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

Seventh Chapter
When Ruprecht returned from Krems at noon,
Helmina informed him that Herr Anton Sykora had
visited—an old friend of her late husband. He’d
regretted missing Ruprecht, but business had forced
him to leave early that morning.
Ruprecht listened half-heartedly, murmuring, “Is
that so?” His mind was brimming with agricultural
matters. He’d thrown himself into work with fervor.
There was much to do. Herr Augenthaler soon
realized the new master held the reins tightly. The
golden age was over; the iron one began. Ruprecht
was everywhere, impossible to deceive. He lifted
every lid to see what lay beneath. Even in winter, he
tolerated no idleness. He’d found gaps in his
stewards’ theoretical knowledge, which he meant to
fill. From Krems, he brought a stack of farming
books and pamphlets, distributing them among his
staff.
Sighing, the manager lugged a pile of scholarship
across the courtyard. The assistant sat in the office,
rolling a cigarette, gazing at Helmina’s window row,
hoping she’d appear.
When the manager handed him his assigned
books, the assistant tossed them on the table and
slammed his fist down. “Ridiculous!” he shouted.
“To cram this into your head… as a grown man—I’m
no schoolboy!”
“Don’t yell,” the manager said. “What’s gotten
into you? And don’t speak so disrespectfully of our
master.” Secretly, though, he relished the assistant’s
outburst, echoing his own thoughts.
Helmina cared little for her husband’s efforts.
Such matters were alien to her. The land held no life
or meaning. Growth, decay, bloom, and fruit were
self-evident, unremarkable. When Ruprecht sat in his
study, she wandered from room to room, played with
the children, chatted with Miss Nelson, or sang in a
not-unpleasant but untrained voice. Deep down, she
was bored. She sometimes thought of Dankwardt,
who’d been no different—immersed in Indian
philosophy while Ruprecht tackled plant physiology,
agricultural chemistry, audited accounts, or drafted
estate plans. Occasionally, he retreated to the Indian
temple, a room Dankwardt had furnished with
mementos from an Indian journey. Between painted
lotus columns, a mural depicted palms and a distant
broad river. A small library held travelogues and
India’s literary treasures on fragrant cedar shelves.
Ornate lamps hung from the ceiling. In corners,
Buddha statues gazed at their navels. When the door
opened, a prayer wheel, tied to the handle by a cord,
clattered.
In that Indian temple, any difference between
Ruprecht and Dankwardt vanished. Helmina passed
the door, casting venomous glances. He’d better not
leave her to boredom. This man was no wiser than
the others. Sometimes, his gaze seemed to pierce her
depths, unearthing hidden truths, sending shivers
through her. Did he truly touch her secrets, strip away
her veils? After passionate nights, a strange urge
gripped her—to shed her mask, confess everything,
stand bare-souled before him. Let him prove if his
love could follow her into the realm of horrors. In
those moments, silence was heavy.
When Ruprecht returned to work, she
congratulated herself on her resolve. Her scornful
smile mocked her own fervor and him, dutifully
fulfilling his self-imposed tasks like an iron
necessity.
“It’s a need,” Ruprecht said, sensing her subtle
derision. “I can’t help it. I can’t lie idle on a bearskin.
I need motion, work. Before, I roamed the world,
busy with sights and vivid experiences, claiming all
there was. Now I’m rooted in one place. I must be all
the busier. It’s the law of energy conservation.”
Helmina delighted in breaching Ruprecht’s
fortified camp. She tore him from work, besieged
him, and triumphed when she toppled his idol, Duty.
Then she let out a wicked laugh. Ruprecht noticed,
calling it a mermaid’s laugh.
The Christmas holidays approached. Snow lay
thick on the mountains, fitting for the season. In the
valley, black wagon tracks ran beside the frozen
river, among groaning firs trembling before their
killers. Peasants trudged through forests, saws and
axes in thick mittens, shaking snow from firs and
pines. They sought Christmas trees. Finding a victim,
iron teeth bit through bark and frozen pith. Axes
struck the trunk, and its fall drew a fearful sigh from
the surrounding woods.
Ruprecht and Helmina skied over steep slopes. He
showed her tricks learned from Norwegian hunters,
teaching her to leap, delighted by her fearlessness.
She kept her legs tight and jumped, her short skirt
flapping around ankles and knees. When she fell, she
rose before he could help, laughing as she brushed
snow from her red jacket. In those moments, he
forgot her wicked smile, unmindful of danger.
