Anarchistbanjo's World

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

She laughed hysterically and then looked at Janina with wild hate, but only a moment… 

“You naturally did not know that he was married… How he lies, ha, ha, ha, how he lies…” 

Suddenly Janina’s strength left her. She threw herself on the bed and sobbed. 

Isa became very serious; she stood up. 

“Did I insult you?” she asked coldly. 

But she expected no answer, she went to the bed end where the little one lay, looked at him attentively and then stood in the middle of the room. 

“But don’t cry. I did not want to insult you… How beautiful the child is! And you have no guilt… You are only a small, weak girl.” 

And again she began to laugh. 

Strange that you have a child… How old are you actually? Eighteen? Nineteen? Well, farewell and don’t cry. He will come back, he will come, she raged… I will drive him back to you, immediately—immediately… 

“Don’t torment me!” Janina suddenly cried out. 

“Torment? Torment? Ha, ha, ha… I will send him here immediately… tout de suite, tout de suite…” 

On the street she stood for a long time. 

A few street boys went past her, laughed impudently at her and threw obscene words at her. 

She looked around timidly and began to go, quick, senselessly quick… “Only not back, only not back, only not back to the liar,” 

she murmured softly to herself. 

“But my God! what disgusting people live here! Why do you harass me, why do you push me then? What did I do to you?” 

She gnashed her teeth in impotent rage. 

Suddenly she felt a violent pain. A fellow had run into her and brutally pushed her aside so that she almost fell. 

The pain brought her to consciousness. 

She began to go slowly, kept close to the wall, she became anxious like a small child, a crying cramp worked its way up in her with all strength, she choked it down with difficulty, but could not prevent the tears from running unstoppably over her cheeks.  

Then she came to an empty square, sat down on a bench and calmed herself. And only now everything flew through her brain with visionary clarity and a wild pain began to rage in her. She lost her senses. 

And in the moment she collected herself. Geißler will give money. Only away, far, far away from him, Geißler will give money, Geißler, Geißler she repeated incessantly. 

She got into a cab and gave Geißler’s address. 

The pain raged ever wilder… As if a hell had been unleashed in her… Ha, ha, ha… Mais non, pas du tout; je suis au contraire tres enchantée… très enchantée… These big letters: Isak Isaksohn… No, how comical! Isak Isaksohn… Ha, ha, ha… Falk is a genius. He must improve the race, it is his duty, his duty… Here I can buy fabrics—Friedrichstraße 183, and yes, what was his name? Isak Isaksohn and Friedrichstraße 183… 

Then she suddenly felt an unspeakable disgust. The person took her, with the same hands he embraced her as the girl there—with the same mouth he kissed her… 

She shook herself. A morbid rage overcame her, it became unbearably tight to her, she would have liked to tear her clothes apart. The disgust choked her ever more violently. 

Why did he not drag the woman into my bed?! Ha, ha, ha… He should have done it before my eyes… 

She could no longer control herself. She cramped and crawled into herself and stretched up again, she felt an unbearable pain in the breast, in the head, everywhere, everywhere… 

Oh que j’ai mal, que j’ai mal… Mon Dieu, que jai mal! 

When she entered Geißler’s room, she was seized by a sudden cheerfulness. 

“How well you look at me! You are like a small, shy boy… Ha, ha, ha… And you have such a beautiful, soft coat… Well, don’t look at me as if I fell from heaven… I am after all Erik Falk’s legally, legally you understand? on the Mairie of the fifteenth arrondissement in Paris legally married wife…” 

She laughed heartily. 

Geißler looked at her astonished. But since she laughed so heartily, he laughed with. 

“Just think, Walther, we haven’t even greeted each other…” She kept his hand in hers. 

“How big and good your hand is! And so warm, so warm.” 

“You didn’t meet Erik downstairs?” asked Geißler a little uneasily. “Erik Falk? My husband?” She choked with laughter. “No, no! 

My husband, ha, ha, mon mari! quelle drôle idée plus philosophique qu’originale, n’est-ce pas?” 

She looked around and sat down. Geißler looked at her helplessly. 

“Why do you look at me so sadly? Ah,—ah…” she stood up again… “He was here, he told you everything…” 

Geißler turned around and busied himself with the papers. 

