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.

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.

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.

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

Indeed, the new and old faiths had collided. For
now, the new faith gripped the old by the scruff,
thrashing it. Bolstered by numbers and fueled by
fervor from the Hotel Bellevue, the new faith
outmatched the old, still seeking its zeal at the Red
Ox.
The banquet guests had barely settled at the long
tables in the Red Ox’s transformed dance hall when a
man burst in, shouting, “The socialists are coming!
They’ve a red flag and are all drunk!”
This news pierced Mathes Dreiseidel’s heart. He
feared losing his feast’s reward. He cursed his God
and parson for scheduling the rite before the meal,
robbing him of his due.
The district captain, seated at the head table to
Helmina’s left, set down his napkin and glared at the
alderman. “This is disastrous!” he said. “Such things
in my district. I don’t tolerate this. If only the
gendarmes were here. Such sloppiness…”
But the rebels were already there, launching a
furious assault on the pious crowd outside, scattering
them into alleys and over fences. They filled the
street, yelling, waving hats and cudgels, flaunting
their defiance of authority.
The plump, appetizing Red Ox landlady stood at
the kitchen door, lamenting Schorsch’s absence at
military drills. Glancing at the tables, she debated
clearing them before the brawl began. Half her dishes
were borrowed from Gars, and such occasions risked
breakage.
The parson stepped to the window, hoping to pour
soothing words over the uproar. But they drowned
him out with murderous howls, brandishing the red
flag to flaunt their oath.
The district captain tried next, pale but composed,
regretting no reporter was there to immortalize his
poise. He thrust out his chest, summoning his voice
to pierce the din. But his words were swept away like
a mandolin’s note in a gale.
He retreated, snapping at the alderman, “Now you
stand there, mute… why didn’t you prepare? This
happens in my district…”
The rebels, emboldened, surged forward. The door
flew open, Rauß stormed in, Maurerwenzel close
behind, and a dense throng of comrades packed the
steps, head to head.
The factory director mustered courage, advancing
toward them. “Dear people…!” he began.
Rauß flailed the air, bellowing, “What do you
want? Do what we want, and we’ll be your dear
people again. Not before! Got it? We’re here to
watch the gentry gorge on our sweat and blood…”
God, if Schorsch were here, the landlady thought,
ordering the tables cleared.
Rauß saw and roared, “Oh no—leave it! That’s set
for us too. We’ll sit at this table. We’ll show you the
future state!” From the stair’s crush, a voice shouted,
“Long live the republic!”
“Come,” Ruprecht said to Helmina, “we’re
leaving. I’ve had enough.”
“We can’t get out,” Helmina whispered, terrified.
“Just come!” He pulled her up, striding toward the
door. Rauß’s dull mind dredged up irony. “Your
Grace, Herr Baron… perhaps you’d like an honor
guard?”
“Let me out, I said,” Ruprecht repeated calmly.
“And the lovely Frau Baronin—no, that won’t do.
She gave so much for the banner; she can’t run now.
The best part’s coming. The real fun. Our
consecration.”
The workers jeered. Maurerwenzel slapped his
knees in glee. Ruprecht glanced around. Helmina’s
entourage stood frozen. Some twitched, but caution
quashed their bravery: a fight now would spark a
slaughter. The farmers’ faces gleamed with delight at
this woman’s humiliation, their instincts and wives’
gossip aligned against her.
Then, something unexpected happened. Ruprecht
released Helmina’s arm, stepping toward Rauß as if
to speak. Suddenly, two fists shot out, slamming like
steel pistons into the ruffian’s gut. Rauß yelped,
doubling over. In the same breath, Ruprecht seized
his arm, twisted it back, and hurled the lanky man
over his shoulder into the hall, landing at the district
captain’s feet—a lithe, tripping jiujitsu move from Japan.
The farmers gaped. Even the wildest fair hadn’t
seen such a feat.
Rauß groaned on the floor. Another followed—
Maurerwenzel, loyal aide, lunging to avenge his
leader. Ruprecht took Helmina’s arm and strode
down the steps through the rebels, who now parted
for him.
At the bridge, where baroque saints gazed at their
rippling reflections, their carriage trailed, dust
swirling. The coachman grinned, cracking his whip in
victory. Ruprecht and Helmina climbed in. Just then,
a cart with eight gendarmes rolled up from the other
side. The scrawny horses trotted frantically,
gendarmes clinging to seats and ladder rungs to
arrive intact for battle.
Their task was easy, the fight swiftly won. The
rebels glimpsed the eight cork helmets’ gleaming
spikes and felt the rifles’ persuasive butts, then fled.
With limping, whimpering Rauß and Maurerwenzel— sporting a swollen bruise over his
left eye—at their core, they retreated to the Hotel
Bellevue.
The red flag was found next day in the alderman’s
garden, drooping sadly in a thornbush, flapping
feebly.
The interrupted banquet resumed. The Red Ox
landlady reset what she’d cleared, and appetites
surged. Only Mathes Dreiseidel lacked hunger.
During the fray, he’d slipped into the kitchen behind
the dishes. To salvage something, he’d embraced a
platter of pork roast and kraut salad so fervently that
his insides had no room left.
When Helmina and Ruprecht returned to the
castle, she immediately retreated to her room and
locked the door. She wanted to see no one. She was
beside herself. Ruprecht’s victory over the rabble-
rouser Rauß felt like her own defeat. Two crushing
blows in one day for her. Two triumphs for Ruprecht.
He had thwarted her cunning with his vigilance and
caution. And he had lifted her from fear—yes, a
trembling fear. She had seen clear proof of his
regained strength. Helmina raged against herself. In
the afternoon, Lorenz knocked, reporting that Herr
Anton Sykora had arrived and wished to see her. But
she was ill, she’d stay in her room, she regretted…
Lorenz’s urgent tone availed nothing.
“No… no… no!” Helmina screamed. “Tell him to
go. I won’t see him!” Only in the evening did she
emerge from her lair. Ruprecht hadn’t approached
her door all day. He’d dined without her, chatted with
the children, and sent them off with Miss Nelson.
Now he sat in a fine, comfortable Biedermeier chair,
smoking a cigarette, awaiting Helmina.
She came. A hesitant shadow in the doorway.
Then she entered, slowly closing the door. A glowing
ember in the dark showed where Ruprecht sat. She
approached him slowly.
“Ruprecht!” she gasped.
“It’s you, Helmina,” his voice calm as ever.
She lunged at him, furious, hate-filled, biting his
hand, pressing her lips to his throat. Ruprecht smiled.
She couldn’t see it in the dark, but she felt it. She
gripped him fiercer, as if to kill that smile.

