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

At breakfast, Helmina asked casually where he’d
been.
“Oh,” Ruprecht replied just as casually, “at the
notary in Gars.”
Helmina perked up. “The notary? So you’re
buying the communal fields?”
“No, not as your steward—personal business.”
“I’m not allowed to know, of course,” she said
mockingly, masking unease. “You’ve been so
mysterious lately.”
“Why not tell you? I was there… about my will.”
Ruprecht spoke slowly, without emphasis, but
Helmina felt it like a harpoon.
“What’s that mean?” she snapped, turning sharply.
“I thought… those matters were settled by our
marriage contract.”
Ah, she was hit, writhing. Good. “I haven’t
touched that, Helmina,” Ruprecht said. “It stands,
naturally. I’d never dream of altering such an
agreement unilaterally… without telling you. How
could you think that? That’d lack gallantry. No, it
stays as is.”
Helmina stared, eyes wide, their sparkle gone,
gray and ashen. Ruprecht’s tone held menacing
confidence; she dropped her mask.
“I don’t understand how you’d think of this,”
Ruprecht continued, a light reproach dancing like
jest. “Have you given me reason to regret our
agreement? You’re a charming wife overall. Moody
at times? My God, what woman isn’t? I’m quite
content in our marriage. We still love each other,
don’t we? I feel fulfilled. I have my purpose. You’ll
grant I can be proud of my successes. If my
management plan holds and weather permits, your
estate will yield a much higher profit this year… it
was downright clever to plant beets and onions…”
He drifted, rambling about onions, beets, and
wine, as if that were the point, while Helmina’s throat
tightened, her fingers twitching. Behind his words,
she sensed a raised fist. “You still haven’t said what
you did at the notary,” she interrupted, unable to bear
the uncertainty.
“Oh, right…” Ruprecht said. “I just added a
codicil… to our inheritance contract… for my death.”
“Your death?” Helmina swallowed. Suddenly
facing danger, her instincts tensed. “Was that
necessary? Who thinks of dying?” she said warily.
“I decided after much thought, for precise reasons.
‘Step’ is too strong—it’s a steplet. Just conditions for
my death; I want assurance certain wishes dear to me
are followed. I’ve detailed what must happen if I die,
sealed it, and left it with the notary. No one will
know its contents until I’m gone… not even you,” he
added, smiling.
“I just think,” Helmina said, forcing steady
breaths, “you’ve time to ponder such things.”
Ruprecht shrugged, looking abashed. “You
know… death strikes swiftly. We’ve had a recent
example. Poor Jana… who’d have thought it?”
“That frightened you?” Helmina’s voice was clay-
heavy.
“And another thing,” Ruprecht went on. “I’ve felt
unwell lately. You must’ve noticed. A general
malaise… headaches, limb pain. I tried hiding it, but
it was stronger than me… I wasn’t at my best. You’ll
understand, in such weakness, one’s less resilient.
Thoughts of death creep in. You realize you’re frail,
with so many ways death can catch you.”
A pale, subterranean smile tried to rise on
Helmina’s face, failing to break through. “I say you
got scared.”
“Wouldn’t you call it caution? Lately, I’ve felt
much better. The apathy’s gone, I’m fresher, my
strength’s returning. Now I see how ill I was. Yes…
it was an illness. But I’m recovering.”
“Why didn’t you confide in me?” Helmina said.
“I’d have cared for you…”
“I know, Helmina. By the way, my friend Wetzl,
the chemist at our wedding… a top radium research
specialist, he says… I sent him a detailed account of
my condition, and he claims it matches all symptoms
of radium poisoning. Exactly the same effects as
prolonged radium exposure. He’s experienced in this.
My description fits perfectly, he says. The scalp
redness is especially telling. Prolonged exposure can
even kill. I’ve left a full account with him… for
science’s sake.”
Helmina stood, lightly bracing her right hand on
the table. No agitation showed. Her slender hands
were eerily lifeless, knuckles white, nails blue, as if
they’d endured a painful grip. “You’ll excuse me,”
she said. “I must dress. I’ll be late for the
consecration.”
She left. In her room, rage and fear overwhelmed
her. They’d been outwitted. Ruprecht had uncovered
everything, securing himself. No doubt the notary’s
document detailed it all. This explained his improved
health, which Lorenz dismissed as a fleeting rally
before collapse. They were trapped. Ruprecht had
donned armor, invulnerable, triumphant. Helmina felt
crushed, her inner beast raging.
From her dressing chair, she saw banners waving
in the valley. Cannon shots boomed from the hills, a
parade of plump, rolling beasts. She wanted to lash
out. Rage overpowered fear. Against Ruprecht’s
homespun cunning and Indian sharpness, they were
powerless. A long hatpin lay on her vanity. For a
moment, she was tempted to jab it into her maid’s
bared arm, as Roman matrons did with slaves.
When ready, she found Ruprecht waiting by her
carriage in the courtyard. “You’re coming?” she
asked, furious.
“Of course,” he said calmly. “I don’t like it, but I
won’t have people say we’re at odds. Let them see
we’re in harmony.”
Helmina shrugged, climbing in. They rode down
the castle hill in silence.
“Thank God, she’s here,” the parson said as their
carriage parted the crowd. The onlookers watched
silently as Helmina and Herr von Boschan alighted.
They knew she’d funded the banner most, yet she
hadn’t won their hearts. An instinctive resistance
held.
The parson’s study buzzed with activity.
Helmina’s followers dominated: factory clerks, her
staff, the stationmaster, and a telegraphist whose desk
brimmed with sweet verse. He was their secret king,
dreaming: If you knew, fair lady, what I could give,
none here could match. Blissful in his imagined sins,
he bowed thrice to Helmina, his life’s sacrament.
She dazzled, wearing a gray dress with black
diagonal trim accentuating her hips’ curve. The
deputy clerk gaped, entranced.
The district captain was introduced, offering witty
remarks on the day’s significance. Then Ruprecht
and Anton Sykora met. Helmina, hesitantly,
presented him as Dankwardt’s friend who’d visited
last winter. She sensed new suspicion in Ruprecht’s
measured gaze, gnashing inwardly at her wavering
confidence. A spiteful glee hissed: Sykora would
gape if he knew what had happened.
The ceremony began. The head teacher led the
white-clad girls from the garden, their song bright
and joyous. Flags fluttered in the warm air, cannons
roared. The Karl Borromaeus Society formed around
the banner. As the parson emerged, followed by
guests, the bells pealed. The procession crossed the
village square, a short path. The girls vanished into
the church’s wide door while the parsonage still
poured out dignitaries.
Among the crowd, unnoticed, stood Schiereisen.
Content to blend in, he sought to observe without
being seen. That morning, he’d passed Rotrehl’s
door, pausing to invite him. He found Rotrehl
communing with Napoleon, receiving a curt reply: let
the village fools sort their nonsense alone. Jérome
Rotrehl fit them like a sickle in a sheath or a violin in
a manger. Leave him be. Schiereisen saw the recent
beating had scarred Rotrehl’s proud, ancestral soul,
leaving bruises. He left him with Napoleon, and
downhill, violin notes trailed—soft, shy children.
Rotrehl was soothing his battered spirit.
On the square, Schiereisen joined Mathes
Dreiseidel, who stood puffing his pipe. His broad
back offered just enough cover for a stocky man like
Schiereisen. Mathes had his own story. A Karl
Borromaeus Society committee member, he’d been
excluded from the ceremony due to space limits and
the parson’s wish to balance peasant influence. Only
six of ten committee members could join, and Mathes
was among those ousted by lot. He’d rallied his
eloquence, vowing not to miss the feast if barred
from the rite as a dignitary.
After negotiations, the four excluded committee
members were allowed to attend the feast. Thus,
Mathes Dreiseidel stood among the onlookers with
mixed feelings. He belonged with those bareheaded
men circling the veiled banner toward the church.
Though humbled now, he’d be exalted later. The
church rite was more honorable, but the meal was
merrier. At the feast, no one would guess he’d missed
the ceremony.
The dignitaries emerged. The district captain
beside the parson, then Frau Helmina with Herr von
Boschan. Behind them—Schiereisen nearly jolted
forward—came Anton Sykora, head of Vienna’s
“Fortuna” matchmaking agency. He leaned in,
whispering to Helmina, who turned and nodded.
The church organ roared, all registers unleashed.
The head teacher, leading his white-clad girls to the
altar, raced to the loft, attacking the instrument with
frothing zeal. The last guests—Helmina’s clerks and
factory staff—entered, followed by the pressing
crowd. Mathes Dreiseidel parted from Schiereisen,
swept into the tide of the curious and devout, while
Schiereisen wandered through the village and down
the slope.
Under a linden, where a picnic bench stood
halfway up the hill, Schiereisen paused, tightening
his web’s threads. He was genuinely glad Ruprecht
looked hale today, as if fresh strength filled a once-
drained body. Perhaps his warning helped. Ruprecht
said nothing, and Schiereisen knew Helmina’s
husband wouldn’t aid his quest. A peculiar man, this
Boschan. Schiereisen’s focus had shifted—not
Helmina, shrouded in unsolved crimes, but Ruprecht,
whose clear confidence was more enigmatic, was
now central. Schiereisen wasn’t a mere detective; his
work was a calling, not a trade. Beyond solving
cases, he sought to deepen his understanding of
humanity, always tactful, never patronizing his
clients, upholding his profession’s dignity.
He sat a half-hour under the linden, watching
sunspots dance through trembling leaves. The bells,
the procession’s return, and their entry into the Red
Ox wove a faint tapestry of sound and color in his
mind. Suddenly, a loud jeering and howling erupted
from the village, jarring him from thought. Before the
Red Ox, a throng swirled—upraised arms with
cudgels, a red flag bleeding in the sunlight.
Schiereisen knew the old and new faiths had clashed.
But this wasn’t his concern. He dealt not with mass
unrest but errant individuals. For such spectacles, a
superior smile sufficed, rooted in his philosophical
calm.