“Did he tell you about his little son, and about his little mistress? Ha, ha, ha… did he want to lighten his heart with you?” 

“Well, you know, Isa, you don’t need to take that so to heart. You are after all a woman, and a man is organized quite differently…” 

She had sat down again in the meantime, but suddenly she felt a great fatigue, she was near fainting. 

“Give water!” 

She drank greedily a large glass. 

“Ha, ha… I have not seen my husband, no, no, je ne l’ai pas vu depuis cinq jours… Strange preference for my mother tongue. I have almost forgotten it… I was in a hideous, German boarding school… At five o’clock we had to get up… O! brr! But how strong you are and your hand so big and so good.” 

She suddenly looked at him fixedly. 

“You don’t need to look so mournful. I want no pity. I want money. Give me money,” she said harshly. 

He looked at her frightened. “What do you need it for?” 

“You are a nice gentleman! Ha, ha, ha. You ask a lady what she needs money for! Just give me money, I have a very bad affair…” 

“Isa, be serious for a moment. You don’t want to do stupid things?” 

“What do you think?” 

“Well listen, Isa. You know very well what you are to me… very bad things are going on with you now… And there you know to whom you should turn… I mean, well—you will not misunderstand me… You know me… But… pas de sentiments, n’est-ce pas? How much do you need?” 

“Three, four hundred…” 

“I will give you five hundred.” 

She did not understand him, stared only at him with growing rapture. Her senses began to confuse. 

“How splendid you are!… And give me your big, warm hand… Yes, so, hold me tight, hold me tight… O que j’ai mal, que j’ai mal…” 

She fell into a hysterical crying cramp.

