it wasn’t worth anything any more, perhaps he could bring
someone else down with him.
That did him good, now he brooded about whom to take down
with him, someone that would give him a little satisfaction to give one
final last kick.
He took his last will and testament out of the desk, which named
Alraune as his heir, read through it, then carefully tore it into small
pieces.
“I must make a new one,” he whispered, “only for whom?–for
whom?”
There was his sister–was her son, Frank Braun, his nephew–
He hesitated, him–him? Wasn’t it him that had brought this
poisonous gift into his house, this strange creature that had now
ruined him?
He–just like the others! Oh, he should pay, even more than
Alraune.
“You will tempt God,” the fellow had said. “You will put a
question to him, so audacious that He must answer.”
Oh yes, now he had his answer! But if he inexorably had to go
down, the youth should share his fate. He, Frank Braun, who had
engendered this thought, given him the idea.
Now he had a bright shiny weapon, her, his little daughter,
Alraune ten Brinken. She would bring him as well to the point where
he was today. He considered, rocked his head and grinned in
satisfaction at this certain final victory.
Then he wrote his will without pausing, in swift, ugly strokes.
Alraune remained his heir, her alone. But he secured a legacy for his
sister and another for his nephew, whom he appointed as executor and
guardian of the girl until she came of age. That way he needed to
come here, be near her, breathe the sultry air from her lips, and it
would happen, like it had happened with all the others!
Like it had with the Count and with Dr. Mohnen, like it had with
Wolf Gontram, like with the chauffeur–and finally, like it had
happened with he, himself, as well.
He laughed out loud, made still another entry, that the university
would inherit if Alraune died without an heir. That way his nephew
would be shut out in any case. Then he signed the document and
dated it.
He took the leather bound volume, read further, wrote the early
history and conscientiously brought everything up to date. He ended it
with a little note to his nephew, dripping with derision.
“Try your luck,” he wrote. “To bad that I won’t be there when
your turn comes. I would have been very glad to see it!”
He carefully blotted the wet ink, closed the book and laid it back
in the drawer with the other momentos, the necklace of the Princess,
the alraune of the Gontrams, the dice cup, the white card with a hole
shot through it that he had taken out of the count’s vest pocket.
“Mascot” was written on it. Near it lay a four leaf clover–several
black drops of clotted blood still clung to it–
He stepped up to the curtain and untied the silk cord. With a long
scissors he cut the end off and threw it into the drawer with the others.
“Mascot”, he laughed. “Luck for the house!”
He searched around the walls, climbed onto a chair and with
great difficulty took down a mighty iron cross from a heavy hook, laid
it carefully on the divan.
“Excuse me,” he grinned, “for moving you out of your place–it
will only be for a short time–only for a few hours–you will have a
worthy replacement!”
He knotted the cord, threw it high over the hook, pulled on it,
considered it, that it would hold–and he climbed for a second time
onto the chair–
The police found him early the next morning. The chair was
pushed over; nevertheless the dead man stood on it with the tip of one
toe. It appeared as if he had regretted the deed and at the last moment
tried to save himself. His right eye stood wide open, squinting out
toward the door and his thick blue tongue protruded out–he looked
very ugly.

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

Fifteenth Chapter
The colors of summer grew ever darker and
deeper. Each day showered new gifts, every hour
seemed to weave something strange. Strength pulsed
everywhere in the fine fabric of existence. The
farmers, unaware, lived as part of nature; city
dwellers felt their weary bodies renewed, worn atoms
replaced by fresh ones. But once past initial delight,
they paid little heed to the splendor.
Only one person remained ever grateful for each
day and hour, never letting pure joy dull—Frau
Hedwig. She had Maurerwenzel guide her wheelchair
wherever it could go, marveling with clear eyes at the
summer world. For the first time in ages, she was
utterly happy. Carried along, she forgot her paralyzed
limbs. So potent was summer’s joy, the hum of
constant cheer. Her husband was sullen and irritable
alone with her, showering her with tenderness when
watched, but she didn’t mind, enduring his moods
and mild kindness. Each day brought an hour that
shone brightly from morning’s awakening. Every
afternoon, she met Ruprecht.
