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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.

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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.

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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.

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

Eighteenth Chapter
Ruprecht woke with uneasy feelings. The joyful
uplift of yesterday’s afternoon and evening had given
way to deep despondency. A heavy weight pressed
on him again. His talk with Schiereisen had rolled
boulders over his soul, blocking light and air. He saw
it was impossible to live alongside Helmina any
longer. Something must be done… but the worst was
not knowing what. Should he warn Helmina about
Schiereisen? That would make him complicit in her
crimes. Could he let Schiereisen continue his probe
and catch her unawares…? Should he let events
unfold, taking their outcome as divine judgment?
Tormented and drained, he went to breakfast.
Only the children and Miss Nelson were there. Sitting
across from the Englishwoman, he had a strange
sensation. As she sat—black, slender, composed,
ever equable—she seemed the axis of all events in
the castle. A link between poles, unmoving yet the
spine of all motion around her. With a surge, he
resolved to regain his composure.
He pushed back his chair and left to speak with
Helmina. The chambermaid said the mistress hadn’t
called for her. It was nearly eight; she should be up.
His knocks went unanswered. The door was locked.
Suddenly, as he stood with his ear to the wood, a
wedge drove into his mind. Ah… she played me, saw
through Schiereisen, knew of my talk with the
detective yesterday—she’s fled! He stood motionless
a moment, then called old Johann, ordering a
crowbar, pickaxe, or similar tool.
Until the servant returned, Ruprecht stood like a
sentinel before the door. His composure returned; his
nerves relayed clear sensations, his thoughts focused
on the immediate.
Johann brought a pickaxe. Ruprecht wedged its
blade into the door’s lower gap, pressed it firm, and
with one heave, tore the door from its hinges,
crashing it into the room. Johann followed, horrified.
Helmina was gone. Her bed untouched. The
window open, morning sunlight on white pillows and
blue silk coverlet. Ruprecht searched the room… no
letter, no explanation.
Behind him stood an old man, broken, swaying,
crushed by a temple’s sudden collapse.
Schiereisen entered. Ruprecht turned, and one
glance at the detective’s face grasped the event’s
meaning. “You can go, Johann,” he said. “Tell the
staff the mistress has left.”
When Johann was gone, Ruprecht approached
Schiereisen. “You already know what’s happened?”
The detective nodded. “Yes… I know. I was
present at your wife’s departure. Uninvited, of
course.”
“You saw Helmina? You were there? I don’t
understand… and you didn’t arrest her? Why didn’t
you stop her? You suspect her gravely…”
“Yes… you see, Herr Baron, I could’ve detained
her. Perhaps! Certainly! I was about to… but I didn’t.
Why? I’m proud to be your friend, Herr Baron.”
“For my sake?”
“Yes… it wasn’t entirely dutiful… but perhaps
aligns with my duty. I’m here on behalf of Herr Peter
Franz von Zaugg, the late Herr Dankwardt’s brother-
in-law. His main concern is proving Frau Helmina
seized the deceased’s assets through a crime, to
renew certain inheritance claims. I’ve fulfilled that
commission as far as possible. But I also have a duty
to the public—to neutralize dangerous criminals like
your wife and Lorenz. I’ll fulfill that too. But for you,
I delayed it.”
“Delayed? You’ll still pursue Helmina?”
“Yes. I’ve given her a head start. By ten, two of
my agency’s men arrive. At ten, I’ll take up Frau
Helmina’s trail. Chance, luck, or my skill will decide.
I’ll do everything to apprehend her then.
Relentlessly! But I had to give her that head start… I
owed it to our friendship… I know you love this
woman.”
“You’re mistaken,” Ruprecht said calmly. “I no
longer love her. But I couldn’t betray her. You’ll
agree…”
Schiereisen studied Ruprecht’s face. “So,” he said
slowly, “you don’t love Helmina anymore… well,
then…”
“Did you know of her escape plan?”
“No… it was an intuition. I hear a noise in the
night, like someone rattling a door. My senses are
sharp in such hours. I hear it, leap to the garden
door… I see someone tampering with the small tower
gate… my instinct was to seize them. I creep along
the walls, but before I reach it, the door opens…
someone slips out. I rush forward… it’s Helmina.”
“You were in the castle last night?”
“Yes… I was in the castle.”