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

He looked again with wide, expressionless eyes at Falk. 

“I saw a picture. The man goes in patent shoes and turned-up trousers into the realm of death. The man goes without fear, with chic. Two lilies grow on each side. Below death yawns. The whole thing is boring for death. And the stupid humans make so much fuss about it… The picture made a great impression on me then… Do you understand the blasé death? Do you understand what that means: a death for which death is indifferent and boring?” 

He was silent long. 

“I also have no fear. I would have absolutely no fear if I wanted to shoot myself in the brain. But I want to die with dignity and in beauty, I don’t want my brain to splash out on all sides… Now you see: I have fear of the few seconds when my brain will still live after the heart is already dead. I will live through my whole life in these few seconds, live through again. An unheard-of life frenzy will befall me: everything I experienced will seem so beautiful to me. An unheard-of despair to come back into life will seize me, a raging fear that these few seconds will soon end, that in one second I perhaps can no longer think. I will see every blade of grass, I will count every leaf above me, I will think of a thousand small things to keep the brain awake… The thoughts will confuse themselves more and more. In the last thousandth of a second I will still think of her,—still a terrible jerk through the whole body, then a fiery circle begins to dance before my eyes, a circle in a wild, whirling movement. I will stare at it as it fades and shrinks together: now as big as a plate, now as a small ring… still a horrible jerk of fear that it should disappear now—but now it is only a tiny point, a laughing point in the glowing eye of nothingness—Grodzki smiled insanely—then it is over.” 

A terrible feeling of fear whirled in painful shiver over Falk’s whole body. But only for a moment. He became calm with a blow. At the same time he felt a tormenting curiosity stir and grow. He would like to suck himself into him now. There was a secret there that he did not know, that perhaps could make clear to him the last reasons of existence. But his brain was as if fogged, every moment it became black before his eyes and every time he reached for the wine glass. 

Suddenly he saw again with uncanny clarity Grodzki’s face. He involuntarily imprinted the features. So that is how one looks who wants to die in the next hour… Strange! No, not strange: the face resembled completely a death mask, not a muscle stirred in it; it was frozen. He bent far over the table and asked mysteriously. 

