Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

They swam around–Then he went into the house, brought her a
cloak. And when they turned to go back, hand in hand, under the
copper beeches she said:
“I thank you, my love!”
They lay naked in the red afterglow. Their bodies, that had been
one through the hot afternoon hours, fell apart–Broken and crushed by
their caresses, their fondling and sweet words, like the flowers, like
the tender grass, over which their love storm had broken. The
firebrand lay dead, had devoured itself with greedy teeth. Out of the
ashes grew a cruel, steel hard hatred.
They looked at each other–now they knew that they were mortal
enemies. The long red lines on her thighs now seemed disgusting and
unseemly to him, the spittle ran in his mouth as if he had sucked a
bitter poison out of her lips. The little wounds that her teeth and her
nails had torn hurt and burned, swelling up–
“She has poisoned me,” he thought. “Like she once did Dr.
Petersen.”
Her green gaze smiled over at him, provoking, mocking and
impudent. He closed his eyes, bit his lips together, and curled his
fingers into fists. Then she stood up, turned around and kicked him
with her foot, carelessly and contemptuously.
He sprang up at that, stood in front of her, their glances crossed–
Not one word came out of her mouth, but she pouted her lips, raised
her arm, spit at him, slapped him in the face with her hand.
Then he threw himself at her, shook her body, whirled her
around by her hair, flung her to the ground, kicked her, beat her,
choked her tightly by the neck. She defended herself well. Her nails
shredded his face, her teeth bit into his arm and his chest. And with
blood foaming at their mouths, their lips searched and found each
other, took each other in a rutting frenzy of burning desire and pain–
Then he seized her, flung her several meters away, so that she
fainted, sinking down onto the lawn. He staggered a few steps further,
sank down and stared up into the blue heavens, without desire,
without will–listening to his temples pound–until his eyelids sank–
When he awoke, she was kneeling at his feet, drying the blood
out of his wounds with her hair, ripping her shift into long strips,
bandaging him skillfully–
“Let’s go, my love,” she said. “Evening falls.”
Little blue eggshells lay on the path. He searched in the bushes,
found the plundered nest of a crossbill.
“Those pesky squirrels,” he cried. “There are far too many in the
park. They will drive out all of our song birds.”
“What should we do?” she asked.
He said, “Shoot a few.”
She clapped her hands.
“Yes, yes,” she laughed. “We will go on a hunt!”
“Do you have some kind of a gun?” he asked.
She considered, “No, –I believe there are none, at least none that
we can use–We must buy one–But wait,” she interrupted herself,
“The old coachman has one. Sometimes he shoots the stray cats when
they poach.”
He went to the stables.
“Hello Froitsheim,” he cried. “Do you have a gun?”
“Yes,” replied the old man. “Should I go get it?”
He nodded, then he asked, “Tell me old man. Do you still want
to let your great-grandchildren ride on Bianca? They were here last
Sunday–but I didn’t see you setting them on the donkey.”
The old man growled, went into his room, took a rifle down from
the wall, came back, sat down quietly, cleaning it and getting it ready.
“Well?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to answer me?”
Froitsheim chewed with dry lips.
“I don’t want to,” he grumbled.
Frank Braun laid a hand on his shoulder, “Be reasonable old
man, say what is on your heart. I think you can speak freely with me!”
Then the coachman said, “I will accept nothing from the
Fräulein–don’t want any gifts from her. I receive my bread and
wages–for that I work. I don’t want any more than that.”
Frank Braun felt that no persuasion would help getting through
his hard skull. Then he hit upon an idea, threw in a little bait that the
old man could chew on–
“If the Fräulein asked something special of you, would you do
it?”
“No,” said the stubborn old man. “No more than my duty.”
“But if she paid you extra,” he continued. “Then would you do
it?”
The coachman still didn’t want to agree.
“That would depend–” he chewed.
“Don’t be pig headed, Froitsheim!” laughed Frank Braun. “The
Fräulein–not I–wants to borrow your gun to shoot squirrels–That has
absolutely nothing to do with your duty, and because of that–do you
understand, in return–she will allow you to let the children ride on the
donkey–It is a trade. Will you do it?”
“Yes,” said the old man grinning. “I will.”
He handed the rifle over to him, took a box of cartridges out of a
drawer.
“I will throw these in as well!” he spoke. “That way I’ve paid
well and am not in her debt–Are you going out riding this afternoon,
young Master?” he continued.