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

He wanted to think, but the fear paralyzed his thinking: in his brain was a 

whirling, glowing confusion, around his eyes the world danced torn in purple flakes… 

In the next moment he became calm again. He went quickly forward, where did he go only? where? 

There! Yes, there the street ended and now came the park. 

He jerked violently. Fear and fever shook him, he could not go further, his knees wobbled, and again the world flickered before his eyes torn in millions of circling, scattering ball sparks. 

He did not know what happened to him. He closed his eyes, but something forced him to stare there, clearly at a point, at the terrible: there lay Grodzki. 

Now he felt no fear anymore, only a cruel curiosity. By the way, he did not see him quite clearly, it was only the head there. The eyes were closed and the mouth was open. He stared long at the mask face, but suddenly he became raging because he felt that he could not move from the spot. He tried tormentingly to lift the hand, it did not go. Now he had to apply all power to sink down and crawl away on the hands. He could not, he could also not turn the eyes away. 

A wild despair fevered in him. It suddenly seemed to him as if the eyelids of the death mask opened to a slit and winked at him maliciously. 

That was horrible! 

But the eyes blinked clearly, and gradually the half-open mouth distorted to a hideous grimace. Then he felt the ice-cold hand brush his skin, how the corpse cold glided over his whole body… 

He started up as if shot up from a terrible thrust. 

He looked around confused. Where was he? That was only a dream… The cursed fever! 

If only it did not come again. The fear tore at his brain. He took mechanically his collar off. The shirt button had fallen off. He searched for it with a strange eagerness for a time, he became more and more eager and angry, searched everywhere around, rummaged with a raging greed with the hands on the floor, crawled under the bed, searched under the desk, with growing rage, in a 

paroxysm of despair he threw the objects around and finally a kind of rabies seized him. He wept and gnashed his teeth and tore the carpet from the floor. There lay the button. Now he was satisfied. He was happy. He had never been so happy. He placed it carefully on the desk, looked again to see if it was really there and sat down with infinite satisfaction at the window. It was quite light. 

Suddenly he came completely to consciousness. So that was really a strong fever. Should he perhaps call Isa? Oh no, no, she would die of unrest. But he should have morphine in the house. That was an unforgivable negligence that he had not provided himself with it… 

Now he had to watch with all energy that he would not become unconscious. These horrible dreams… He stood up and opened the window, but the strength left him—only a little calm, quite a little. He lay down on the bed again. 

It became quiet. He saw a thousand lights flicker up on the wide moor ridges and disappear again. The willows on the way moaned and groaned like sarcophagus doors resting on old rusty hinges… Sarcophagus? No, no, absolutely no sarcophagus—it sounded like a distant ice drift, no—like wheel rolling on distant paths… He listened. From the nearby village he heard a dog bark, another answered him with long, whining lament… 

Suddenly he heard the same long, whining sound repeat behind his back. 

His heart stopped beating. 

Again, stronger… a horrible, suppressed sobbing, then again a shrill cry… 

He turned in convulsive fear agony: it was nothing. Nothing was there, but he felt it close behind him, he heard it incessantly whine and sob… 

A wild rage rose in him. What do you want? he cried. I didn’t do it! I am not to blame! I didn’t do it! he cried senselessly. Marit, Marit, let me go! 