“Will you really do it?” “Yes… Today.” 

“Today?” “Yes.” 

They stared at each other for a time. But Grodzki seemed to see nothing more. He was quite absent-minded, no, not absent, he no longer thought at all. 

Suddenly Grodzki moved quite close to Falk and asked with mysterious eagerness. 

“Don’t you believe that the holy John erred when he said: in the beginning was the word?” 

Falk looked at him startled. Grodzki seemed suddenly confused. His eyes were unnaturally widened, they resembled two black, glowing balls. 

“That is lie. The word is only an emanation, the word was created from sex… Sex is the immanent substance of existence… See, in me the waves of its evolution broke. I am the last! You are only transition, a small link in the chain. But I am the last. I stand a thousand times higher than you. You are development dung and I am God.” 

“God?” asked Falk in growing horror. 

“I will become God immediately.” “God is the last of nothingness, the foam that nothingness threw up. I am more, for I am the last wave of being.” 

He stretched high, a proud triumph poured over his face. 

“God is the pity and the despair and the boredom of nothingness, but I am the will of the proudest creation of being. The will of my brain am I!” he cried triumphantly, but sank immediately again into himself. 

A morbid impatience suddenly began to rage in Falk. If it lasted longer, he would not be able to endure it. The fever would burst his brain. If the person would only go. If it would only be over quickly. The seconds became eternities to him. He had trouble sitting calmly. He could not wait, a rage of impatience trembled in him and his heart beat so violently as if it wanted to burst the chest. 

Suddenly Grodzki rose slowly, quite as if he did not know what he was doing, he went as in sleep to the door. Here he stopped thoughtfully. Suddenly he awoke. 

“You Falk, do you really believe that there are devil lodges?” 

“I believe nothing, I know nothing, perhaps in New York, in Rome, I don’t know…” he raged with impatience. 

Grodzki brooded. Then he went slowly out. 

Falk breathed relieved. But suddenly a terrible unrest grew in him. It seemed to him as if he had only now actually understood what Grodzki wanted to do. 

He wanted to think, but he could not. Only his unrest became greater with every second. An animal, unreflected fear rose in him, his heart stopped for a moment. 

He reached for his hat and put it away again, then he searched for money, with convulsive haste he rummaged through all pockets, finally found it in the vest pocket, called for the waiter, threw him everything he had in his hand and ran to the street. 

From afar he saw Grodzki standing at a street clock. 

Falk pressed himself anxiously against a wall so that Grodzki would not discover him by chance, and again he felt the raging impatience that it should finally end once. 

Now he finally saw him go. With strange clarity he saw every movement, he studied this peculiar, dragging gait. He believed he could calculate when the foot would rise and when it would come to stand again. He saw the balance of the body shift with the accuracy of a machine in the same path. 

Then he became distracted. He tried to go inaudibly. That took much effort and his toes began to hurt, but he became calmer by it. He could only not understand what this tormenting curiosity and this impatience meant. 

He followed Grodzki along the street and saw him disappear in a park. 

Falk became so weak that he had to lean against a corner house to not fall. Everything in him was so tense that the slightest sound hurt him. He heard a cab drive in the distance, then he heard a laugh… he trembled more and more violently, his teeth chattered. 

Now it must come… He closed his eyes. Now… now… his heart constricted. He suffocated. 

Then it shot through his brain, he could miss the shot. The blood roared and surged in his head. Perhaps he could not hear at all! 

He listened tensely. 

He will perhaps not shoot himself, he thought suddenly and clenched his fists in a paroxysm of rage. He only wanted to fool him. He will not shoot himself at all! he repeated in growing rage. 

“He only coquetted with the thought…” In this moment he heard the shot. 

A sudden fright shot through his limbs. He wanted to cry out, his soul struggled to cry, horribly to cry, but his throat was as if constricted, he could not bring out a sound. 

Suddenly he felt a wild joy that it was over, but in a moment his soul turned into a wild hate against this person who had caused him this torment. 

He listened. It was quiet. Now he devoured himself with every nerve into this quiet, he could not listen enough, it seemed to him as if this calm poured into him. 

Then he felt a hot, burning curiosity to see the man, to look into his eyes, the fading fire whirl… He made a step forward cautiously, stopped, drew deep breath, and with a jerk a horrible fear seized him, it seemed to him as if he had committed a murder, his knees trembled, the blood dammed to the heart. 

He began to go, trembling as if every limb had become independent, he went uncertainly, stumbled, staggered… 

Suddenly he heard steps behind his back, he remembered at once that he had heard them before too, he applied his last strength, began to go faster and faster and finally to run senselessly. His legs tumbled over each other. He could not get away fast enough. Something tore him back. He ran faster and faster, in the head it roared and pounded: in the next second all vessels would burst… 

Bathed in sweat, he came into the hallway of his house and collapsed on the stairs. 

How long he lay so, he did not know. When he came to consciousness again, he climbed slowly and quietly up the stairs, came noiselessly into his room and threw himself on the bed. 

Suddenly he found himself on the street again. He was very astonished. He did not know at all how he came out of the house. The door was locked though. He did not remember locking it, but he could remember very well the hand movement when turning the key. 

He stood thoughtfully. 

He had surely locked the door… Strange, strange… And there at the corner a new house. That he had not seen it earlier! He read on the front an inscription with huge letters: Mourning Magazine… He started… He really did not need to look at the house. He had no time for that, no, really no time at all. He only wondered that he suddenly became restless. Why so suddenly? A man passed. He had a long coat of which the lowest button was missing. He saw that quite clearly… 

Now he came over a large square on which many carriages drove back and forth, but he saw no people and heard not the slightest noise, on the contrary: it was a death silence around him.  It became uncanny to him. A nameless fear crept unstoppably higher and higher up, from below up, from the root depths of his spinal cord—root depths?