Among the summer society, a new alignment had
formed: Helmina and Ruprecht, Gegely and Frau
Hedwig, Hugo and Major Zichovic! Two beautiful
women—one drawing desire and admiration, the
other pity; Gegely gravitated to Helmina, Ruprecht
quietly joined Hedwig. He remained calm, finding,
like her, a transfiguration of twenty-four hours in
their afternoon meetings. Gegely, however, unfurled
his full grandeur, bestowing his graces on
Vorderschluder’s small world, radiating regally, yet
ensuring Helmina felt her beauty fueled such favor
and light.
Hugo and Zichovic were the group’s linking
members, bound by rivalry for favor. Hugo fought
with mocking superiority, earnestly sought but not
always successful. The Major was simpler, content
with quips he deemed witty. Yet he sometimes joined
petty, spiteful alliances. Gegely let his shield be
peppered with their barbs, as if dueling such foes
wasn’t worth his effort.
An excursion to Rosenburg was planned. That
morning, Helmina suffered a great vexation. War
rumors swirled. A risky stock speculation, launched
with nervous haste and without her usual caution, had
collapsed utterly—a painful loss. Recently, she’d
been forced to settle, abandoning her claims under
Baron Kestelli’s will. Defeat followed defeat. Worse,
her confidence wavered. The sensual bond with
Ruprecht was loosening. With bitter scorn, she noted
he was “spiritualizing” himself at Hedwig’s
wheelchair. He no longer desired her. The twilight of
her reign had come. To top it, Lorenz, fresh from
Vienna, pressed her. Anton Sykora sent word: she
must be ready to leave with them. Staying was
impossible; no hope remained. Ruprecht had evaded
all danger, and now only his goodwill kept him from
attacking. Herr Diamant’s advances were barely
resistible. The Galician oil venture was defunct. New
possibilities slumbered in a new world. Lorenz was
ordered to resign and withdraw first. He was relieved,
long feeling he trod quaking bog in this castle, as if
he might sink any moment. His bold confidence was
gone.
Before departure, he stood before Ruprecht,
requesting dismissal. He felt uneasy, unsure how
much Ruprecht knew or if he’d let an enemy slip his
grasp.
But Ruprecht was elated. A fine day beckoned. He
glanced at Lorenz’s uncertain face. So, he wanted
out—his role was done. Fine, let him go. Ruprecht
had no wish to serve the police again.
“Good,” he said. “Leave when you wish. I won’t
hold you. If you’ve found a better post, you needn’t
serve your two weeks. You’ll need the Baroness’s
permission, of course.”
Lorenz felt a master above him—a fist, a whip.
Oh, to throttle this man, to erase the shame of failed
plots. He longed to unleash his giant strength in a
furious wrestle. But he could only bow and leave.
Ruprecht grabbed his gloves and bounded
downstairs. Two carriages waited. They met the
others at the bridge below. Hedwig turned from Saint
John Nepomuk, now a dear friend, to Ruprecht. They
laughed together. Ruprecht rejoiced at her rosy
cheeks. Her arms no longer lifted wearily as in early
days but playfully, her hands gripping firmly.
He told her so. “Perhaps you’ll be fully well
again,” he added, eyes gleaming with joy.
She shook her head. “I no longer hope for it,” she
said softly, “…nor am I sure I wish it.”
They lifted her into the carriage with Ruprecht and
the Major. The wheelchair was stowed behind, and
Maurerwenzel climbed to the driver’s seat. He no
longer minded being seen. He and Rauß had clashed.
The General called his adjutant a capitalist slave; the
adjutant called the General a people’s cheat living off
strike funds. A duel ensued at the Hotel Bellevue,
costing Maurerwenzel a tuft of hair above his right
ear and a canine, but not his new conviction. The
paper factory workers, back at work, watched without
interfering, leaving Maurerwenzel uplifted, as if
they’d wished him victory.
In the second carriage sat Helmina, Fritz Gegely,
and Ernst Hugo. The poet of Marie Antoinette wore a
strange, sack-like coat of yellow checkered cloth,
once Dostoevsky’s. His vest was Paul Verlaine’s, and
the walking stick with a Moor’s head between his
knees was bought as Balzac’s from a Paris junk
dealer. As always, he wore his purple velvet
slippers—his personal signature, preserved through
all changes. Gegely ignored Ernst Hugo’s mocking
glances, addressing Helmina alone with a discourse
on landscape in Gottfried Keller.