Before Ruprecht’s eyes flickered a
cinematograph’s chase again. He steadied himself,
adjusted a lever, and focused. “You searched?”
“And found,” Schiereisen replied calmly.
Ruprecht flinched.
“Yes… I got to the secret’s core,” Schiereisen
continued. “I finally did the obvious, what I
should’ve done long ago. The simplest, most
necessary things come last. Last night, I entered the
old tower, where all events pointed.”
Ruprecht gripped the bedpost’s knob with an iron
fist, silent.
“I see you know what I found,” Schiereisen said.
“It wasn’t easy. Jérome Rotrehl helped mightily. You
may know there’s an opening high in the tower. We
climbed in. It was fascinating. The tower’s filled with
rubble, always risking being crushed. Recently, many
obstacles were added. We crawled under a stone slab
balanced on its edge. A fingertip’s touch, and it falls.
A perfect mousetrap. But we pressed deeper. Finally,
we reached a vault far below. Nothing there. I wasn’t
fooled. We searched on, finding the hiding place—
carefully crafted, like Egyptian kings’ tomb
chambers… Yes, there were bodies to hide. Three.
You understand. Caustic lime was used, recently…
well, let’s leave it. We know why Jana ‘met with
misfortune,’ don’t we? I’d reached my goal. Then…
discovering Helmina’s flight… was a bonus.”
“And you let her escape… what can I say…” The
bedpost creaked in Ruprecht’s grip.
Schiereisen placed a hand on his shoulder, his
gaze kind and concerned. “You know,” he said with a
half-smile, “at first I thought… well, I wouldn’t have
been surprised if you’d warned Helmina.”
“I said nothing of our talk.”
Schiereisen nodded. “I know. It was clear the
moment I reached the gate. You told her nothing! Her
flight was long planned. A stranger waited for her
outside.”
“Lorenz!”
“No! Lorenz was below, with a car. It was
another.”
Ruprecht stood firm, his gaze steady. He asked
sharply, demandingly.
“I hope you’re not mistaken, that you no longer
love Helmina,” Schiereisen said. “If that’s true, it’s
good for you. The man who waited was Fritz Gegely.
He fled with her—”
“Fritz Gegely!” Ruprecht said. The connection
eluded him at first, then one thought pushed through
the chaos… “I must go to her… he’s gone… I must
go to her…” He ran off, grabbed his hat, and raced
down the stairs.
Schiereisen kept pace. Ruprecht’s sudden
unraveling, his composure shattered, made the
detective feel he couldn’t leave him alone. He had no
explanation.
Halfway, on the bridge, a messenger met
Ruprecht, summoning him to Hedwig. The Red Ox
chambermaid was distraught, stammering her
message. Her outrage matched her pity for the
abandoned woman, knotting within her. Men were
such vile scum, and Schorsch would hear it today.
Hedwig lay pale in her wheelchair by the open
window, bathed in morning sunlight, her hands
covering a paper. She turned toward the door, a halo
around her light hair.
Ruprecht seized her hand. “Hedwig!” he said,
voice trembling from deep within.
“Yes!” she replied, no further words needed
between them. She handed him the letter Fritz Gegely
had left.
Ruprecht read: “I may bring grief and pain upon
you, my Hedwig, yes, I know, but I cannot do
otherwise. Don’t judge me; try to understand. A new
love has entered my life, a new sun has risen, I must
chart a new course. I must… it’s more compelling
than death. I find it unworthy of an honest man to
hide what the brutality of events makes all too clear: I
could no longer bear life with you. I loved you, you
know that. But now life tears me from you. Life and
my great duty to myself. I am an upright man, great
strength is in me, but by your side, I couldn’t stay
upright, my flight couldn’t soar. I feel my creative
force fading. My Marie Antoinette would’ve been my
only work. I can’t endure that. Your presence is a
constant reminder of humiliation. I must find another
world, free of these reminders. I must fly again. I’ve
been told you’ve rekindled an old friendship. That
eases my parting. I know you have solace. Farewell.”
Ruprecht placed the letter back on the blanket over
Hedwig’s knees. She looked up at him, resigned to
her fate, more bewildered than outraged or sad.
Schiereisen quietly left the room. He knew enough
now; a great relief washed over him. The plump
landlady stopped him outside with indignant
questions and exclamations. Word had spread that
Helmina had vanished, and wild speculations raced.