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Geroldingen sighed; Fräulein Clara was a teacher in an English
finishing school. Dr. Mohnen had met her at a local dance and later
introduced him to her. She loved the cavalry captain and he had hoped
that for once Dr. Mohnen would take her away from him. He had to
start thinking seriously about getting married. Sooner or later it had to
happen, his debts were growing and he needed to find some solution.
“Write her the same thing!” cried Karl Mohnen. “God, if I can do
it, you can do it as well. You’re just her friend! You have too much
conscience man, much too much conscience.”
He wanted to take the count with him to Lendenich, to give him
a reason for visiting with the little Fräulein ten Brinken.
He hit his friend lightly on the shoulder; “You’re as sentimental
as a freshman, count! I leave one sitting and you blame yourself,
always the same old song! But consider what stands to be won this
time, the richest heiress on the Rhine. No delay is permitted!”
The cavalry captain rode out there with his friend and fell no less
deeply in love with the strange creature who was so very different
from all the others that had offered their red lips for him to kiss. As he
went back home that night he felt the same way he had that time
twenty years ago when for the first time he had taken for himself the
girl that his friend adored.
Over the years this had happened so often and he had been so
successful at it that his conscience no longer bothered him. But he
was ashamed of himself now. This time it was entirely different. His
feelings toward this half child were different and he knew that his
friend’s emotions were different as well.
There was one thing that consoled him; Dr. Mohnen would
certainly not win Fräulein ten Brinken. His chances of doing that were
much less than they had been with any of the other women. Really,
this time he was not even sure if she would be interested in him.
When it came to this little doll all of his natural confidence had
completely deserted him.
As far as young Gontram was concerned, it appeared that the
Fräulein liked to have her handsome page, as she called him, around.
But it was just as clear that he was nothing more than a plaything for
Alraune without any will of his own.
No, neither of these two were rivals, not the smooth talking
doctor nor the handsome youth. The cavalry captain seriously
weighed his chances for the first time in his life. He was from an
ancient and noble family and the King’s Hussars were considered the
finest regiment in the West.
He was slender and well built, still looked young enough and
was soon to be promoted to Major. He was a dilettante, and versed
well enough in all the arts. If he had to be honest with himself he
would have to admit that it would not be easy to find a Prussian
cavalry officer with more interests or more accomplishments than he
had. Truthfully it was not surprising that both women and girls threw
themselves around his neck. Why shouldn’t Alraune do the same? She
could search for a long time before she found anyone better. Even
more, as the adopted daughter of his Excellency, she had the only
thing that he couldn’t offer, money, and she had it in such immense
abundance! The two of them would make an excellent couple, he
thought.
Wolf Gontram was in the house sacred to St. Nepomuk every
evening and at least three times every week he brought the cavalry
captain and the doctor along with him. The Privy Councilor withdrew
after the meal, coming in only occasionally for a half hour at a time,
listening to them, observing for a bit and withdrawing again, “testing
the waters” as he called it.
The three lovers sat around the little Fräulein, looking at her and
making love to her, each in their own way.
The young girl enjoyed the attention for awhile but then it began
to bore her. Things were getting too monotonous and a little more
color was needed to liven up the evenings in Lendenich.
“They should do something,” she said to Wolf Gontram.
The youth asked, “Who should do something?”
She looked at him, “Who? Those two! Dr. Mohnen and the
count.”
“Tell them what they should do,” he replied. “I’m sure they will
do it.”
Alraune looked at him astonished, “How should I know what
they should do? They have to figure that out themselves.”
She put her head in her hands and stared out into the room.
“Wouldn’t it be nice Wölfchen, if they dueled each other? Shot
each other dead–both of them?”
Wolf Gontram opined, “Why should they shoot each other dead?
They are best friends.”
“You are a stupid boy, Wölfchen!” said Alraune. “What does
that have to do with it? Whether they are best friends or not? Then
they must become enemies.”
“Yes, but why? There is no purpose to it.”
She laughed, grabbed his curly head and kissed him quickly right
on the nose.
“No, Wölfchen. There is no purpose at all–Why should there be?
But it would be something different, would be a change–Will you
help me Wölfchen?”
He didn’t answer. She asked again, “Will you help me
Wölfchen?”
He nodded.
That evening Alraune deliberated with young Gontram on how
they could arrange things to incite the two friends so that one of them
would challenge the other to a duel. Alraune considered, spinning one
plan after another and proposing it. Wölfchen Gontram listened and
nodded but was still hesitant.
Alraune calmed him.
“They don’t need to be serious about it. Very little blood is shed
at duels and afterward they will be like brothers again. It will
strengthen their friendship!”
That brightened him up and he helped her think things through.
He explained to her the various little weaknesses of them both, where
the one was sensitive and where the other–
So her little plan grew. It was no finely crafted scheme at all, was
much more quite childish and naïve. Only two people that were
blindly in love would ever stumble over such a crude stone.
His Excellency noticed that something was up. He questioned
Alraune and when she wouldn’t talk he questioned young Gontram.
He learned everything he wanted to from the boy, laughed and gave
him a few beautiful suggestions for the little plan as well.
But the friendship between the two was stronger than Alraune
had believed. Dr. Mohnen was so rock solidly convinced of his own