They drove through the wooded valley’s curves,
revealing only slivers of the world, then climbed
slowly to the plain, where the gaze reveled in frothy
freedom. Rooftops gleamed above waves of ripening
grain, church spires stood like lighthouses in a sea of
fertility. It was a sunny, wind-bright day. Bedding
aired on garden fences, as if the region had conspired
to adorn the landscape with blue and red blankets and
cushions.
Ruprecht watched Hedwig’s forehead curls dance
in the breeze, fluttering back under her hat brim.
“Why didn’t you bring the children?” she asked.
“It’s such a lovely day.”
“They’ll join us with Miss Nelson after their
lessons. Work before pleasure. I don’t want them
forming other notions of order. A person unable to
delay pleasure for serious work can’t be taken
seriously.”
Hedwig looked at Ruprecht. A tender gravity
shone in his eyes. She was always touched when he
spoke of the children. They weren’t unprotected; he
loved them like a father. Yet she pitied them, sensing
they lacked a mother. Helmina, in rare bursts of
animal whimsy, played with them like a cat with
kittens, relishing their small, warm bodies. Hedwig
saw this sharply, her world shaped by maternal
longing—a heavy sacrifice, recognizing such joy as
unattainable after her catastrophe. She found
Helmina’s ingratitude her gravest fault. So richly
blessed, yet lacking life’s piety, the constant
reverence with which Hedwig marveled at each hour,
each sunbeam, every flower, and the horses’ lithe
trot.
She leaned back, gazing at the sky. It was pure
blue, with white clouds trailing like paper boats set
adrift by playful children on a stream.
As Ruprecht and Hedwig were silent, the Major
had free rein. They listened kindly, without
interrupting. He regretted that war threats might force
his departure soon but spoke with bold trumpet blasts
of battle and victory. He hoped diplomacy would
dispel the storm clouds, at least until the Emperor’s
jubilee year. Then he spun anecdotes, each capped
with his own booming laugh.
The Rosenburg is the centerpiece of the Kamp
valley. Where the Taffa stream joins the Kamp, and
the river itself shifts from an eastern to a southern
course, the castle stands on the tip of the high
plateau. It neither towers nor defies like other
German fortresses; it simply exists, unassumingly. It
doesn’t soar boldly as a lookout, like Aggstein or
Götzens’ robber-knight nest, Hornberg. Nor is it built
around a grand hall, like the Wartburg, where the
core purpose is clear. It seeks no special distinction,
and despite its sprawling, picturesque charm, it boasts
nothing, free of any pose. This makes it the perfect
expression of its landscape’s essence, where vanity
and ostentatious splendor are alien. From the Kamp
valley, it looks mighty. But from the plateau, a wide
road leads straight to the tournament courtyard.

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

“As you will, your Excellency,” he said. “By the way, do you
know there is a rumor these days that the Műhlhelmer credit bank is
going to stop payments?”
“Nonsense,” he replied. “In any case I’ve scarcely put any
money into it.”
“You haven’t?” asked Herr Gontram, a little surprised. “For half
a year now you have kept that institution on a sound financial basis
with over eleven million. You did it to gain tighter control of the
potash industry! I, myself, was obliged to sell Princess Wolkonski’s
mines to fund the cause.”
His Excellency ten Brinken nodded, “The princess–well yes–am
I the princess?”
The Legal Councilor rocked his head thoughtfully.
“She will lose her money,” he murmured.
“What’s that to me,” cried the Privy Councilor. “Anyway, we
will see what can be saved.”
He stood up, drummed on the writing desk with his hand.
“You are right, Herr Legal Councilor. I should pay more
attention to my affairs. Please expect me at the office around six-
o’clock. I thank you.”
He shook hands and accompanied him to the door.
But he didn’t drive into the city that afternoon. Two lieutenants
came to tea, he kept finding reasons for going back into the room on
one pretext or another, couldn’t stand to go out of the house. He was
jealous of every man Alraune spoke with, of the chair she sat on and
the very carpet she walked on. He didn’t go the next day or the next.
The Legal Councilor sent one messenger after another. He sent
them away without an answer, disconnected his phone so he wouldn’t
get any more calls.
Then the Legal Councilor turned to Alraune, told her that it was
very important for the Privy Councilor to come into the office. She
rang for her car, sent her maid to the library to tell the Privy Councilor
to get ready for a drive into the city with her.