But then it seemed to him as if he were whipped, that fiery welts ran down his back. He cried out shrilly and began to run. He had to get rid of it, he had to… But the ground was softened after the long rains, he did not get from the spot, then he sank into 

a deep ditch, panting he worked himself up, but in the same moment he felt a fist grab him from behind, it tore him back into the mud. He sank under, it tore him down, he suffocated, the mud poured into his mouth, but in the last death struggle he tore himself loose, crawled out, and again he began to run and again he felt it close behind him whining, sobbing. He lost his senses, his strength left him, he could not go further, it shot through his head in horrible despair. 

Suddenly he stopped as if rooted. An old man stood in the middle of the market and stared at him. He could not bear the gaze, he turned away, but wherever he looked, he saw a hundred cruel, greedy eyes that devoured his soul, tore at his nerves, eyes that spat revenge and surrounded him like a glowing fire wreath. He ducked, he wanted to steal away, but everywhere were these greedy eyes, desperately he looked ahead and saw the old man—Marit’s father! Murderer! he cried to him and suddenly a hundred fists rose that were to rain down on him and stamp him deep into the ground… With a mad leap he flew over the crowd, ran into his house, with a jump he sprang up the stairs and threw the door into the lock. 

He waited, crouched close to the wall. A while passed. It was like an eternity. He heard his blood pound so hot at the temples that he feared it could be heard and betray him. His throat constricted, tighter and tighter: in the next moment he would not be able to breathe. Now the strength left him completely. His teeth chattered and he sank to his knees. He crouched, he pressed himself against the wall, tighter, the wall had to hold him securely… 

It knocked. 

He started. His teeth chattered audibly. That was Marit! That was surely Marit! 

It knocked again. An eternity passed. 

Then he saw the door slowly begin to open. A mad fright stiffened his limbs, he threw himself with his whole body against the door, he braced himself against it with the last despair strength, but he was pushed further and further away, the door opened as if by itself, 

with horrible horror he saw the crack grow larger and larger, and there he saw two terrible eyes in which a madness pain had congealed. 

Falk let out a short, shrill cry. Before him stood a strange man. 

Was it a new vision? Was it reality? I have probably gone mad! it shot through his head like lightning. But by chance he saw the shirt button on the desk. It was no vision… A visit then. He climbed down from the bed, sat in the armchair and stared fearfully at the stranger who looked at him with a sick calm. 

They looked at each other a long time, probably two minutes passed. 

“Did you come from there?” Falk brought out with difficulty and pointed to the door. 

The stranger nodded. 

Falk brooded, a memory shot through his head. 

“I spoke with you yesterday in the restaurant?” 

“Yes. You don’t know me. But I know you. I have seen you often. Forgive me that I surprise you so, but I must speak with you… I believe you had a heavy dream. I know it, in the last time it was quite the same with me… You cried out, naturally, when one wakes so suddenly… You are namely a very nervous person and so I said to myself, I must stare at you, then you will wake immediately. You perhaps know that nervous and short-sighted people are awakened by firm staring. Now you don’t seem short-sighted, consequently you must be very nervous. I stared at you at most two seconds. By the way, I noticed it immediately yesterday when you asked me if I wanted to arrest you. You didn’t let me come to word. I did seek you for a whole time, but yesterday it was quite, quite by chance that I met you.” 

“How did you get in?” 

“The corridor door was open, here I knocked at random, and when no one answered, I entered. I have namely seen you often. A man spoke much of you. I saw you a few times in his company.” 

“But what do you want, what do you want from me,” Falk cried angrily at him. 

The stranger seemed to take no notice of his excitement. 

“I heard very much about you. The man by the way seduced my wife, no, forgive me, one doesn’t seduce women, I believe one is seduced by women.” 

“What do you want?” Falk cried almost unconscious. 

Again the stranger looked at him with the same calm gaze for a time. 

“Don’t interrupt me, Herr Falk… No, no, one doesn’t seduce women. I namely have a theory of my own there… Man is a louse, a slave of woman, and the slave doesn’t seduce the mistress.” 

“There are enough coachmen who have begotten children with their mistresses,” Falk threw at him with malicious scorn. 

The stranger seemed to overhear it. 

“Woman created man… Woman was the first… Woman forced man to develop his forces far beyond himself, to educate his brain beyond itself…” 

He suddenly confused himself and looked at Falk with mad, clumsy smile. 

“See,” he said after a while and smiled mysteriously, “what did primitive man take the club in his hand for the first time? Only in the fight for the female, only to beat his rival to death. Isn’t that so?” 

“No, it is not true,” said Falk harshly. 

“Well, you will naturally say that he swung the club in the so-called struggle for existence… No! You are wrong. The struggle for existence came only when it was about satisfying sex… through the means of sex nature first made clear to man that it is worth living at all and taking up the struggle for existence.” 

He suddenly became very pale and restless. 

“But I did not come to develop my theories to you. It is something else, something quite else.”