irresistible nature that it took her over four weeks to turn things
around and bring him to the impression that the captain might just
take the field this time and likewise to give the captain the impression
that for once the doctor might just triumph over him.
The count and Karl Mohnen both thought that it was time to
speak privately with each other and settle things but Fräulein ten
Brinken understood such confidential talks and always found ways to
hinder them. One evening she would invite the doctor and not the
cavalry captain. Next time she would go riding with the count and
leave the doctor waiting for her at some garden concert.
Each considered themselves as her favorite but also had to
recognize that her behavior toward the other was not entirely
indifferent either. It was the old Privy Councilor himself that finally
fanned the glowing spark into high flames.
He took his office manager to one side and had a long talk with
him, said that he was very satisfied with his performance and would
not be unhappy at all to see someone as dedicated as he was to
someday become his successor. Really, he would never try to
influence the decision of his child. Still, he wanted to warn him that
there was someone, whom he did not want to name, that was fighting
against him, in particular all kinds of rumors of his loose living were
spreading and reaching the Fräulein’s ear.
His Excellency then had almost the same talk with the cavalry
captain, except that in this case he remarked that he would not take it
unkindly if his daughter married into such a prestigious old family
like the Geroldingen’s.
During the next few weeks the two rivals strongly avoided any
encounters with each other while doubling their attentions toward
Alraune. Dr. Mohnen, especially, let none of her desires go
unfulfilled. When he heard that she craved a charming seven-stranded
pearl necklace that she had seen at a jeweler’s on Schilder Street in
Cologne he immediately went there and bought it. Then when he saw
that for a moment the Fräulein was really delighted over his gift he
believed he had most certainly found the way to her heart and began
to shower her with all kinds of beautiful jewels.
For this purpose he had to help himself to the money in the cash
box at the ten Brinken offices. But he was so sure of his cause that he
did it with a light heart and considered the little forced borrowing as
something he was entitled to that he would immediately replace as
soon as he received the dowry of millions from his father-in-law. He
was certain that his Excellency would only laugh over his little trick.
His Excellency did laugh–but a little differently than the good
doctor had thought. On the very same day that Alraune received the
strands of pearls he rode into the city and determined immediately
where the suitor had found the means for purchasing the gift. But he
didn’t say a word.
Count Geroldingen could give no pearls. There was no cash box
for him to plunder and no jeweler would loan him anything on credit.
But he wrote sonnets for the Fräulein that were really very beautiful!
He painted her in her boy’s clothing and played violin, not Beethoven
whom he loved, but Offenbach, whom she liked to listen to.
Then on the birthday of the Privy Councilor the collision finally
came. They had both been invited and the Fräulein had privately
asked each one to escort her to the table. They both came up to her
when the servant announced that dinner was served. Each considered
the intrusion of the other as tactless and each said–and half
suppressed–a few words.
Alraune waved Wolf Gontram over.
“If the gentlemen can’t agree–” she said, laughing and took his
arm.
It was a little quiet at the table at first. The Privy Councilor had
to do most of the talking. But soon both lovers were warm. They
drank to the health of the birthday child and his charming daughter.
Karl Mohnen gave a speech and the Fräulein threw a couple of
glances at him that made the hot blood pound in the cavalry captain’s
temples. But later, at dessert she laid her little hand lightly on the
count’s arm–only a second–but long enough to make the round fish
eyes of the doctor pop out of his head. When she stood up she allowed
both to lead her away; she danced with them both as well.
Then later while dancing a waltz separately with one she spoke
of the other, “Oh, that was so abominable of your friend! You won’t
really permit that will you?”
The count answered, “Certainly not!”
But Dr. Mohnen threw out his chest and declared, “You can
count on me!”
The next morning the little dispute appeared no less childish to
the count than it did to the doctor–but they both had the uneasy
feeling that they had promised something to Fräulein ten Brinken.
“I will challenge him to a duel with pistols,” said Karl Mohnen
to himself, never believing that it would ever happen.
But in any case that morning the cavalry captain sent a couple of
comrades to his friend–he wanted the court of honor to see what they
made of it. Dr. Mohnen negotiated with the gentlemen, explaining to
them that the count was his closest friend and that he didn’t wish to
harm him at all. The count only needed to apologize to him–then
everything would be fine. He wanted to tell them in confidence that
he would also pay off all his friend’s debts immediately on the day
after the wedding.
But the officers declared that while all that was very nice it had
nothing at all to do with them. The cavalry captain felt insulted and
demanded satisfaction. Their task was only to ask if he were
gentleman enough to accept the challenge, an exchange of three shots
at a distance of fifteen paces.
Dr. Mohnen started, “Three–three exchanges.” he stammered.
The Hussar officers laughed, “Now calm yourself Herr Doctor!
The Court of Honor would never in their lives allow such an insane
challenge for such a small offence. It is only in good form.”
Dr. Mohnen could see that. He counted on the healthy common
sense of the gentlemen of the Court of Honor as well and accepted the
challenge.
He did more than that, ran at once to his fraternity house with it
and requested seconds, then he sent two students in haste to challenge
the Captain for his side–five bullet exchanges at ten paces is what he
demanded. That would make him look good and most certainly
impress the little Fräulein.