From Amnisbühel, a splendid sledding run
descended. Ruprecht and Helmina zoomed down on a
two-seater, black firs blurring into a solid wall. Snow
sprayed, stinging their faces in wild sparks, trailing a
white cloud. The children had a small sled and were
allowed to ride. They tipped over, tumbling downhill,
68piling atop their sled. Squeals and laughter erupted.
Crashing was the best part of sledding.
Two days before Christmas, the children saw a
large sleigh piled with young firs and pines on the
road below. Its runners crunched over hard snow,
horse harnesses jingled, and the driver, in high boots
and short fur, strode alongside, puffing bright blue
smoke balls.
“Where are all those little trees going?” Nelly
asked.
“To the cities… maybe even Vienna, so the Christ
Child can decorate them for children. Every good
child gets a Christmas tree.”
Nelly looked down sadly, then said shyly, “The
Christ Child never decorated a tree for us.”
Ruprecht lifted the girl, kissing her. He knew the
children had never known true, bright Christmas
joy—the wonder of a tree, worth more than any gift.
Helmina hadn’t wanted it. “I’ve spoken to the Christ
Child,” he said. “This time, you’ll surely get one.”
That evening, he and Miss Nelson began
decorating the tree. He was bustling, childishly
gleeful, with the earnestness a proper game demands.
Glittering ornaments lined the branches.
Helmina sat at the room’s rear, watching idly with
cold eyes, a wicked smile curling her lips. Her brow
flickered with storm clouds. How Miss Nelson came
alive at work, shedding all stiffness and reserve. She
stretched to reach higher branches, bent for lower
ones, her slim body tracing graceful lines. She was all
zeal, neither she nor Ruprecht heeding Helmina,
acting as if no one else were present. They debated
earnestly where to place a chain or glass bell.
“Oh, how long since I’ve had a Christmas,”
Ruprecht said, “a true German Christmas. It’s unique.
No other people has its like. These past years, I was
always in the south. The longing was fierce. I’d have
given anything to peek through a window at a
glowing Christmas tree.”
Miss Nelson shared tales of English Christmases,
climbing a chair to fasten a porcelain angel with
tinsel wings high up.
My God, she’s speaking, Helmina thought. A
miracle. She speaks unprompted. Good. Let Ruprecht
try to betray me with her. At the first sign, he’s lost.
What holds him still? What do we share beyond those
fevered nights? Do I love him?
It always began this way for her—a sense of
superiority, as if she need only reach out to toy with a
man. Ah—how exquisite. Years ago, someone gave
her white mice. She’d cared for them well for weeks.
One twilight evening, she opened their cage and let
the yellow cat in.
Ruprecht turned, playfully tossing a chenille
monkey into Helmina’s lap. She disliked such jests.
Her face didn’t change; she said nothing. It was an
insult to offer her such harmlessness. Ruprecht met
her eyes sharply, probing. She returned the gaze.
Fine—let him at least suspect her thoughts. As he
turned back to the tree, she crushed the poor chenille
monkey between her fingers.
On Christmas Eve, the tree blazed in radiant
splendor—a winter fairy tale. Yet the children shone
brighter. They ignored their gifts, standing in shy
reverence. Four tiny Christmas trees sparkled in four
childish eyes. Four small fists clenched tight with
bliss.
Ruprecht, too, stood reverent before the tree,
bathed in light, feeling weightless, soaring, complete.
Meanwhile, Helmina drifted to her gift table.
Carelessly, she sifted through the items—every
fleeting wish fulfilled: the amethyst set, the Lalique
brooch, two Tiffany vases, all there. At the bottom
lay a heavy, angular package. She unwrapped it—a
book: Economic Studies in the Orient by Ruprecht
von Boschan. Its first page bore her name: “To my
beloved wife, Helmina!”
Ruprecht approached. “I know these things don’t
interest you. Still—it’s a memento of our
engagement. I finished it then, giving it your name as
a talisman, calling you my wife in advance. It came
out just in time for Christmas.”
“Thank you for everything,” Helmina said,
offering a cool hand. Oh, Ruprecht piled sentiment
upon sentiment—the Christmas tree, the dedication
from their betrothal! What next?
He’d said his book wouldn’t interest her, but
having written it, he’d joined the guild whose
compass swings toward praise or blame. When
Helmina, well into mid-January, hadn’t mentioned
his Economic Studies, Ruprecht grew impatient.
Dawn’s glow of fame crowned his head, yet Helmina
acted oblivious.
One day, in a measured tone, he said, “I got a
letter from Professor Zwicker today… from Vienna
University, economics. He finds my book
significant.”