A carriage rolled down the village street, stopping at
the Red Ox. Two strangers alighted and greeted
Schiereisen. “You’re punctual, thank you,” the
detective said. “We’ll begin at once.”
Ernst Hugo had rushed through his visit to his
elderly mother in Linz. She found little joy in her son
this time. He was restless, irritable, his thoughts
elsewhere.
Her small concerns—Linzer
acquaintances, relatives—were mere annoyances, and
he struggled to feign interest in her tales of
engagements, financial losses, and wayward sons.
What was happening in Vorderschluder? He’d left
the field to another for forty-eight hours. A few
vacation days remained, then duty’s jaws would
swallow him. He couldn’t imagine how he’d cope,
already losing his mind after two days away. He and
Helmina must reach a decision before he returned to
Vienna. Fritz Gegely was an intruder on prior claims,
shifting love’s boundaries. He had to be neutralized.
Ernst Hugo resolved to cast aside decorum and
expose the Heidelberg theft.

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

She looked at him sharply.
“Really?” she said, drawing each word out slowly. “And just
what is it that you think would be worth my effort?”
He didn’t respond–Didn’t have any answer at the moment.
He stood up, shrugged his shoulders and went into the garden.
Her laughter sounded behind him.
“In a bad mood, Herr Guardian?”
That afternoon he sat in the library. Some documents lay in front
of him that Attorney Manasse had sent over yesterday. But he didn’t
read them. He stared into the air, hurriedly smoking one cigarette after
the other.
Then he opened a desk drawer and once more took out the Privy
Councilor’s leather bound volume. He read slowly and carefully,
considering every little incident.
There was a knock; the chauffeur quickly stepped inside.
“Herr Doctor,” he cried. “Princess Wolkonski is here. She is very
upset, screamed for the Fräulein while she was still in her carriage.
We thought that perhaps it might be better if you received her first–So
Aloys is bringing her here right now.”
“Well done!” he said. He sprang up and went to meet the
princess. With great effort she squeezed through the narrow door and
waltzed her heavy masses into the half darkened hall, which was lit
only by the sparse sunlight that came through the green Venetian
blinds.
“Where is she?” she panted. “Where is the Fräulein?”
He took her hand and led her over to the divan. She recognized
him immediately and called him by name, but had no intention of
getting into a conversation with him.
“I want to see Fräulein Alraune,” she cried. “Bring the Fräulein
here!”
She would not calm down until he rang the servant and
instructed him to announce the visit of the princess. Then, for the first
time, she consented to listen to him.
He asked after the health of her child and the princess related to
him, in an immense flood of words, how she had met with her
daughter. Not once had she recognized her own mother, had simply
sat by the window looking out into the garden, passive and listless.
It had been in the old Privy Councilor’s clinic, that fraud, which
Professor Dalberg had now turned into an insane asylum, the same
building where–
He interrupted her, cutting short her flood of words. He quickly
grabbed her hand, bent over it and looked with simulated interest at
her rings.
“Excuse me, your Highness,” he cried quickly. “Where did you
ever get this marvelous emerald? Definitely a showcase piece!”
“It was a button from the Magnate’s beret of my first husband,”
she replied. “It’s an old heirloom.”
She prepared to continue her tirade, but he didn’t let her get a
word in.
“It is a stone of uncommon purity!” he affirmed. “And of
remarkable size! I only once saw a similar one, in the royal stud of the
Maharajah of Rolinkore–He had it set into his favorite horse’s left
eye. For the right it carried a Burmese ruby that was only a little
smaller.”
Then he told of the hobby of Indian princes, how they gouged
out the eyes of their beautiful horses and replaced them with glass
eyes or large round highly polished stones.
“It sounds cruel,” he said. “But I assure you, your Highness. The
effect is amazing when you see such a magnificent animal, when they
stare at you with Alexandrite eyes, or glance at you out of deep blue
sapphires.”
Then he spoke of precious stones, remembering from his student
days that she knew quite a bit about jewels and pearls. It was the only
thing she was really interested in. She gave him answers, at first
quickly and briefly, then became calmer with every minute.
She pulled off her rings, showed them to him one after the other,
telling him a little story about each one. He nodded attentively.
“Now let my cousin come,” he thought. “The first storm is over.”