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

Thirteenth Chapter
After Schiereisen’s departure, Ruprecht lingered
in a strange state. The strength with which he’d
parried the feints and counter-feints of their verbal
duel deserted him instantly. He took a few steps but
soon collapsed onto a gothic chest, slumping, letting
the bear pelt’s tufts slide through his fingers, staring
blankly ahead.
He was utterly drained, apathetic.
Yet, he felt a wild, churning life within. He was a
vessel where fermentation raged. As a jug knows
nothing of the young wine’s storm, he understood
little of what roiled inside him.
Thoughts stirred in him.
It was a thinking detached from the body, a
foreign force trapped in a tight space, hindered by its
limits, yet bent on breaking free.
Despite this tumult of thoughts, he grew wearier.
At last, he fell asleep, slumped on the gothic chest,
head drooping.
When he awoke, dusk had fallen. He felt slightly
stronger, his thoughts less jumbled, somewhat
ordered. He realized they arose in his aching head,
and he needed to shake off a stupor to grasp their
intent.
To the window! Deep, fierce breaths, a chest full
of evening air! Spring stood ripe and youthful, a
golden crown wreathed in ostrich plumes hovering
over black western forests. Below in the courtyard,
someone spoke—the overseer, two children
scampering around him. A cow lowed, long and
hollow, like a vast, echoing gate opening. The
overseer’s wife stood by the low garden wall, beating
fluffed featherbeds aired before night.
This was bright, jubilant life, untiring despite the
dusk.
And a man had been here, thought a scholar but
surely no such thing—not one whose trade was
learning. His aim was hardly in doubt. But to what
end?
His thoughts now marched neatly, one tethered to
another’s coattails.
No question—he’d meant to reveal himself. Why?
He’d taken trust, seeking an ally. But Ruprecht
wouldn’t join him. The thrill of this dangerous game
wasn’t yet buried in passion’s ashes. The wild torch
still burned, smoldering, sometimes nearly snuffed
when weakness and lethargy descended like a cloud
of numbing gas. Schiereisen was right: Ruprecht was
ill. Something dire crept within him. He’d refused to
admit it, but now it was cowardly to turn away,
pretending nothing was wrong. These states—
narcolepsy, exhaustion, numbing limbs, and above
all, raging headaches—were signs of decay. So too
were the reeling, blind desires that still bound him to
Helmina, without release.
He needed clarity, greater caution.
Ruprecht closed the window and went to dinner.
His legs wobbled before finding the floor. His hands
trembled, lifting fork and knife. He jested lightly with
the children, listening as Helmina spoke of the
upcoming banner consecration.
She’d donated a large sum, earning the role of
banner patroness. Ruprecht disapproved, believing
the money better spent on a charitable or public
cause. The paper factory workers were agitated,
demanding higher wages and affordable housing.
Such displays only stoked their resentment.
Helmina’s pale brow darkened, menacing. “I don’t
understand you,” she said loftily. “I told you my
plans. You raised no objections then. It’s too late
now.”
Ruprecht had no reply. Yes, Helmina had
mentioned it—during one of his blinding headaches,
when he was indifferent to all, unable to stir or form
words. Indeed, he’d made no objections, too
incapacitated.
They lingered together. Helmina was buoyant,
having silenced him. She mocked Schiereisen’s
clumsiness, his bourgeois narrowness, then paused.
“Why are you staring so oddly?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing! I just think… he’s very capable—in
his field.”
“Capability never saved anyone from being dull.
Or comical. Specialists are always dull or comical. I
see with regret you’re becoming a specialist.”
Another lash of her whip, a cruelty Helmina had
lately enjoyed inflicting on the defenseless. Today, he
felt it, noting it on her ledger. For now, better to act
as if he accepted it.
Alone in his bedroom, he locked the door and sank
into his rocking chair to think. A weapon against
Helmina must be forged. He’d left investigations to
Jana, who’d died for it. Ruprecht didn’t know Jana’s
plans, having refused early reports. But one thing was
clear: Jana sought a way into the tower’s lowest
level, after the cellar hole was sealed under Lorenz’s
watch…
No more tonight—the night had come, his strength
spent. Tomorrow, he’d wake tormented by
headaches, limp and spiritless. These nights were
horrific, filled with ghastly dreams and a sense of
bondage. Sleep restored nothing, only drained him.
Schiereisen had spoken oddly of sleep… or the
bed? Yes—it might be wise to inspect the bed he
entrusted himself to.
Ruprecht ensured the shutters were tight, covered
the keyhole with a travel cap hung over the key, and
switched on the bedside electric lamp.
His inspection was thorough, systematic. He could
still muster his nerves for this. Starting at the foot, he
stripped the bedding, opened pillows and blankets,
sifting through feathers. He didn’t know what he
sought, but felt compelled to fulfill a promise to
someone trustworthy.
He shone the lamp into every crevice, traced every
wooden seam, ran his finger along edges, wiping dust
from corners. The light danced over the mahogany’s
polish, spilling between slats to the floor. Another
bed came to mind—the one at Rotbirnbach, where a
corpse lay, beside a dusty rectangle marking its place.
No—Ruprecht wouldn’t fall as Helmina’s victim,
like Kestelli, Jana, or the others.
He searched eagerly, along the sides to the
headboard. His eyes, honed on pampas and Indian
mountains, regained sharpness in the hunt’s fervor.
His fingers glided carefully over the wood, growing
certain he’d find something. Through Schiereisen,
fate had sent him a warning.
Suddenly, his probing finger felt a faint roughness.
He traced up and down. A fine line emerged. Raising
the lamp, he saw a barely perceptible square of seams
in the wood, seemingly resealed but now slightly
gaping—at the headboard, where his crown would
rest when lying on his right side.
Ruprecht drew his pocketknife, wedging the blade
into the seam. The steel bent, the wood creaked. Then
he heard soft, cautious steps in the corridor. Someone
approached along the wall. His senses sharpened. He
thought he heard hands grazing the wall. The sound
was close… Ruprecht doused the light… someone
stood outside the door. Damn it—they were spying
on his sleep, ear pressed to the door! Fine. The
eavesdropper would get their show. Ruprecht clicked
his tongue against his palate, breathing raggedly,
groaning softly, and pushed the headboard, making
the seams creak. Wild West instincts flared—
memories of campfires and hunts. A thrill coursed
through him, deceiving the listener. Let them think
they heard restless sleep, moans from bad dreams. A
small victory after many defeats.
After a while, the eavesdropper retreated. The soft
steps and wall-tapping faded into silence.
Ruprecht waited, then relit his lamp, shielding its
glow from the door. On one wall hung a small
arsenal: rifles, long Arab muskets, scimitars, South
American bolas, the lasso that earned him Police
Commissioner Mirko Bovacs’s gratitude, and
assorted deadly trinkets. Ruprecht chose a hunting
knife with a stag-horn handle and broad, sturdy
blade—perfect for the task.
Ruprecht proceeded with utmost care. After a
quarter-hour, a square piece of the bed’s headboard
slid silently into his hand. He saw it had been sawed
and reglued. The hunting knife continued its work,
splitting the board into its two halves. A scrap of
tissue paper fluttered to the floor. Ruprecht’s heart
pounded steadily. He was himself again, composed.
Calmly, he examined the halves in his hands. Each
had a small hollow carved into it, forming a tiny
cavity that had held the tissue paper. Ruprecht picked
up the paper and unfolded it. Inside was a small grain
of gray substance, an unremarkable mass—nothing
else.
Ruprecht studied it, puzzled. That was all? This
elaborate secret for just this? But what had he
expected to find? A cold shiver ran through him. A
thought flared like a torch. With reverent awe, he
gazed at the gray speck between his fingertips. Didn’t
cosmic riddles cling to this tiny thing? Threads of
grim pasts tied to faint, barely glimpsed futures in
distant times. Here was a symbol of the maxim:
smallest causes, greatest effects. A shorthand for
notions of matter’s immortality, the eternity of force.
And yet—a murder weapon.
Carefully, he placed the speck on a glass ashtray
beside the clock on the dresser. Then he set about
restoring the headboard. He fitted the halves together
and reinserted the panel. No trace remained of its
removal.
Ruprecht washed his hands and, sprawled in his
rocking chair, smoked an Egyptian cigarette. He
watched the blue smoke rings, thinking of nothing. A
deep contentment filled him, a sense of centered
calm. His head ached, but that no longer mattered.
When the cigarette burned out, he crushed the stub
and undressed deliberately.
He slept dreamlessly, deeply, well into the
morning. After dressing, he wrote a letter and packed
his strange find in a small cardboard box. Old Johann
was tasked with taking both to the post office for
registered mail. The letter and box went to
Ruprecht’s childhood friend, the chemist Wetzl.
For now, there was nothing to do but wait.
In quiet Vorderschluder, a storm raged. Fanfares
blared, armies readied for battle. A strike had erupted
among the paper factory workers. Their demands
were rejected by management, and they’d declared
war.
In Vienna, strings of rebellion were pulled. A
newspaper editor had visited, arming the workers
with slogans they needed. Rauß, the rabble-rouser,
rose as deputy leader. He flailed his arms, bellowed,
and, judging by his fierce cries, capital should’ve
vanished by tomorrow, with labor triumphant
everywhere.