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Twelve
Gives an account of how Frank Braun stepped into Alraune’s
world.
FRANK Braun had come back to his mother’s house,
somewhere from one of his aimless journeys, from
Cashmir in Asia or from Bolivian Chaco. Or perhaps is was
from the West Indies where he had played revolutionary in
some mad republic, or from the South Seas, where he had dreamed
fairytales with the slender daughters of a dying race. He came back
from somewhere.
Slowly he walked through his mother’s house, up the white
staircase upon whose walls was pressed frame upon frame, old
engravings and modern etchings, through his mother’s wide rooms in
which the spring sun fell through yellow curtains. There his ancestors
hung, many Brinkens with sharp and clever faces, people that knew
where they stood in the world.
There was his great-grandfather and great-grandmother–good
portraits from the time of the Emperor, then one of his beautiful
grandmother–sixteen years old, in the earlier dress of Queen Victoria.
His father and mother hung there and his own portraits as well. There
was one of him as a child with a large ball in his hands and long
blonde child locks that fell over his shoulders. The other was of him
as a youth, in the black velvet dress of a page, reading in a thick,
ancient tome.
In the next room were the copies. They came from everywhere,
from the Dresden Gallery, the Cassel and Braunshweig galleries, from
the Palazzo Pitti, the Prado and from the Reich Museum. There were
many Dutch masters, Rembrandt, Frans Hals, Ostade, Murillo, Titian,
Velasquez and Veronese. All were a little darkened with age, but they
glowed reddish gold in the sunlight that broke through the curtains.
He went further, through the room where the modernists hung.
There were several good paintings and some not as good. But not one
of them was bad and there were no sweet ones.
All around stood old furniture, most of it mahogany–Empire,
Directoire or Biedermeir. There was none of oak but several simpler,
modern pieces were scattered in between. There was no defined style,
simply one after another as the years had brought them. Yet there was
a quiet, pervasive harmony that transformed everything that stood
there and made it belong.
He climbed up to the floor that his mother had given him.
Everything was exactly as he had left it the last time he had departed–
two years ago. No paperweight had been moved, no chair was out of
place. Yes, his mother always watched to see that the maids were
careful and respectful–despite all the cleaning and dusting.
Here, much more than anywhere else in the house, ruled a
chaotic throng of innumerable, abstruse things. They were on the
floors and on the walls. Five continents contributed strange and
bizarre things to this room that were unique to them only.
There were large masks, savage wooden devil deities from the
Bismarck Archipelago, Chinese and Annamite flags and many
weapons from all regions of the world. Then there were hunting
trophies, stuffed animals, Jaguar and tiger skins, huge turtle shells,
snakes and crocodiles. There were colorful drums from Luzon, long
necked stringed instruments from Raj Putana and crude castings from
Albania.
On one wall hung a mighty, reddish brown fisherman’s net. It
hung down from the ceiling and contained giant star fish, sea urchins,
swords from swordfish, silver shimmering tarpon scales, mighty
ocean spiders, strange deep-sea fish, mussels and snails.
The furniture was covered with old brocade and over it was
thrown delicate silk garments from India, colorful Spanish jackets and
mandarin cloaks with large golden dragons.
There were many gods as well, silver and gold Buddhas of all
sizes, Indian bas-reliefs of Shiva, Krishna and Genesha along with the
absurd, obscene stone idols of the Tchan tribes.
In between, where ever there was a free space on the wall, hung
framed glass enclosed images, an impudent Rops, a savage Goya,
small drawings by Jean Callots, Crűikshank, Hogarth and assorted
colorful cruelties drawn on sheets of paper out of Cambodia and
Mysore. Many moderns hung nearby bearing the artist’s name and a
dedication.
There was furniture of all styles from all cultures, thickly
populated with bronzes, porcelains and unending bric-a-brac.
All these things were Frank Braun. His bullet killed the polar
bear on whose white pelt he now stood. He, himself, had caught the
mighty blue shark whose powerful jaws hung there in the net with its
three rows of teeth. He took these poisoned arrows and this spear
from the savage Buca tribe. A Manchu priest gave him this foolish
idol and this tall silver priest’s clothes hanger.
Single handedly he had stole this black thunderstone out of the
forest temple of the Houdon–Badagri, drank with his own lips out of
this Bombita in a Mate blood-brother ritual with the chief of the Toba
Indians on the swampy banks of the Pilcomayo. For this curved sword
he had given his best hunting rifle to a Malay sultan in North Borneo
and for this other long executioner’s sword, his little pocket chess
game to the Vice Regent of Shantung.
These wonderful Indian carpets were presented to him by the
Maharaja of Vigatpuri, whose life he had saved during an elephant
hunt and this earthen eight armed Durga, begrimed with the blood of
animals and people, he had received from the High Priest of the
dreaded Kalis of Kalighat–
His life lay in these rooms, every mussel, every colored rag,
reminded him of long past memories. There lay his opium pipes, over
there the large mescal can that had been hammered together out of