He trembled with joy. It was the first time in weeks that she had
gone driving with him. He donned his fur coat, went out into the
courtyard, opened the car door for her. She didn’t speak, but he was
happy enough to be permitted to sit next to her. She drove directly to
the office and told him to get out.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Shopping,” she answered.
“Will you pick me back up?” he begged.
She laughed, “I don’t know, perhaps.”
He was grateful enough for the ‘perhaps’. He climbed up the
stairs and opened the door on the left to the Legal Councilor’s room.
“Here I am,” he said.
The Legal Councilor shoved the documents at him, a huge pile of
them.
“Here’s the junk,” he nodded, “a pretty collection. There are a
couple of old cases that for a long time appeared to be settled.
They’ve taken off again. There are also a couple of new ones since
the day before yesterday!”
The Privy Councilor sighed. “A bit much–would you give me a
report, Herr Legal Councilor?”
Gontram shook his head, “Wait until Manasse comes. He knows
more about them. He will be here soon. I’ve called for him. Right
now he is with the Examiner in the Hamecher case.”
“Hamecher?” asked the professor. “Who is that?”
“The tinker,” the Legal Councilor reminded him. “The expert
opinion of the doctor was very incriminating. The Public Prosecutor
has ordered an investigation–there lies the summons–by the way, it
appears to me that this case is the most important one right now.”
The Privy Councilor took up the documents and leafed through
them, one after the other. But he was restless, listened nervously at
every phone ring, every step that sounded through the hallway.
“I only have a little time,” he said.
The Legal Councilor shrugged his shoulders and calmly lit a
fresh cigar. They waited, but the attorney didn’t appear. Gontram
telephoned his office, then the court, but couldn’t reach him
anywhere.
The professor pushed the documents to the side.
“I can’t read them today,” he said. “I don’t have any interest in
them.”
“Perhaps you are sick, your Excellency,” opined the Legal
Councilor. He ordered some wine and seltzer water. Then the Fräulein
came. The Privy Councilor heard the auto drive up and stop. He
immediately sprang up and grabbed his fur coat. He met her coming
up the corridor.
“Are you ready?” she cried.
“Naturally,” he returned. “Completely.”
But the Legal Councilor stepped between them.
“It’s not true, Fräulein. We have not even begun. We are waiting
for Attorney Manasse.”
The old man exclaimed, “Nonsense! It is all entirely trivial. I’m
riding back with you, child.”
She looked at the Legal Councilor who spoke, “These papers
appear very important to me.”
“No, no,” insisted the Privy Councilor.
But Alraune decided. “You will stay! Adieu, Herr Gontram,” she
cried.
Then she turned around and ran down the stairs. He went back
into the room, stepped up to the window, watched her climb into the
car and leave. Then he stayed standing there, looking out onto the
street into the dusk.
Herr Gontram ordered the gaslights turned on, sat quietly in his
easy chair, smoked and drank his wine. They were still waiting when
the office closed. One after the other, the employees left, opened their
umbrellas and stepped carefully through the mud on the street.
Neither spoke a word.
Finally the attorney came, hurried up the stairs, tore open the
door.
“Good evening,” he growled, put his umbrella in a corner, pulled
off his galoshes, threw his wet jacket onto the sofa.
“High time, Herr Colleague,” said the Legal Councilor.
“High time, yes, it is certainly high time!” he came back.
He went right up to the Privy Councilor, stood right in front of
him and screamed in his face.
“The warrant is out!”
“What warrant?” hissed the Privy Councilor.
“What warrant?” mocked the attorney. “I’ve seen it with my own
eyes–the Hamecher case! It will be served early tomorrow morning at
the latest.”
“We must stand bail,” observed the Legal Councilor carelessly.
The little attorney spun around; “Don’t you think I already
thought of that!–I immediately offered to stand bail–half a million–
right away–denied! The mood has turned sour at the county court
your Excellency. I’ve always thought it would happen some day.
The judge was very cool and told me, ‘Please put your request in
writing, Herr Attorney. But I fear that you will have little luck with it.
Our evidence is overwhelming–and it appears that extreme care must
be taken.’
Those were his exact words! Not very edifying is it?”
He poured himself a full glass, emptied it in short gulps.
“I can tell you more, your Excellency! I met with Attorney Meir
II at court; he is our opposition in the Gerstenberg case. He also
represents the municipality of Huckingen, which filed suit against you
yesterday. I asked him to wait for me–then I had a long talk with him.