“Good, the horses will be ready around five-o’clock.”–Then he
called the stable boy, sent him running out to the cobbler’s wife, his
granddaughter, to let her know that she should send the children up
that evening–
Early the next morning Frank Braun stood under the acacia that
kissed the Fräulein’s window, gave his short whistle. She opened,
called down that she would be right there. Her light steps rang clearly
on the flagstones, with a leap she was down from the terrace, over the
steps, into the garden and standing in front of him.
“Look at you!” she cried. “In a kimono? Do people go hunting
like that?”
He laughed, “Well, it will do just fine for squirrels– But look at
you!”
She was dressed as a Wallenstein hunter.
“Holk Regiment!” she cried. “Do you like it?”
She wore high yellow riding boots, a green jerkin and an
enormous grayish green hat with waving plumes. An old pistol was
stuck into her belt and a long sabre beat against her leg.
“Take that off,” he said. “The game will be terrified of you if you
go hunting like that.”
She pouted her lips.
“Aren’t I pretty,” she asked.
He took her into his arms, quickly kissed her lips.“You are
charming, you vain little monkey,” he laughed. “And your Holk
hunting outfit will do just as well as my kimono for squirrels.”
He unbuckled the sabre and the long spurs, laid her flintlock
pistol aside and took up the coachman’s rifle.
“Now come, comrade,” he cried. “Tally ho!”
They went through the garden walking softly, peering through
the bushes and into the tops of the trees. He pushed a cartridge into
the rifle and cocked it.
“Have you ever shot a gun before?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” she nodded. “Wőlfchen and I went together to the big
church fair in Pützchen. We practiced there in the shooting gallery.”
“Good,” he said. “Then you know how you must hold it and aim
it.”
There was a rustling over them in the branches.
“Shoot,” she whispered. “Shoot! There is one above us!”
He raised the rifle and looked up, but then let it down again.
“No, not that one,” he declared. “That is a young one, scarcely a
year old. We will let it live for a while longer.”
They followed the brook until it came out of the birch trees into
the meadow. Fat June bugs buzzed in the sun, yellow butterflies
swung over the daisies. Whispering sounds were everywhere, crickets
chirping, bees buzzing, grasshoppers jumped at their feet in giant
leaps. Frogs croaked in the water and above–a little lark rejoiced.
They walked across the meadow to the copper beeches. There, right
on the border, they heard a frightened chirping, saw a little hen flutter
out of the bushes.
Frank Braun crept quietly ahead, looking sharply.
“There is the robber,” he murmured.
“Where?” she asked. “Where?”
But his shot already cracked–a heavy squirrel fell down from the
tree trunk. He raised it up by the tail, showed her where the bullet had
hit.
“It won’t plunder any more nests!” he said.
They hunted further through the large park. He shot a second
squirrel in the honeysuckle leaves and a third gray squirrel in the top
of a pear tree.
“You always shoot!” she cried. “Let me have the gun once!”
He gave it to her, showed her how to carry it, let her shoot into a
tree trunk a few times.
“Now come!” he cried. “Let’s see what you can do!”
He pushed the gun barrel down.
“Like this,” he instructed. “The muzzle always points toward the
ground and not into the air.”
Near the pool he saw a young animal playing in the path. She
wanted to shoot right away, but he called for her to sneak up a few
more steps.
“Now you’re close enough, let him have it.”
She shot–the squirrel looked around in astonishment, then
quickly sprang up a tree trunk and disappeared into the thick
branches. A second time didn’t go much better–She was much too far
away. But when she tried to get closer, the animals fled before she
could get a shot off.
“The stupid beasts,” she complained. “Why do they stand still for
you?”
She appeared charming to him in her childish anger.
“Apparently because they think I am their friend,” he laughed.
“You make too much noise in your leather riding boots, that’s what it
is! Just wait, we will get closer.”
Right by the mansion, where the hazel bushes pressed against the
acacias, he saw another squirrel.
“Stay here,” he whispered. “I will drive it out to you. Only look
there into those bushes and when you see it, whistle so I will know. It
will turn when you whistle–then shoot!”
He went around in a wide arc, sneaking through the bushes.
Finally he discovered the animal on a low acacia, drove it down, and
chased it into a hazel thicket. He saw that it was going in the right
direction toward Alraune so he backed up a little and waited for her
whistle. But he didn’t hear it. Then he went back in the same arc and
came out on the wide path behind her. There she stood, gun in hand,
staring intently into the bushes and a little off to her left–scarcely
three meters away, the squirrel merrily played in the hazel thicket.