“Oh?” Helmina replied indifferently. Let him
stew. Then she added, “I’m not sitting in this
wilderness all Carnival. We’ll go to Krems a few
times when something’s happening. And to Vienna—
at least once or twice. The Vienna City Ball… and
the Concordia Ball.”
“As you wish,” he said, irritated.
She scraped her fork across the plate, a squealing
screech she knew he loathed. “If it doesn’t suit you,
stay home.”

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Frank Braun said, “Uncle, I’m going down. Do it–For the first
time in you life do it–what I ask of you–I know how it seems–and I
will never go against you again. What do you want me to do?–Should
I grovel even more before you?–Come, let this be enough–Give me
the money.”
Then the Privy Councilor spoke, “I will make you a proposition,
nephew. Do you promise to listen quietly? To not bluster and roar
again like you always do?”
He said firmly, “Yes, Uncle Jakob.”
“Then listen–You shall have the money that you need to get you
out of trouble. If you need more, we will have to talk a little about the
amount later. But I need you–need you here at home. I will have it
arranged for you to be placed there under house arrest for the duration
of your sentence–”
“Why not?” Frank Braun answered. “It doesn’t matter to me if I
am here or there. How long will you need me?”
“Around a year, not quite that long,” answered the professor.
“I agree,” said the attorney. “What do I need to do?”
“Oh not much,” replied the old man. “Just a little employment
that you are already accustomed to and very good at!
You see, my boy,” the Privy Councilor continued. “I need a little
help with this girl that you have arranged for me. You are entirely
correct. She will run away from us, will become unspeakably bored
during her pregnancy and certainly try to abort the child.
I want you to watch over her and protect our interests, prevent
her from doing any of these things. Naturally it is a lot easier to do in
a prison or workhouse where guards can continually watch. But
unfortunately we are not equipped for that. I can’t lock her up in the
terrarium with the frogs or in a cage like the monkeys or guinea pigs
can I?”
“Certainly not, uncle.” the attorney said. “You must find some
other way.”
The old man nodded, “I have found another way. We need
someone that will keep her contented right where she is. Now it
appears to me that Dr. Petersen is completely unsuitable to hold her
interest for a long time. He could scarcely satisfy her for one night.
But it needs to be a man. I was thinking about you–”
Frank Braun pressed the chair arms as if he would break them.
He breathed deeply.
“Of me–” he repeated.
“Yes, of you,” the Privy Councilor continued. “It is one of the
little things that I need you for. You can keep her from running away,
tell her some new nonsense. Put your fantasies to some useful purpose
and in the absence of her prince, she can fall in love with you. You
will be able to satisfy her sensual and sexual requirements. If you are
not enough for her, I’m sure you certainly have friends and
acquaintances enough that would be glad to spend a few hours with
such a beautiful creature.”
The attorney gasped, his voice rang hot. “Uncle,” he spoke. “Do
you know what you are asking? You want me to be the lover of this
prostitute while she is carrying the murderer’s child? I should
entertain her and find new lovers for her every day? Be her pimp–”
“Certainly,” the professor interrupted him quietly. “I know very
well what I’m doing. It appears to be the only thing in the world that
you are very good at, my boy.”
He didn’t answer, felt this stroke, felt his cheeks become bright
red, his temples glow hot. He felt the blows like long stripes from a
riding whip cutting across his face and he understood quite well that
his uncle was having his revenge.
The Privy Councilor knew it too, a satisfied grin spread across
his drooping features.
“You can be grateful boy,” he said slowly. “We don’t need to
deceive each other, you and I. We can say things the way they really
are. I will hire you as a pimp for this prostitute.”
Frank Braun felt as if he was lying on the floor helpless,
completely unarmed, miserably naked and could not move while the
old man stepped on him with his dirty feet and spit into his gaping
wounds with his poisonous spittle–He could not find a word to speak.
Somehow he staggered dizzily down the stairs and out into the street
where he stood staring into the bright morning sun.
He scarcely knew that he left, felt like he had been mugged,
dropped by a frightful blow to the head and left lying in the gutter. He
scarcely knew who he was any more, wandering through the streets
for what seemed like centuries until he stood in front of an
advertisement pillar. He read the words on the poster but only saw the
words without understanding them. Then he found himself at the train
station, went to the counter and asked for a ticket.
“To where?” the attendant asked.
“To where?–Yes–to where?”
He was amazed to hear his own voice say, “Coblenz.”
He searched in all his pockets for money. “Third Class,” he
cried.