But he was wrong. Alraune had soundlessly come through the
door, walked softly across the carpet and set herself down in the easy
chair right across from them.
“I am so happy to see you, your Highness,” she piped.
The princess cried out and gasped for breath, crossed herself,
then a second time, in the Orthodox manner.
“There she is,” she moaned. “There she sits!”
“Yes,” laughed Alraune, “alive and breathing!”
She stood up and reached her hand out to the princess.
“I am so sorry,” she continued. “My sympathies, your
Highness!”
The princess didn’t take her hand. She was speechless for a
minute, struggled for composure–Then she found herself again.
“I don’t need your sympathy!” she cried. “I have something to
say to you!”
Alraune sat back down, waved lightly with her hand.
“Please speak, your Highness.”
The princess began. Did the Fräulein know that she had lost her
fortune through the machinations of his Excellency? But yes,
naturally she knew. The gentlemen had explained every detail to her,
explained what she had to do–But she had refused to fulfill her
obligation.
Did she know what had happened to her daughter? She explained
how she had found her in the asylum and what the doctor’s opinion
was. She became more excited, her voice swelled, becoming higher
and more shrieking.
She knew all of that, declared Alraune calmly.
The princess asked, what was she now intending to do? Did she
intend to walk in the same dirty footsteps of her father? Oh, there was
a fine scoundrel. You couldn’t find a finer or more cunning
blackguard in any book. Now he had his just reward.
She continued screaming and yelling about his Excellency,
saying everything that came to her tongue–She screamed that Olga’s
sudden attack had been because of the failure of her mission and not
wanting to come back. Alraune had made things worse by enticing
her friend of many long years away from her.
She believed that if the Fräulein would now help, not only would
her fortune be saved, but her child as well, when she heard the news.
‘I’m not asking,” she screamed. “I’m demanding! I demand what
is rightfully mine. You have done this wrong, you, my own Godchild,
and your father. Now make it right again, as much as you possibly
can–It is a shame that I must be the first to tell you this–But you will
have it no other way.”
“What is there left to save?” Alraune said softly. “As far as I
know, the bank collapsed three days ago. Your money is gone, your
Highness!”
She stressed the ‘gone’–You could hear the bank notes fluttering
in all directions.
“That doesn’t matter,” declared the princess. “The Legal
Councilor told me that almost twelve million of my money was
invested into that rotten bank. You will simply give me those twelve
million out of your own money. That will be nothing to you–I know
that very well!”
“Is that all?” said Fräulein ten Brinken. “Are there any more
commands, your Highness!”
“Many more,” cried the princess. “You will inform Fräulein
Gontram that she is to leave your house immediately. She will go with
me to my poor daughter. I promised to bring her along the next time I
came. Especially now, so she can share the news that this sad
misfortune has been made right. It will have a very good effect on the
countess–Perhaps a sudden recovery.
I won’t reproach Fräulein Gontram in any way over her
ungrateful behavior or continue pointing out your own behavior to
you. I only wish this affair to be settled immediately.”
She fell silent, took a deep breath after the tremendous exertion
of her long speech. She took her handkerchief, fanned herself, and
wiped the thick drops of sweat that beaded on her bright red face.
Alraune stood up briefly, made a slight bow.
“Your Highness is too gracious,” she piped.
Then she remained quiet.
The princess waited awhile, then finally asked, “Well?”
“Well?” the Fräulein came back in the same tone of voice.
“I’m waiting, –” cried the princess.
“So am I, – ” said Alraune.
Princess Wolkonski moved back and forth on the divan, whose
old springs sagged heavily under her weight. The way she was
pressed into her mighty corset, which even now formed the huge
masses into some type of shape, made it difficult for her to breath or
even move. Her breath came short and unconsciously her thick tongue
licked her dry lips.
“May I be permitted to have a glass of water brought for you,
your Highness?” twittered the Fräulein.
She acted as if she had not heard.
“What do you intend to do now?” she asked solemnly.
Alraune spoke with infinite simplicity, “Absolutely nothing.”
The old princess stared at her with round cow eyes, as if she
could not comprehend what the young thing meant. She stood up,
confused, took a few steps, looked around as if she were searching for
something.
Frank Braun stood up, took the carafe of water from the table,
filled a glass and gave it to her. She drank it greedily.
Alraune stood up as well.