“It’s over there,” he called out softly. “Over there, up a little and
to the left!”
She heard his voice, turned quickly around toward him. He saw
how her lips opened to speak, heard a shot at the same time and felt a
light pain in his side. Then he heard her shrill despairing scream, saw
how she threw the gun away and rushed toward him. She tore open
his kimono, grabbed at the wound with both hands.
He bowed his head, looked down. It was a long, but very light
surface wound that was scarcely bleeding. The skin was only burned,
showing a broad black line.
“Get the hangman!” he laughed. “That was close!–Right over the
heart.”
She stood in front of him, trembling, all of her limbs shaking,
scarcely able to stand up. He supported her, talked to her.
“It’s nothing, child. Nothing at all! We will wash it out with
something, then moisten it with oil–Think nothing of it!”
He pulled the kimono still further back, showed her his naked
chest. With straying fingers she felt the surface wound.
“Right over the heart,” she murmured. “Right over the heart!”
Then suddenly she grabbed her head with both hands. A sudden
fear seized her, she looked at him with a horrified gaze, tore herself
out of his arms, ran to the house, sprang up the stairs–

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

“How do you like it?” she asked him.
“Why should the little man be there?” he retorted.
She said, “He belongs there!–I didn’t like the golden Cupid–That
is for all the other people–I want to have Galeotto, my root manikin.”
“Why do you call it that?” he asked.
“Galeotto!” she replied. “Wasn’t it him that brought us
together?–Now I want him to hang there, to watch over us through the
night.”
Sometimes they went out riding in the evenings or also during
the night if the moon was shining. They rode through the Sieben
Gerberge mountain range or to Rolandseck and into the wilderness
beyond.
Once they found a she-donkey at the foot of Dragon’s Rock in
the Sieben Geberge mountain range. People there used the animal for
riding up to the castle at the top. He bought her. She was a young
animal, well cared for and glistened like fresh snow. Her name was
Bianca. They took her with them, behind the horses on a long rope,
but the animal just stood there, planting her forelegs like a stubborn
mule, allowing herself to be choked and dragged along. Finally they
found a way to persuade her. In Kőnigswinter he bought a large bag
full of sugar, took the rope off Bianca and let her run free. He threw
her one piece of sugar after the other from out of the saddle. Soon the
she-donkey ran after them, keeping itself tight to his stirrup, snuffling
at his boots.
Old Froitsheim took the pipe out of his mouth as they came up,
spit thoughtfully and grinned agreeably.
“An ass,” he chewed. “A young ass! It’s been almost thirty years
since we’ve had one here in the stable. You know, young Master, how
I used to let you ride old gray Jonathan?” He got a bunch of carrots
and gave them to the animal, stroking her shaggy fur.
“What’s her name, young Master?” he asked.
Frank Braun told him her name.
“Come Bianca,” spoke the old man. “You will have it good here
with me. We will be friends.”
Then he turned again to Frank Braun.
“Young Master,” he continued. “I have three great-grandchildren
in the village, two little girls and a boy. They are the cobbler’s
children, on the road to Godesberg. They often come to visit me on
Sunday afternoons. May I let them ride the ass?–Just here in the
yard?”
He nodded, but before he could answer the Fräulein cried out:
“Why don’t you ask me, old man? It is my animal. He gave it to
me!–Now I want to tell you–you are permitted to ride her–even in the
gardens, when we are not home.”
Frank Braun’s glance thanked her–but not the old coachman. He
looked at her, half mistrusting and half surprised, grumbled something
incomprehensible and enticed the donkey into the stable with the
juicy carrots.
He called the stable boy, presented him to Bianca, then the
horses, one after the other–led her around behind the farmyard,
showed her the cow barn with the heavy Hollander cows and the
young calf of black and white Liese. He showed her the hounds, both
sharp pointers, the old guard dog and the cheeky fox terrier that was
sleeping in the stable. Brought her to the pigs, where the enormous
Yorkshire sow suckled her piglets, to the goats and the chicken coop.
Bianca ate carrots and followed him. It appeared that she liked it at
the Brinken’s.
Often in the afternoons the Fräulein’s clear voice rang out from
the garden.
“Bianca!” she cried. “Bianca!”
Then the old coachman opened her stall; swung the door open
wide and the little donkey came into the garden at an easy trot. She
would stop a few times, eat the green juicy leaves, indulge in the high
clover or wander around some more until the enticing call rang out
again, “Bianca!” Then she would search for her mistress.