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Frau Lisbeth grasped his hand. “Leave it alone!” she decided. “I
will speak with the Fräulein myself.”
She left him standing there, went across the courtyard and
announced herself. While she waited she considered exactly what she
wanted to say so they would be permitted to leave that very morning.
But she didn’t need to say anything at all. The Fräulein only listened,
heard that he wanted to go without notice, nodded curtly and said that
it was all right.
Frau Lisbeth flew back to her man, embraced and kissed him.
“Only one more night and the bad dream will be over.”
They must pack quickly and he should telephone the Councilor
to the Chamber of Commerce to tell him that he could begin his new
job the next morning. They pulled the old trunk out from under the
bed and her bright enthusiasm infected him. He pulled out his iron
bound chest as well, dusted it off and helped her pack, passing things
to her. He ran into the village to hire a boy to bring a cart for hauling
things away. He laughed and was content for the first time in the
house of ten Brinken.
Then, as he was taking a cook pot from the stove and wrapping it
in newspaper Aloys, the servant, came.
He announced, “The Fräulein wants to go driving.”
Raspe stared at him and didn’t say a word.
“Don’t go!” cried his wife.
He said, “Please inform the Fräulein that as of today I am no
longer–”
He didn’t finish. Alraune ten Brinken stood in the door.
She said, “Matthieu-Maria, I let you go tomorrow. Today you
will go driving with me.”
Then she left and behind her went Raspe.
“Don’t go! Don’t go!” screamed Frau Lisbeth.
He could hear her screams but didn’t know who it was or where
they came from. Frau Lisbeth fell heavily onto the bench. She heard
both of their steps as they crossed the courtyard to the garage. She
heard the iron gate creak open on its hinges, heard the auto as it drove
out onto the street and heard as well the short blast of the horn. That
was the farewell greeting her husband always gave each time he left
for the city. She sat there with both hands on her lap and waited,
waited until they brought him back. Four farmers carried him in on a
mattress and laid him down in the middle of the room among the
trunks and boxes. They undressed him, helped wash him and did as
the doctor commanded. His long white body was full of blood, dust
and dirt.
Frau Lisbeth knelt beside him without words, without tears. The
old coachman came and took the screaming boys away, then the
farmers left and finally the doctor as well. She never asked him, not
with words or with her eyes. She already knew the answer that he
would give.
Once in the middle of the night Raspe woke up and opened his
eyes. He recognized her, asked for some water and she gave him
some to drink.
“It is over,” he said weakly.
She asked, “What happened?”
He shook his head, “I don’t know. The Fräulein said, ‘Faster,
Matthieu-Maria’. I didn’t want to do it. Then she laid her hand on
mine and I felt her through my glove and I did it. That’s all I know.”
He spoke so softly that she had to put her ear next to his mouth
to hear and when he was quiet she whispered.
“Why did you do it?”
Again he moved his lips, “Forgive me Lisbeth! I had to do it.
The Fräulein–”
She looked at him, startled by the hot look in his eyes, and her
tongue suddenly cried out the thought almost before her brain could
even think it.
“You, you love her?”
Then he raised his head the width of a thumb and murmured with
closed eyes, “Yes, yes– I –love driving–with her.”
Those were the last words he spoke. He sank back into a deep
faint and lay like that until the early morning when he passed away.
Frau Lisbeth stood up. She ran to the door and old Froitsheim took
her into his arms.
“My husband is dead,” she said.
The coachman made the sign of the cross and made to go past
her into the room but she held him back.
“Where is the Fräulein?” she asked quickly. “It she alive? Is she
hurt?”
The deep wrinkles in the old face deepened, “Is she alive?–
Whether she even lives! She’s standing over there! Wounded? Not a
scratch. She just got a little dirty!”
He pointed with trembling fingers out into the courtyard. There
stood the slender Fräulein in her boy’s suit, setting her foot into the
laced fingers of a Hussar, swinging up into the saddle.
“She telephoned the cavalry captain,” said the old coachman.
“Told him she had no groom this morning, so the count sent that
fellow over.”
Lisbeth ran across the courtyard.
“He is dead!” she cried. “My man is dead.”
Alraune ten Brinken turned around in the saddle, toyed with the
riding whip.
“Dead,” she said slowly. “Dead. That’s really too bad.”
She lightly struck her horse and walked it up to the gate.
“Fräulein,” screamed Frau Lisbeth. “Fräulein, Fräulein–”
Frau Lisbeth ran to the Privy Councilor overflowing with all her
despair and hatred. The Privy Councilor let her talk until she quieted
down. Then he said that he understood her pain and was not offended
at what she had said. He was also prepared, despite the notice, to pay
three months of her husband’s wages. But she needed to be
reasonable, should be able to see that her husband alone carried the
blame for the regrettable accident.
She ran to the police and they were not even polite to her. They
had seen it coming, they said. Everyone knew that Raspe was the
wildest driver on the entire Rhine. They had done their duty many
times by trying to warn him. She should be ashamed of herself for
trying to lay the blame on the young Fräulein! Had she ever been seen
driving? Yesterday or ever?
Then she ran to an attorney, then a second and a third. But they
were honest people and told her that they could not move forward
with a lawsuit even when she wanted to pay in advance. Oh, certainly,
anything was possible and conceivable, why not? But did she have
any proof? No, none at all. Well then! She should just go quietly back
home. There was nothing that she could do. Even if everything that