“I beg to be excused, your Highness,” she said. “May I be
permitted to convey your greetings to Fräulein Gontram?”
The princess went up to her, seething, full of repressed anger.
Now she is going to burst, thought Frank Braun.
But she couldn’t find the words, searched in vain for a
beginning.
“Tell her,” she panted. “Tell her that I never want to lay eyes on
her again! She is no better a woman than you are!”
She stamped with heavy steps through the hall, gasping,
sweating, and waving her mighty arms in the air. Then her glance fell
on the open drawer. She saw the necklace that she had once given her
Godchild, a gold chain with pearls and set with diamonds around the
fiery lock of the mother’s hair. A triumphant look of hatred flew over
her bloated features. She quickly tore the necklace out of the drawer.
“Do you know what this is?” she screamed.
“No,” said Alraune calmly. “I’ve never seen it before.”
The princess stepped up right in front of her.
“So that scoundrel of a Privy Councilor embezzled it from you–
just like him! It was my present to you, Alraune, as my god-child!”
“Thank you,” said the Fräulein. “The pearls are very pretty, and
the diamonds too–if they are real.”
“They are real,” screamed the princess. “Like this hair that I cut
from your mother!”
She threw the necklace into the Fräulein’s lap. Alraune took the
unusual piece of jewelry, weighed it thoughtfully in her hand.
“My–mother?” she said slowly. “It appears that my mother had
very beautiful hair.”
The princess placed herself solidly in front of her, putting both
hands solidly on her hips. She was matter of fact, like a
washerwoman.
“Very beautiful hair,” she laughed. “Very beautiful! So beautiful
that all the men ran after her and paid an entire Mark for one night’s
sleep with her beautiful hair!”
The Fräulein sprang up. The blood drained out of her face in an
instant, but she quickly laughed again and said calmly and scornfully:
“You are getting old, your Highness, old and childish.”
That was the end. Now there was no going back for the princess.
She broke loose with ordinary, infinitely vulgar language like a
drunken Bordello Madam. She screamed, howled and obscene filth
poured out of her mouth.
Alraune’s mother was a whore, one of the lowest kind, who gave
herself away for a Mark and her father was a miserable rapist and
murderer whose name was Noerrissen. She knew all about it. The
Privy Councilor had paid the prostitute money and purchased her for
his vile experiment, had inseminated her with the semen of the
executed criminal. That was how Alraune had been created and she,
herself, had injected the loathsome semen into Alraune’s mother.
She, Alraune, the stinking fruit of that experiment, was sitting
there now–right in front of her!–A murderer’s daughter and a
prostitute’s child!
That was her revenge. She went out triumphant, with light steps,
swollen with the pride of a victory that made her ten years younger.
She slammed the door loudly as she closed it.
Now it was quiet in the large library. Alraune sat in her chair, a
little pale. Her hands played nervously with the necklace, faint
movements played around the corners of her mouth. Finally she stood
up.
“Stupid stuff,” she whispered.
She took a few steps, then calmed herself and stepped back up to
her cousin.
“Is it true, Frank Braun?” she asked.
He hesitated a moment, stood up and said slowly:
“I believe that it is true.”
He stepped over to the writing desk, took up the leather bound
volume and handed it to her.
“Read this,” he said.
She didn’t speak a word, turned to go.
“Take this too,” he cried after her and handed her the dice cup
that had been fashioned out of her mother’s skull and the dice that had
been created out of her father’s bones.

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

Waking in a glorious resolve, sweat-soaked, he heard
fists pounding his door.
He stood in the doorway, shirt flapping, blinded
by a lantern’s glare. Someone ordered him to rise
quickly, speaking of a ladder, ropes, a pickaxe, and a
shovel from the tool shed behind the house. It
might’ve been Schiereisen. He had to dress; it
seemed urgent. When Rotrehl was ready and
Schiereisen explained the task, he wasn’t overly
surprised. It felt like a continuation of his
adventurous dreams, his mind brimming with
Cossacks and battle scenes, making him eager to
follow. Soon, they descended the hill, armed with
ladder, ropes, pickaxe, and shovel, like treasure
hunters or conjurers, cloaked in night’s mantle.
Stars began to adorn that mantle. Clouds had
cleared, and the night grew bright. Warm mist rose
from wet grass, spreading a thin, white fog over the
meadows. Midnight had long passed; in the east,
night’s veils thinned, stars peering large and anxious
through dawn’s weave. Light welled from the earth.