They lay on the lawn under the ash trees. No table–only a large
platter lay on the grass covered with a white Damascus cloth. There
were many fruits, assorted tid-bits, dainties and sweets among the
roses. The wine stood to the side.
Bianca snuffled, scorned the caviar and no less the oysters,
turned away from the pies. But she took some cake and a piece of ice
out of the cooler, ate a couple of roses in between–
“Undress me!” said Alraune.
Then he loosened the eyes and hooks and opened the snaps.
When she was naked he lifted her onto the donkey. She sat astride on
the white animal’s back and held on lightly to the shaggy mane.
Slowly, step by step, she rode over the meadow. He walked by her
side, lying his right hand on the animal’s head. Bianca was clever,
proud of the slender boy whom she carried, didn’t stop once, but went
lightly with velvet hoofs.
There, where the dahlia bed ended, a narrow path led past the
little brook that fed the marble pool. She didn’t go over the wooden
bridge. Carefully, one foot after the other, Bianca waded through the
clear water. She looked curiously to the side when a green frog
jumped from the bank into the stream. He led the animal over to a
raspberry patch, picked the red berries and divided them with
Alraune, continued through the thick laurel bushes.
There, surrounded by thick elms, lay a large field of carnations.
His grandfather had laid it out for his good friend, Gottfried Kinkel,
who loved these flowers. Every week he had sent the poet a large
bouquet for as long as he lived. There were little feathery carnations,
tens of thousands of them, as far as the eye could see. All the flowers
glowed silver-white and their leaves glowed silvery green. They
gleamed far, far into the evening sun, a silver ground.
Bianca carried the pale girl diagonally across the field and then
back around. The white donkey stepped deeply through the silver
ocean; the wind made light waves that kissed her hoofs.
He stood on the border and watched her, drank in the sweet
colors until he was sated. Then she rode up to him.
“Isn’t it beautiful, my love?” she asked.
And he said sincerely, “–It is very beautiful–ride some more.”
She answered, “I am happy.”
Lightly she laid her hand behind the clever animal’s ears and it
stepped out, slowly, slowly, through shining silver–

“Why are you laughing?” she asked.
They sat on the terrace at the breakfast table and he was reading
his mail. There was a letter from Herr Manasse, who wrote him about
the Burberger mining shares.
“You have read in the newspapers about the gold strike in the
Hocheifel,” said the attorney. For the greatest part the gold has been
found on territory owned by the Burberger Association. It appears
very doubtful to me that these small veins of ore will be worth the
very considerable cost of refining it. Nevertheless, your shares that
were completely worthless four weeks ago, now, with the help of the
Association’s skillful press release have rapidly climbed in value and
have been at par for a week already.
Today, I heard through bank director Baller that they are
prepared to quote them at two hundred fourteen. Therefore I have
given your stocks over to my friend and asked him to sell them
immediately. That will happen tomorrow, perhaps they will obtain an
even higher rate of exchange.”
He handed the letter over to Alraune.
“Uncle Jakob himself, would have never dreamed of that,” he
laughed. “Otherwise he would have certainly left my mother and me
some different shares!”
She took the letter, carefully read it through to the end. Then she
let it sink, stared straight ahead into space. Her face was wax pale.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Yes he did–He did know it,” she said slowly. “He knew exactly
what he was doing!”
Then she turned to him.
“If you want to make money–don’t sell the shares,” she
continued and her voice rang with conviction.
“They will find still more gold–Your shares will climb still
higher–much higher.”
“It’s too late,” he said lightly. “By this hour the shares have
probably already been sold! Besides, are you all that certain?”
“Certain?” she repeated. “Certain? Who could be more certain
that I?”
She let her head sink down onto the table, sobbed out loud, “So it
begins–so–”
He stood up, laid his arm around her shoulder.
“Nonsense,” he said. “Beat that depression out of your brain!–
Come Alraune, we will go swimming. The fresh water will wash the
foolish cobwebs away. Chat with your mermaid sisters–they will
confirm that Melusine can bring no more harm once she has kissed
her lover.”
She pushed him away, sprang up, stood facing him, and looked
him straight in the eyes.
“I love you,” she cried. “Yes, I do–But it is not true–the magic
does not go away! I am no Melusine, am not the fresh water’s child! I
come out of the earth–and the night created me.”
Shrill tones rang from her lips–and he didn’t know if it was a sob
or a laugh–
He grabbed her in his strong arms, paid no attention to her
struggling and hitting. He held her like a wild child, carried her down
the steps and into the garden, carried her screaming over to the pool,
threw her in, as far as he could with all her clothes on.