she said was true and could be proved–her husband would still carry
the blame. He was a grown man, a skilled and experienced chauffeur,
while the Fräulein was an inexperienced scarcely grown thing–
So she went back home. She buried her husband in the little
cemetery behind the church. She packed all her things and loaded
them onto the cart herself. She took the money the Privy Councilor
had given her, took her boys and left.
A couple of days later a new chauffeur moved into her old living
quarters. He was short, fat and drank a lot. Fräulein ten Brinken didn’t
like him and seldom went driving alone with him. He never got any
speeding tickets and the people said that he was a good driver, much
better than wild Raspe had been.
“Little moth,” said Alraune ten Brinken when Wolf Gontram
stepped into the room one evening.
The beautiful eyes of the youth glowed.
“You are the candle flame,” he said.
Then she spoke, “You will burn your beautiful wings and then
you will lie on the floor like an ugly worm. Be careful Wolf
Gontram.”
He looked at her and shook his head.
“No,” he said. “This is the way I want it.”
And every long evening he flew around the flame. Two others
flew around it as well and got burned. Karl Mohnen was one and the
other was Hans Geroldingen. It was a matter of honor for Dr. Mohnen
to court her.
“A perfect match,” he thought. “Finally, she is the right one!”
And his little ship rushed in with full sails. He was always a little
in love with every woman but now his brain burned under his bald
head, making him foolish, letting him feel for this one girl everything
that he had felt for dozens of other women one after the other back
through the years. Like always he made the assumption that Alraune
ten Brinken felt the same ardent desire toward him, a love that was
boundless, limitless and breathless.
One day he talked to Wolf Gontram about his great new
conquest. He was glad the boy rode out to Lendenich–as his
messenger of love. He had the boy bring many greetings, hand kisses
and small gifts from him. Not just one red rose, that was for
gentlemen. He was both lover and beloved and needed to send more,
flowers, chocolates, petit fours, pralines, and fans, hundreds of little
things and knick-knacks. The small bit of good taste that he did have
and which he had so successfully taught to his ward melted in the
blink of an eye in the flickering fire of his love.
The cavalry captain would often go traveling with him. They had
been friends for many years. Count Geroldingen had once been
nurtured by Dr. Mohnen’s treasures of wisdom just as Wolf Gontram
was now being nurtured. Dr. Mohnen had a vast storehouse and gave
it out by the handfuls, happy to find someone that would make use of
it.
The two of them would go off on adventures together. It was
always the doctor that met the ladies and made their acquaintance.
Later he would introduce the count as his friend and boast about him.
Often enough it was the Hussar officer who finally plucked the ripe
cherries from the tree which Karl Mohnen had discovered.
The first time he had pangs of conscience and considered himself
as low as they came. He tormented himself for a couple of days and
then openly confessed to his friend what he had done. He made
vehement excuses saying the girl had made such advances toward him
that he had no choice but to submit to her. He was glad that it had
happened because now he knew the girl was not worthy of his
friend’s love.
Dr. Mohnen made nothing about it, saying that it didn’t matter to
him at all, that it was completely all right. Then he gave the example
of the Mayan Indians in the Yucatan. It was customary for them to
say, “My wife is also my friend’s wife”.
But Count Geroldingen could tell his friend was sick about it so
the next time a new acquaintance of the doctor preferred him, he
didn’t say anything. Thus it happened over the years that quite a few
of Dr. Mohnen’s women also became the handsome cavalry captain’s
women as well, exactly like in the Yucatan. Only there was this
difference, most of them had never been the doctor’s women at all.
He was the chicari, the beater, that tracked down the game and
drove it out into the open–but the hunter was Hans Geroldingen. Yet
he was quiet about it, had a good heart and didn’t want to hurt his
friend’s feelings. So the beater never noticed when the hunter shot
and held himself up as the most glorious Nimrod on the Rhine.
Dr. Mohnen would often say, “Come along count. I’ve made a
new conquest, a picture beautiful English girl. I picked her up
yesterday at the open air concert and am meeting her tonight on the
banks of the Rhine.”
“But what about Elly?” the cavalry captain would reply.
“Replaced,” declared Karl Mohnen grandly.
It was phenomenal how easily he could exchange his current
flame for a new one. As soon as he found someone new he was
simply done with the old one and didn’t care about her at all. The girls
never made any troubles for him either. In that respect he far
surpassed the Hussar who always had difficulty letting go and even
more difficulty in getting his women to let go of him. For those
reasons it required all the energy and persuasive skill of the doctor to
take him along to meet some new beauty.
This time he said, “You must see her captain. God, I’m so happy
that I have come so lightly through all my adventures and never been
caught. Finally I’ve found the right one! She’s enormously rich,
enormously. His old Excellency has over thirty million, perhaps forty.
Well, what do you say count? His foster daughter is pretty as a picture
and fresh as a blossom on a tree limb! By the way, speaking in strict
confidence, the little bird is already in my net. I have never been so
certain of things!”
“Yes, but what about Fräulein Clara?” returned the cavalry
captain.
“Gone,” declared the doctor. “Just today I wrote her a letter
saying that my work load had become so overwhelming that I simply
had no more time left for her.”