At her bedroom window, Helmina stood in a gray
travel dress, a small handbag ready. She sometimes
brushed her forehead, turning to check if the sounds
she heard were in her ears and blood or from outside.
At times, she thought someone approached along the
corridor, pausing at her door. Then she heard
breathing—the breath of sleepers, a whole castle
asleep while she alone watched, ready to flee. Short,
quick breaths stood out, those of children in their
beds. For a moment, Helmina distinguished them,
then they merged back into the collective slumber’s
weave. She made no effort to hear them again.
Motherly tenderness was alien to her; her soul knew
nothing of it. She preferred solitude, connected to
others only through her senses. She stared into a new
world, seeking the extraordinary. Was it power, a
searing, ruinous, blissful passion? She didn’t know. It
flowed darkly within her, driving her, and she yielded
without resistance. Sometimes, she felt not herself
but part of a cruel force spilling over the world…
She stood thus for two hours, staring at the bridge
deep in shadow, awaiting the signal. Her mocking
lips grew thinner, pressed tighter. Perhaps Fritz
Gegely wouldn’t come. Maybe he’d only boasted,
shirking the deed, and she’d have to leave without
him. He was merely a bridge, but if he failed her,
after so many defeats, she’d be utterly crushed. This
waiting was unbearable. Lorenz would be furious.
Time slipped away; they could’ve been far gone.
Half an hour more. Then Helmina must leave,
with or without Gegely.
But the signal came. On the bridge, an electric
lighter flashed thrice, three seconds each, like a
firefly. Helmina grabbed her bag, glancing around the
room. She left not as a victor… only her hate
remained.
Cautiously, she stepped out, unlocked a secret
door in the corridor, and descended a narrow, musty
staircase to the forecourt. It was safer; someone
might be on the main stairs. She crept across the
courtyard to the gate tower, opening the small door in
the large gate. It wouldn’t budge at first, rarely used
and swollen. She yanked the lock with all her
strength, tearing her delicate gloves.
Finally, she slipped out, leaving the door ajar.
Gegely stood under the chestnut trees.
“Where were you so long?” she asked, furious.
“Forgive me… she couldn’t sleep… I had to
wait… only a quarter-hour ago…”
“Forward!”
They were halfway down the castle hill when the
gate was flung open. Schiereisen leapt out, followed
by Jérome Rotrehl, clutching rope and spade as if
someone had thrust them into his hands and fled.
Both men’s faces, hands, and clothes were smeared
with mud, crusted with clay, speckled with white
patches of lime or mortar.
Schiereisen saw the two figures vanish into the
early morning’s dusk at the chestnut alley’s end.
They ran along the road, and soon he heard a
sound—a nerve-shredding, whipping noise, the
sputter of a car readying to drive. It drummed into the
dawn’s silence, like handfuls of peas hurled against
this glassy hour.
Schiereisen gauged the distance from the alley’s
mouth. He sprinted down the hill, first driven to
pursue, to halt the fugitives. Near the bottom, he
stopped abruptly, planting his feet, fists in his
pockets. No—she should flee.
The car’s starting roar sounded. Good… it’s
right… He finished his descent slowly, regulating his
breath with closed lips. On the bridge, the car was
gone. He broke into a trot, wanting to confirm who
Helmina fled with. The road stretched through the
valley, rising in wide curves to the highlands. A
steep, direct climb could cut off its loops.
Schiereisen plunged into the woods, scrambling
between trees, hooking from one to another at steep
spots. His lungs expanded, filling his chest, pushing
his heart to his throat. Sweat poured from his brow,
carving furrows through mud and grime, mixing a
sticky paste that tightened his skin. Several times, he
felt he couldn’t go on. But his immense resilience
drove him, making the impossible possible.
He reached the forest’s edge, where he’d first met
Helmina, standing in dense shrubs, their dampness
cloaking his steaming body. For a moment, all was
still, branches swaying softly. Seconds passed. Then
the car’s sputter burst in, sudden, as it rounded a
sound-catching forest bend.
Schiereisen knew he could’ve stopped it—
stepping into the road, Browning raised, an effective
warrant. But he stayed hidden.