She got up and stood for a moment in amazement, dazed and
confused. Then he let the cascades play and a splashing rain
surrounded her. She laughed loudly at that.
“Come,” she cried. “Come in too!”
She undressed and in high spirits threw her wet clothes at his
head.
“Aren’t you ready yet?” she urged. “Hurry up!”
When he was standing beside her she saw that he was bleeding.
The drops fell from his cheek, from his neck and left ear.
“I bit you,” she whispered.
He nodded. Then she raised herself up high, encircled his neck,
and drank the red blood with ardent lips.
“Now it is better,” she said.

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Fifteen
Tells how Alraune lived in the park.
HE didn’t write his mother on that day, or the next, pushed it
off for another week and further–for months. He lived in
the large garden of the Brinkens, like he had done when he
was a boy, when he had spent his school vacations there.
They sat in the warm green houses or under the mighty cedars,
whose young sprouts had been brought from Lebanon by some pious
ancestor, or strolled under the Mulberry trees, past a small pool that
was deeply overshadowed by hanging willows.
The garden belonged to them that summer, to them alone,
Alraune and him. The Fräulein had given strict orders that none of the
servants were permitted to enter, not by day or by night. Not once
were the gardeners called for. They were sent away into the city,
charged with the maintenance of her gardens at her villas in Coblenz.
The renters were very happy and amazed at the Fräulein’s
attentiveness.
Only Frieda Gontram used the path. She never spoke a word
about what she suspected but didn’t know. But her pinched lips and
her evasive glance spoke loudly enough. She avoided meeting him on
the path and yet was always there as soon as he was together with
Alraune.
“What the blazes,” he grumbled. “I wish she was on top of
mount Blocksberg!”
“Is she bothering you?” asked Alraune.
“Doesn’t she bother you?” he retorted.
She replied, “I haven’t noticed. I scarcely pay any attention to
her.”
That evening he encountered Frieda Gontram by the blossoming
blackthorns. She stood up from her bench and turned to go. Her gaze
held a hot hatred.
He went up to her, “What is it Frieda?”
She said, “Nothing!–You can be satisfied now. You will soon be
free of me.”
“Why is that?” he asked.
Her voice trembled, “I must go–tomorrow! Alraune told me that
you didn’t want me here.”
An infinite misery spoke out of her glance.
“You wait here, Frieda. I will speak with her.”
He hurried into the house and came back after a short time.
“We have thought it over,” he began, “Alraune and I. It is not
necessary that you go away–forever. Frieda, it’s only that I make you
nervous with my presence–and you do the same for me, excuse me for
saying it. That’s why it would be better if you go on a journey–only
for awhile. Travel to Davos to visit your brother. Come back in two
months.”
She stood up, looked at him with questioning eyes that were still
full of fear.
“Is that the truth?” she whispered. “Only for two months?”
He answered, “Certainly it’s true. Why should I lie Frieda?”
She gripped his hand; a great joy made her face glow.
“I am very grateful to you!” she said. “Everything is alright
then–as long as I am permitted to come back!”
She said, “Goodbye,” and headed for the house, stopped
suddenly and came back to him.
“There is something else, Herr Doctor,” she said. “Alraune gave
me a check this morning but I tore it up, because–because–in short, I
tore it up. Now I will need some money. I don’t want to go to her–she
would ask–and I don’t want her to ask. For that reason–will you give
me the money?”
He nodded, “Naturally I will–Am I permitted to ask why you
tore the check up?”
She looked at him, shrugged her shoulders.
“I wouldn’t have needed the money any more if I had to leave
her forever–”
“Frieda,” he pressed, “where would you have gone?”
“Where?” A bitter laugh rang out from her thin lips. “Where?
The same place Olga went! Only, believe me, doctor. I would have
achieved my goal!”
She nodded lightly to him, walked away and disappeared
between the birch trees.
Early, when the young sun woke him, he came out of his room in
his kimono, went into the garden along the path that led past the trellis
and into the rose bed. He cut white Boule de Neige roses, Queen
Catharine roses, Victoria roses, Snow Queen roses and Merveille de
Lyon roses. Then he turned left where the larches and the silver fir
trees stood.
Alraune sat on the edge of the pool in a black silk robe, breaking
breadcrumbs, throwing them to the goldfish. When he came she
twined a wreath out of the pale roses, quickly and skillfully making a
crown for her hair.