Mexican silver dollars. Near it was the small tightly locked container
of snake venom from Ceylon and a golden arm band–with two
magnificent cat’s eyes–it had once been given to him by an eternally
laughing child in Birma. He had paid many kisses for them–
Scattered around on the floor, piled on top of each other, stood
and lay crates and trunks–twenty-one of them. They contained his
new treasures–none had been opened yet.
“Where can I put it all?” he laughed.
A long Persian spear stretched through the air across the large
double window. A very large, snow white Cockatoo sat on it. It was a
Macassar bird from South Africa with a high flamingo red crest.
“Good morning Peter!” Frank Braun greeted him.
“Atja Tuwan!” answered the bird.
He climbed solemnly over the spear and down to his stand. From
there he clambered onto a chair and down to the floor, came with
bowed stately strides up to him, climbed up onto his shoulder, spread
out his proud crest and flung his wings out wide like the Prussian
eagle.
“Atja, Tuwan! Atja, Tuwan!” he cried.
The white bird stretched out his neck and Frank Braun scratched
it.
“How’s it going, little Peter?–Are you happy that I’m back
again?”
Frank Braun climbed halfway down the staircase, stepped out
onto the large covered balcony where his mother was drinking tea.
Below, in the garden, the mighty chestnut trees glowed like candles,
further back, in the monastery garden, lay an ocean of brilliant snow-
white flowers. Brown robed Franciscans wandered under the laughing
trees.
“There is Father Barnabas!” he cried.
His mother put her glasses on and looked, “No,” she answered.
“That is Father Cyprian.”
A green amazon squatted on the iron railing of the balcony and
as soon as he set the Cockatoo down, the cheeky little parrot came
rushing up to it. It looked comical enough, walking sideways, like a
shuffling Galatian peddler.
“All right,” he screamed. “All right–Lorita real di España e di
Portugal!–Anna Mari-i-i-i-i-a!”
He pecked at the large bird, which just raised his crest and softly
said, “cockatoo”.
“Still saucy as ever, Phylax?” Frank Braun asked.
“Every day he gets saucier,” laughed his mother. “Nothing is
safe from him anymore. He would love to chew up the entire house.”
She dipped a piece of sugar in her tea and gave it to the bird on a
silver spoon.
“Has Peter learned anything,” he asked.
“Nothing at all,” she replied. He only speaks his soft,
“’Cockatoo’, along with some scraps of Malay.”
“Unfortunately you don’t understand any of that,” he laughed.
His mother said, “No, but I understand my green Phylax much
better. He loves to talk, all day long, in all the languages of the world–
always something new. Sometimes I lock him up in the closet, just to
get a half hour of peace.”
She took the amazon, who was at that moment strolling across
the middle of the table and attacking the butter, and set the struggling
bird back up on the railing.
Her brown hound came up, stood on its hind legs and rested its
little head on her knee.
“Yes, you are here too,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”
She poured tea and milk into a little red saucer, broke off some
white bread and a piece of sugar, putting them in it as well.
Frank Braun looked down into the wide garden. Two round
hedgehogs were playing on the lawn and nibbling at the young shoots.
They must be ancient–he, himself, had once brought them out of the
forest, from a school picnic. The male was named Wotan and the
female, Tobias Meier. But perhaps these were their grandchildren or
great-grandchildren–then he saw the little mound near the white,
blooming magnolia bush. There he had once buried his black poodle.
Two large yuccas grew there now, in the summer they would bloom
with hundreds of white, resounding bells. But now, for spring, his
mother had planted many colorful primroses there.
Ivy and other wild vines crawled up the high walls of the house,
all the way up to the roof. There, twittering and making noise were
the sparrows.
“The thrush has her nest over there, can you see?” asked his
mother.
She pointed down to the wooden trellis that led from the
courtyard into the garden. The round nest lay half-hidden in ivy. He
had to search before he finally found it.
“It already has three little eggs,” he said.
“No, there are four,” his mother corrected him. “She laid the
fourth one this morning.”
“Yes, four,” he nodded “Now I can see all of them. It is beautiful
here mother.”
She sighed and laid her old hand on his. “Oh yes, my boy–it is
beautiful–if only I wasn’t so lonely all the time.”
“Lonely,” he asked. “Don’t you have as many visitors as you
used to?”
She said, “Oh yes, they come every day, many young people.
They look after this old lady. They come to tea and to dinner.
Everyone knows how happy I am when someone comes to visit me.
But you see, my boy, they are still strangers–you aren’t.”
“Well now I’m here,” he said and changed the subject, described
the various curiosities that he had brought back with him, asked her if
she wanted to be there when he unpacked.
Then the girl came up bringing the mail that had just arrived. He
tore his letters open and glanced fleetingly at them. He paused, looked
at one more closely. It was a letter from Legal Councilor Gontram
that briefly communicated what had happened at his uncle’s house.
There was also a copy of the will and his expressed wish that Frank
Braun travel over as soon as possible to put the affairs in order. He,
the Legal Councilor, had been court ordered to act as temporary
executor. Now that he, Frank Braun, was once more back in Europe
he begged him to take up his obligation.