The car roared up, shooting around the final curve,
snorting, racing uphill at full power… gone ten
heartbeats later. Schiereisen saw its occupants
clearly: Helmina, Herr Gegely—husband of the sick
woman—and Lorenz at the wheel.
The detective began his return. Near the house, he
met Rotrehl, lugging the gear alone. Seeing his
summer guest, the violin-maker stopped, staring. His
mind was saturated with the past hours’ events,
unable to grasp more. Bewilderment wrapped him in
soft veils. He could only shake his head.
“Come, Napoleon,” Schiereisen said, taking the
ladder. “Don’t think we’ve lost the battle. We’ll sleep
a little now. Later, I’ll explain everything.”

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

What should Ruprecht reply? Her words didn’t
wound him, for he knew Hedwig was on the path to
health. That was a secret for him alone. So he only
nodded to Helmina and left the room.
Schiereisen had spent the afternoon on the small
bench outside Rotrehl’s house. He’d spread out all
his notes, reviewing his reasoning. When the rain
began, he gathered his papers and wrapped himself in
his waterproof loden coat. He let the water stream
down, only retreating to his room when the coat’s
hems grew heavy with damp.
What would happen now? The decision loomed. If
Ruprecht spoke, all efforts might be for naught. It
was almost certain he would. Lorenz had already
slipped away; Helmina would likely try to escape too.
Could he allow that? His duty was to detain her, but
he lacked direct evidence against her. Still, this night
must be used. He wrote a detailed letter to Herr Peter
Franz von Zaugg, delivered it to the post himself that
evening, and sent two coded telegrams—one to the
prosecutor’s office, one to his agency. Then he dined
at the Red Ox. The landlady mentioned Fritz Gegely
and his wife had been invited to the castle. That was
the poet with the sick wife, whose connection to the
castle lords he’d observed before leaving.
Pensively picking his teeth, he walked the village
street. The ground was soft from rain. At a large
puddle, Mathes Dreiseidel stood with the head
teacher, discussing politics sagely. Schiereisen saw
Dreiseidel’s urge to draw him in and kept to this side
of the water. He crossed the bridge and climbed the
castle hill under the deep shade of chestnut trees. The
rain had stopped, but drops fell from the branches,
some sliding coldly down his collar, jarring his
nerves.
The castle windows still glowed. Schiereisen
decided to wait. He wore his yellow overcoat, the
winter one being damp, and buttoned up, leaning
against a tree trunk. Two hours passed. Schiereisen
waited calmly, unsure what for. At career peaks, after
completing preparations, he surrendered to intuition.
A voice must call, a light must flare, illuminating his
path. Impatience was foreign to him.
When voices and a carriage’s rumble sounded in
the courtyard, he retreated deeper into shadow. The
heavy gate opened, clanging against the wall. A
carriage emerged, brakes grinding down the hill.
Three people sat within—the Gegelys and another,
perhaps the Major, part of their circle.
The gate closed, but Schiereisen didn’t hear it
lock. The sleepy gatekeeper, loath to rise again when
the carriage returned, left the task to the driver.
Schiereisen waited, then opened the gate a crack
and slipped inside. The outbuildings were dark; only
the overseer’s apartment showed light, now
extinguished. Only the main building stayed awake.
Above dark roofs, the sky slowly brightened.
Schiereisen crossed the courtyard silently, senses
sharp, each impression vivid and swiftly processed.
Sleeping and waking people, stone blocks, courtyard
walls—they merged into his being, parts of his skin.
He passed under the main building’s archway to
the inner courtyard. Below were the servants’
quarters. There was Lorenz’s former room. Opposite,
a dim light burned where old Marianne, the
madwoman who spent nights praying and singing,
was housed. She was awake. A murmur crept across
the courtyard, simmering around Schiereisen’s ears.
He decided to see what the old woman was doing.
Suddenly, he froze.
How could all his cunning, experience, and
caution have overlooked this? How far was he from
mastery in his craft, neglecting such a crucial detail?
He’d searched everywhere, yet ignored this old
woman. Now, intuition struck. Hadn’t Johann said
she was a Moreno heirloom, inherited by Helmina’s
first husband? She’d lived here since Helmina
arrived, witnessing all events. Her madness emerged
under Dankwardt. How had Schiereisen failed to
probe its roots? She’d once been quiet, content with
small chores for the modest keep the last Moreno
secured her. What if her simple mind was later
shattered by something horrific, a dread, an unwitting
knowledge of a secret too heavy?