She threw off her robe, sat in her lace negligee and splashed in
the cool water with her naked feet–She scarcely spoke, but she
trembled as his fingers lightly caressed her neck, when his soft breath
caressed her cheek. Slowly she took off the negligee and laid it on the
bronze mermaid beside her.
Six water nymphs sat around the marble edge of the pool pouring
water out of jugs and urns, spraying thin streams out of their breasts.
Various animals crept around them, giant lobsters, spiny lobsters,
turtles, fish, eels and other reptiles. In the middle of the pool Triton
blew his horn as chubby faced merfolk blew mighty streams of water
high into the air around him.
“Come, my friend,” she said.
Then they both climbed into the water. It was very cold and he
shivered, his lips became blue and goose bumps quickly appeared on
his arms. He had to swim vigorously, beat his arms and tread water to
warm his blood and get accustomed to the unusual temperature.
But she didn’t even notice, was in her element in an instant and
laughing at him. She swam around like a little frog.
“Turn the faucet on!” she cried.
He did it. There, near the pool’s edge, by the statue of Galatea,
light waves came from the water as well as three other places in the
pool. They boiled up a little, growing stronger and higher, climbing
higher and higher, until they became enormous sparkling cascades of
silvery rain, higher than the spouting streams of the mermen.
There she stood between all four, in the middle of a shimmering
rain, like a sweet boy, slender and delicate. His long glance kissed
her. There was no blemish in the symmetry of her limbs, not the
slightest defect in this sweet work of art. Her color was in proportion
as well, like white marble with a light breath of yellow. Only the
insides of her thighs showed two curious rose colored lines.
“That’s where Dr. Petersen perished,” he thought.
He bent down, kneeled and kissed the rosy places.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
He said, “ I’m thinking that you are the fairy Melusine!–See the
little mermaids around us–they have no legs, only long, scaly fish
tails. They have no souls, these nymphs, but it is said that sometimes
they love a human, some fisherman or wandering knight.
They love him so much that they come out of the water at high
tide, out onto the land. Then they go to an old witch or shaman–that
brews some nasty potion they have to drink. Then the shaman takes a
sharp knife and begins to cut into the fish tail. It is very painful–very
painful, but Melusine suppresses her pain. Her love is so great that
she doesn’t complain, doesn’t cry out, until the pain becomes so great
she loses consciousness. But when she awakes–her little tail is gone
and she goes about on two beautiful legs–like a human–only the scars
where the shaman cut are still visible.”
“But wasn’t she always still a nymph?” she asked. “Even with
human legs?–And the sorcerer could never create a soul for her.”
“No,” he said. “He couldn’t do that, but there is something else
they say of nymphs.”
“What do they say?” she asked.
He explained, “She only has her strange power as long as she is
untouched. When she drowns in the kisses of her lover, when she
looses her maidenhood in her knight’s embrace–then she looses her
magic as well. She can no longer bring river gold and treasures but
the black sorrow that followed her can no longer cross her threshold
either. From then on she is like any other child of man–”
“If it only was!” she whispered.
She tore the white crown from her head, swam over to the
mermen and Triton, to the water nymphs and threw the rose blossoms
into their laps–
“Take them, sisters–take them!” she laughed. “I am a child of
man–”
An enormous canopy bed stood in Alraune’s bedroom on low,
baroque columns. Two pillars grew out of the foot and bore shelves
that shown with golden flames. The engraved sides showed Omphale
with Hercules in a woman’s dress as he waited on her, Perseus kissing
Andromeda, Hephaestus catching Ares and Aphrodite in his net–
Many tendrils of vines wove themselves in between and doves played
in them–along with winged cherubs. The magnificent ancient bed,
heavily gilt with gold, had been brought out of Lyons by Fräulein
Hortense de Monthy when she became his great-grandfather’s wife.
He saw Alraune standing on a chair at the head of the bed, a
heavy pliers in her hand.
“What are you doing with that?” he asked.
She laughed, “Just wait. I will soon be finished.”
She pounded and tore, carefully enough, at the golden figurine of
Amor that hovered at the head of the bed with his bow and arrow. She
pulled one nail out, then another, seized the little god, twisted him this
way and that–until he came loose. She grabbed him, jumped down,
laid him on top of the wardrobe, took out the Alraune manikin,
clambered back up onto the chair again with it and fastened it to the
head of the bed with wire and twine. Then she came back down and
looked critically at her work.