That is the reason I am so late getting here, Herr Colleague. He talked
straight with me–we are loyal to each other at county court, thank
God!
That’s when I learned the opposing lawyers have united, they
already had a long conference the day before yesterday. A couple of
newspaper reporters were there as well. One of them was sharp Dr.
Landmann from the General Advertiser. You know very well, your
Excellency, that you haven’t put a penny of money into that paper!
The roles are well divided. I tell you–this time you won’t get out
of the trap so easily!”
The Privy Councilor turned to Herrn Gontram.
“What do you think, Herr Legal Councilor?”
“Wait,” he declared. “There will be a way out of it.”
But Manasse screamed, “I tell you there is no way out of it! The
noose is knotted, it will tighten–you will hang, your Excellency, if
you don’t give the gallows ladder a quick shove ahead of time!”
“What do you advise then,” asked the professor.
“Exactly the same thing that I advised poor Dr. Mohnen, whom
you have on your conscience, your Excellency! That was a meanness
of you–yet what good does it do if I tell you the truth now?
I advise that you liquidate everything you possibly can. By the
way, we can do that without you. Pack your bags and clear out–
tonight! That’s what I advise.”
“They will issue a warrant,” opined the Legal Councilor.
“Certainly,” cried Manasse. “But they will not give it any special
urgency. I already spoke with Colleague Meir about it. He shares my
opinion. It is not in the interest of the opposition to create a scandal –
the authorities would be happy enough if they could avoid one as
well.
They only want to render you harmless, your Excellency, put an
end to your doings–and for that–believe you me–they now have the
means. But if you disappear, live somewhere in a foreign land, we
could wrap this thing up quietly. It would cost a lot of money–but
what does that matter? They would be lenient on you, even today yet.
It is really in their own interests to not throw this magnificent fodder
to the radical and socialistic press.”
He remained quiet, waiting for an answer. His Excellency ten
Brinken paced slowly back and forth across the room with heavy,
dragging steps.
“How long do you believe I must stay away?” he asked finally.
The little attorney turned around to face him, “How long!” he
barked. “What a question! For just as long as you live! You can be
happy that you still have this possibility at least. It will certainly be
more pleasant to spend your millions in a beautiful villa on the
Riviera than to finish out your life in prison! It will come to that, I
guarantee you!–By the way, the authorities themselves have opened
this little door for you. They could just as easily have issued the
warrant this morning. Then it would have already been carried out!
Damned decent of them, but they will be disgusted and take it very
badly if you don’t make use of this little door.
If they must act, they will act decisively. Then your Excellency,
this night will be your last night’s sleep as a free man.”
The Legal Councilor said, “Travel! After hearing all that it really
does seem to be the best thing.”
“Oh yes,” snapped Manasse. “The best–the best all the way
around, and the only thing as well, travel! Disappear–step out–never
to be seen again–and take the Fräulein, your daughter, along with
you–Lendenich will thank you for it and our city as well.”
The Privy Councilor pricked up his ears at that. For the first time
that evening a little life came into his features, penetrating through the
staring apathetic mask, flickering with a light nervous restlessness.
“Alraune,” he whispered. “Alraune–if she goes with–he wiped
his mighty brow with his coarse hand, twice, three times. He sank
down, asked for a glass of wine, and emptied it.
“I believe you are right, Gentlemen,” he said. “I thank you. Now
let’s get everything in order.”
He took the stack of documents and handed over the top one,
“The Karpen brickyards–If you please–”
The attorney began calmly, objectively, gave his report. He took
the next document in turn, weighed all the options, every slightest
chance for a defense, and the Privy Councilor listened to him, threw a
word in here and there, sometimes found a new possibility, like in the
old times.
With each case the professor became clearer, his reasoning better
thought out. Each new danger appeared to awaken and strengthen his
old resiliency. He separated out a number of cases as comparatively
harmless. But there still remained more than enough to get his neck
broken.
He dictated a couple of letters, gave a lot of instructions, made
notes to himself, outlined proposals and complaints–then he studied
the time tables with the Herren, making his travel plans, giving exact
instructions for the next meeting. As he left his office it was with the
conviction that his affairs were in order.
He took a hired car and drove back to Lendenich, confident and
self-assured. It was only as the servant opened the gate for him, as he
walked across the courtyard and up the steps of the mansion, it was
only then that his confidence left him.