A shrill scream burst from the window, followed
by babbling clamor. Schiereisen hurried over. Red
curtains covered the lower window, but on tiptoe, he
could peer inside. Old Marianne knelt before her
table, her headscarf slipped back, gray-yellow hair
tangled, strands writhing like battling snakes. She
struck her forehead against the table’s edge, crying,
“Oh, Lamb of God, who takes away the world’s
sins!”
On the table stood a crucifix and three burning
candles, their flames flinching and flaring with each
forehead strike.
“Oh, Lamb of God, who takes away the world’s
sins!” she repeated countless times. Then she calmed,
murmuring softly. Her forehead rested on the table’s
edge, her arms, once flailing beneath, now crossed
over her chest. She rose, lifting one knee, then the
other, pulling herself up by the table.
Schiereisen saw her face for the first time. It
wasn’t contorted but wholly consumed by one
thought. This poor, muddled mind held room for
nothing else. She took the three candles and moved to
the door.
Schiereisen hurried behind a pillar to hide. He
watched her emerge and cross the courtyard, carrying
the candles in her left hand, her right shielding the
flames. Silently, he followed through the archway,
along the main building’s wall to the park gate. The
rusty grille creaked like night birds with sharp beaks
eyeing living prey. The candles’ glow dazzled,
revealing only path fragments. They passed rubble
and wet shrubs. Schiereisen couldn’t avoid rustling
bushes or snapping twigs, but the old woman seemed
deaf, pressing forward. Massive stone blocks loomed
from the dark. The tower… Schiereisen thought. She
stopped, shone the light up the wall, and crouched
before a flat stone, fixing her candles to it. She
poured melted wax onto a smooth spot, pressing each
candle’s base into it. Clumps of wax showed this
stone had often served this strange rite.
She knelt before the burning candles, seeming to
pray. Her back hunched, head bowed low, the dirty
yellow-brown pattern of her jacket lit by the glow.
Schiereisen stood behind her, part of the
darkness—formless, chaotic, lingering in torpid
waiting, indifferent to time and space. But the old
woman stayed motionless; nothing more happened.
He spurred himself; the night couldn’t be wasted.
Stepping forward, he touched her shoulder.
“What’re you doing, little mother?”
She turned, unstartled, only peeved at the
interruption. “Be quiet… the three are inside. They
don’t sleep. They wander, banging their heads on the
wall. Three candles: one for each. Three candles for
the poor souls in purgatory.”
“Who’s inside?” Schiereisen asked kindly, patting
her back.
“Oh, no, I won’t tell you,” she replied earnestly.
“No one must know who they are. If I speak, they’ll
come out, eat and drink as if nothing happened, and
live again. That mustn’t be. She won’t allow it.”
“Yes, the gracious lady is strict. We mustn’t do
what she forbids.”
With a look of great fear, the old woman spread
her thin arms. “No… no… she won’t allow it, they
must stay there. Otherwise, Lorenz comes and beats
me. He has a rubber stick; he hits my head with it. I
must watch and pray.”
“You’re right,” Schiereisen said. “Keep praying.”
“Prayer can do all. Prayer seals the hole so they
can’t get out. Prayer is the wax of the pious, sealing
entrance and exit.” She lifted her head, gazing at the
damp stone blocks.
Schiereisen saw, above, between treetops at the
edge of the candlelight, a dark hole in the tower.
Good, he thought, this night must be used.
The old woman had lowered her head again,
resuming her prayers. Schiereisen left her
undisturbed, crashing through the bushes. He
followed the garden wall until he reached a spot
where elderberry shrubs and rubble made climbing
possible. He slid down the outer side, heedless of his
yellow overcoat, its buttons tearing off. Then he
raced down the castle hill, across the bridge, and up
the slope to Rotrehl’s house.
Rotrehl was dreaming of crossing the Beresina,
fleeing in a sleigh from a horde of Cossacks with
long lances and blood-red tongues lolling like
hunting dogs. His sleigh wouldn’t budge; leaning
forward, he saw its runners were cardboard, softened
and collapsing in the snow. Cannon booms thundered
ahead—boom, boom, boom! The enemy had cut him
off, guns ready. Nothing remained but to die a hero.

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