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

Taking leave of his mother the evening before
departure—he planned to stay at a hotel to avoid
disturbing her at night—she looked into his eyes.
“What’s wrong, Ernst?” she asked. “I think you’re
deeply in love…”
“Nonsense, Mother,” he replied.
She shook her head. “No, dear, you can’t deny
it… I see it. You’re changed. Why tell me nothing?”
Ernst Hugo felt it might’ve been better to confide
in her about his doom. But it was too late. He denied
it and tore himself away. On the journey, his unrest
grew worse. This passion had seized him like fate,
roaring through him, tearing him along, gnawing his
core with a vulture’s greedy beak. He yearned for
something good, wise, calm, but knew it was a land
he’d never reach. The train’s rattling rhythm fused
with him; he felt one with this raging beast, yet it
seemed they didn’t move, trapped in an endless
screw.
He traveled half the night.
Early morning brought him to Sankt Pölten. The
summer sun had risen, peering over the station’s
shoulder. Ernst Hugo paced, shivering. He glanced at
the officials’ apartment windows. A curtain stirred. A
hand with a watering can appeared, tending
flowerpots by an open window. He pictured a
bedroom filled with fresh night air, a bed of white
linen and lace, a blue silk coverlet. He clenched his
teeth, fists balled.
The express to Salzburg–Munich pulled in,
panting on the tracks. Doors clattered open and shut;
conductors scurried; sleepy waiters carried breakfast
coffee along the cars. Ernst Hugo ignored the bustle,
ensnared in his thoughts, wrestling them, unable to
break free. They attacked like wolves.
The station’s tumult ebbed. Conductors closed
doors, signaling each other… then three people burst
from the first-class waiting room, racing across the
tracks to the train. A broad-shouldered giant led,
carrying two bags, followed by a lady and a
gentleman… Ernst Hugo caught a fleeting glimpse.
An eternity later, a jolt: it was Helmina… Lorenz
ahead… and the man beside her, Fritz Gegely,
dressed as an Englishman in proper travel attire.
Later, studying psychology, Ernst Hugo saw this
moment as a case of delayed action between decision
and execution.
He lunged too late. A conductor had opened a
carriage door; the three boarded in frantic haste, and
the train began to move. It glided past Ernst Hugo, a
gray, blurring ribbon… a vast emptiness remained
where he stood. It heated from within, radiating
white-hot fury… seeping into him, swelling into
boundless rage.
So, Frau Helmina had run off with Herr Gegely,
poet of Marie Antoinette, the Heidelberg manuscript
thief. Splendid. What else could he think? They’d
boarded at the last moment to avoid interception.
Good that he’d seen them; he could at least tell
Ruprecht Helmina looked lively and eager. That was
all left for him to do.
Soon, his train departed. Ernst Hugo sat in his
corner, brimming with hate, fury, outrage, and
despair. Like a Leyden jar charged with electricity,
sparking at the slightest touch.
At Gars station, he asked two men who’d wired
for a carriage to let him ride to Vorderschluder. They
were taciturn, silently smoking, watching blue smoke
trails flutter into the kind summer morning. Ernst
Hugo squeezed into the opposite corner, hat over his
eyes, pretending to sleep.
At the Kamp bridge, he alighted, thanked them
hastily, and raced up the castle hill. He hurled his
question like a stone at the first person he met. Yes,
of course… the mistress had left… the Baron was in
the village. Ernst Hugo laughed scornfully and ran
back down. He kept seeing a bedroom filled with
fresh night air… Now he must find Frau Gegely,
fling his news in her face. Someone should writhe…
The Red Ox’s plump landlady filled the doorway
pleasantly. Nearby, three men conversed quietly.
Ernst Hugo recognized his carriage companions
and the Celt scholar he’d seen with Ruprecht. He
charged at the landlady.
“Is Frau Gegely upstairs?” he asked.
“Yes!” she replied, not budging from the door, as
if planted to guard.
“I must speak with her. I have to tell her
something.” He moved to rush past.
Schiereisen approached with a polite greeting. “I’d
ask you, Herr Secretary, not to go up now. The poor
woman…” That was the spark nearing the Leyden
jar. The discharge followed.
“I know… I know,” Hugo screamed, “but I must
tell you I saw them together. I saw them, understand?
It’ll please her when I tell them.”
Schiereisen gripped Hugo’s wrist firmly.
“Where?” he asked urgently.
“Where? Sankt Pölten… Salzburg express… and
so on… who knows… they’re off into the world.”