He had enough for that. He climbed up the steps to the platform.
That was when he first realized that he was without a hat–He sat
down on a bench and waited.
Then he saw her carried in on a stretcher, saw Dr. Petersen come
in behind her. He didn’t move from his place, it felt as if it had
absolutely nothing at all to do with him. He saw the train arrive,
watched how the doctor opened a cabin in First Class and how the
bearers carefully placed their burden inside. Then in back, at the end
of the train, he climbed inside.
He clenched his jawbone as hysterical laugher convulsed him. It
is so appropriate–he thought. Third class– This is good enough for the
menial–for the pimp. Then he forgot again as he sat on the hard bench
pressed tightly into his corner and stared down at the floorboards.
The gloomy fog would not leave his head. He heard the names of
the stations called one after another and it seemed to him as if they
were like sparks flowing through a telegraph wire. At other times it
seemed like an eternity between one station and another.
In Cologne he had to get out and change trains. He needed to
wait for the one going to the Rhine. But it was no interruption; he
scarcely noticed the difference, whether he was sitting on a hard
bench there or in the train.
Then he was in Coblenz, climbed out and again wandered
through the streets. Night was falling when it finally occurred to him
that he needed to get back to the fortress. He went over the bridge,
climbed up the rocks in the dark and followed the narrow footpath of
the prisoners through the underbrush.
Suddenly he was up above, in the officer’s courtyard, then in his
room sitting on his bed. Someone came down the hall and stepped
into the room, candle in hand. It was the strong marine medic, Dr.
Klaverjahn.
“Well hello,” he cried in the doorway. “The Sergeant-major was
right. Back so soon brother? Then come on down the hall. The
cavalry captain has a game going.”
Frank Braun didn’t move, scarcely heard what the other was
saying. The doctor grabbed his shoulder and shook it heartily.
“Don’t just sit there like a log. Come on!”
Frank Braun sprang up swinging something else high as well. It
was the chair that he had grabbed.
He moved a step closer, “Get out.” he hissed, “Get out,
you scoundrel!”
Dr. Klaverjahn looked at him standing there in front of him. He
looked into the pale, distorted face, the intent threatening eyes. It
awoke the medical professional that was still in him and he
recognized the condition instantly.
“So that’s how it is,” he said quietly–“Please excuse me.”–
Then he left.
Frank Braun stood for awhile with the chair in his hand. A cold
laugh hung on his lips but he was thinking of nothing, nothing at all.
He heard a knock at the door, heard it like it was far off in the
distance. When he looked up–the little ensign was standing in front of
him.
“You are back again, what happened?” he asked and startled a bit
when the other didn’t answer.
Then he ran out and came back with a glass and a bottle of
Bordeaux.
“Drink, it will be good for you.”
Frank Braun drank. He felt how the wine made his pulse race,
felt how his legs trembled, threatening to buckle underneath him. He
let himself fall heavily onto the bed.
The ensign supported him.
“Drink,” he urged.
But Frank Braun waved him away. “No, no,” he whispered. “It
will make me drunk.”
He laughed weakly, “I don’t think I’ve had anything to eat
today–”
A noise rang out from down the hall, loud laughing and yelling.
“What’s going on?” he asked indifferently.
The ensign answered, “They are playing. Two new ones came in
yesterday.”
Then he reached into his pocket, “By the way, this came for you
this evening. It’s a money dispatch for a hundred Marks. Here.”
Frank Braun took the paper, but had to read it twice before he
finally understood what it said. His uncle had sent him a hundred
Marks and wrote along with it:
“Please consider this as an advance.”
He sprang up with a bound. The fog rose as a red mist in front of
his eyes–Advance! Advance? Oh, for that job the old man wanted him
for–for that!
The ensign held the money out to him, “Here’s the money.”
He took it and it burned the tips of his fingers and this pain that
he felt as a physical pain almost did him in completely. He shut his
eyes, letting the scorching fire in his fingers climb into his hands and
up into his arms. He felt this final insult burn deeply down into his
bones.
“Bring me–” he cried. “Bring me some wine!”
Then he drank and drank. It seemed to him that the dark wine
extinguished the sizzling fire.
“What are they playing?” he asked, “Baccarat?”
“No,” said the ensign. “They are playing dice, Lucky Seven.”
Frank Braun took his arm, “Come on. Let’s go.”
They stepped into the casino.
“Here I am!” he cried. “One hundred Marks on the eight” and he
threw his money on the table. The cavalry captain shook the cup. It
was a six–