Ten clear chimes rang from the church tower.
Schiereisen released Hugo’s wrist and turned to his
companions. “Let’s go… to the telegraph office…”
His blue eyes gleamed like iron; his face, every
muscle, pulsed with resolve. “Now we’ll show what
we can do.”
As the three hurried off, Ernst Hugo collapsed,
shrinking… his fingers fumbled beside him; then he
turned, drifting slowly through a fog.
Ten days later, Schiereisen returned from his hunt
to Vorderschluder. His first stop was the castle. He
found Ruprecht with Hedwig in the garden. Her
wheelchair stood under a wild vine arbor.
Maurerwenzel slept in the arbor’s shade. Frau
Hedwig walked, leaning on Ruprecht’s arm and a
cane, slowly in bright sunlight. Two rose hedges
lined their path.
A miracle had occurred.
Schiereisen honored it by not mentioning it. He
doffed his hat, waiting until they turned and saw him.
Hedwig started… Schiereisen saw her grip
Ruprecht’s arm tighter.
“Herr Schiereisen is back,” Ruprecht murmured.
“Herr Schiereisen… will you hear him, Hedwig? …
It’s better…”
“No… no… I’ll hear him now. I must know.
Mustn’t I?” She put on a brave, resolute face.
“Well, then… if she wishes… You can speak,
Schiereisen. I’ve told her everything; she knows all.”
Schiereisen still held his hat. His broad skull
arched powerfully, eyes shadowed under strong
brows.
“Have you found a trace…?” Ruprecht asked, as
Schiereisen didn’t speak at once.
“They’re not yet caught, but they’re ours. They’re
still on the Atlantic.”
“And how did you…? Speak. See, we’re prepared
and can hear it all.”
“It wasn’t entirely easy… though they clearly
didn’t expect pursuit. They’d have been more
cautious otherwise. Why bore you with details? They
headed to Le Havre, after various zigzags that cost us
some effort.”
“And then they boarded a ship?”
“Yes… we arrived too late to stop them. But it’s
hard to hide today… wireless telegraphy, you know?
We sent a Marconi telegram at once, and they’ll
return on the next steamer.”
“Him too? Have you had him arrested as well?”
Schiereisen donned his Panama hat, his face now
shadowed. “No…” he said hesitantly, “not him…
why? We… please, stay calm, gracious lady. We
were too late… for your husband. It’s not our fault.”
“My God… what are you saying… he’s…”
“Yes… he met with misfortune, gracious lady. In
his hotel… they weren’t staying together, and
Helmina… likely to mislead any pursuers, if
followed… he took his own life in his room…
poisoned.”
Hedwig let out a soft cry and closed her eyes. So
this was the end.
“You don’t believe it, Schiereisen!” Ruprecht said
after a pause. He’d reflected, feeling unvarnished
truth would heal more than this notion, which he saw
spawning subtle torments of conscience for Hedwig.
“Tell us honestly what you think.”
“You’re right, Herr Baron! I don’t believe it. It
was all cleverly done. But Fritz Gegely had no reason
to kill himself. And… we know he withdrew nearly
his entire fortune from his Vienna bank. He carried it,
not wanting to transfer it to America and betray
himself. Well… all the money’s gone…”
Hedwig, shuddering with horror, threw herself
against Ruprecht’s chest. He stood still, his arms
gently, protectively around her neck. A freeing sob
rose from her depths, a releasing weep… her
trembling fingers calmed, nestling trustingly against
his shoulders. He looked straight ahead… gravely
into the future.
“Now we must face the trial…” he said softly,
“the trial and all that. We must…” He turned his gaze
to Schiereisen. “Tell Herr von Zaugg I’m ready to
vacate the castle anytime. Anytime! His claims are
sacred to me. I’ve always seen myself as a steward
here. I’ll stay as long as he wishes… to hand over the
estate in good order. Meanwhile, I’ll find something
in my homeland… ground that’s mine…” He bent to
Hedwig again.
She raised her head. Fear and horror lingered on
her pale face, but Schiereisen saw a timid tenderness
in Ruprecht’s gaze soften it all.
He turned and walked slowly from the castle
garden, past where Jana was found, through the gate
Helmina had fled. A certainty flowed in him like a
broad, calm river: these two were good and tightly
bound; no turmoil or pain, no upheaval ahead, could
shake their happiness, radiant with the future.
He paused on the bridge beside the stone John,
gazing into the water. And smiled…
One could forgo the bit of thanks perhaps earned.