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

“That’s wholly Austrian,” Ruprecht said,
sketching the castle’s character for Hedwig. “You
might think someone’s aloof and, despite simplicity,
unapproachable, then find you can chat quite
comfortably. Our great men all have a back road,
bypassing the official facade.”
They entered the tournament courtyard. Hedwig
was lifted from the carriage and placed in her
wheelchair. Maurerwenzel resumed his duty. Hedwig
wished to stay in the wide, open courtyard; the
castle’s stair-laden tour was not for her. Ruprecht
offered to keep her company. The others departed
toward the octagonal tower at the entrance, after Fritz
Gegely took tender leave, pressing a kiss on
Hedwig’s forehead.
The carriages drove out to stable at the tavern by
the courtyard. Maurerwenzel watched them
enviously. Ruprecht understood the look. “You can
go over too,” he said. “If you’re thirsty. Here—have
a quarter of wine.” Maurerwenzel cupped his hand
like a nest for a silver egg, tipped his cap, and
shuffled out the gate with his “quick” gait, bound for
the inn.
“Shall we move to the shade?” Ruprecht asked,
hands on the wheelchair’s backrest.
“No, please, if it’s no trouble, let’s stay in the sun.
It’s not too hot… and the breeze cools nicely. I love
the sun… I feel it’s kind to me. I let it soak through
me… I feel it in my limbs… like a new strength…”
Ruprecht pulled the wheelchair close to the wall,
where reflected rays could work, and sat beside
Hedwig on a fallen stone. The vast courtyard, ringed
with double arcades, lay empty before them. Hedwig
reclined, basking in full sunlight, motionless.
Ruprecht saw her body drink the hot light. Through
half-closed eyes, a shimmering curtain of light
flickered. He tried to decipher the faded wall
paintings in the arcades. A brown-red hue remained,
other colors long extinguished. These might once
have been emblems, coats of arms, allegories—
symbols of families who once pranced their horses in
glittering carousels here.
From the castle’s past, he gently slipped into his
own. He smiled. “Do you remember, Frau Hedwig,”
he said, “when we danced in the woods? It was a
school outing from our gymnasium. Your girls’
school was there too… and suddenly, we paired up.
Youths and maidens… to the horror of teachers and
governesses…”
Hedwig turned to him. “Yes… dancing’s over for
me,” she said, smiling.
Ruprecht fell silent, dismayed. How thoughtless,
how careless he’d been. He longed to speak more of
those days—how they’d climbed walls and back
gardens at night, like thieves, to reach Hedwig’s
courtyard, bursting into four-part song: “Why are you
so far, oh my love!” The next day, stern professorial
faces and a disciplinary probe for nocturnal mischief.
Everything teetered… then ten hours’ detention as
penance. Ten glorious hours, filled with the thrill of
suffering for her, proving his heroism. They’d called
her Silvia then, for its melodic flow, redolent of
forest scent and soft leaf-rustle, no other name
seeming to fit. A touch of Shakespeare’s winged
Midsummer Night’s Dream. She’d been like a
lizard—slender, agile, gleaming.
“But… you’re happy,” Ruprecht said, consoling
himself. “Few preserve such pure joy in life as
you…”
“Yes… I’m happy,” she said gratefully, offering
her hand. “There’s still so much I needn’t forgo.”
Ruprecht steeled his heart. “Above all, you’ve
found the happiness of love… Your husband is full of
gentle care…”
Hedwig closed her eyes, lying still. The sun
poured into her like a hot draught. The sun is clarity
and truth, she thought. One shouldn’t lie in its light.
“Why should I deny you the satisfaction I owe you?”
she said after a pause. “You’re mistaken, Ruprecht,
the world’s mistaken. I’m a burden to my husband.
My frailty irks him. Yes… he masterfully plays his
role before others. I know how I hurt you then. Your
strong confidence looked down on the pampered
prince Gegely. But I was vain… yes, let me
confess…”
She paused, and Ruprecht saw her fingers twitch
on the wheelchair’s armrest, betraying agitation.
Alarmed, he leaned to see her face, but her eyes
were shut.
“I hurt you. I know you loved me. I’m still
happy… thinking of those times. Yet I chose Fritz
Gegely. I was a foolish, vain girl. He was a poet, the
gymnasium’s pride, already famous at university,
destined for greatness.”
“Stop, Hedwig, please… I don’t want to know
more. Don’t make me unhappy…”
“You needn’t be. I’m past that disappointment.
Only sometimes I think it could’ve been different. I
soon realized he was an aesthete—one who doesn’t
take life directly but through a colored lens, feigning
mood. Then one hope: a child. But you see what’s
left of that. A paralyzed woman… That was the
darkest night of my life. Then… things brightened:
the clarity of limitation. I can’t even blame my
husband for his sullenness. I’m truly a burden. But he
draws benefit in his way. He plays a second
Browning couple before the world. As he wears
famous poets’ vests, coats, and wallets, I’m useful as
a paralyzed wife. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. But I
don’t complain—I’m still happy…”
“Why tell me this… why?” Ruprecht groaned.
“Why? I’m beyond passion’s good and evil. I’m safe
from all danger.”
“But I’m not, Silvia, I’m not…”
Hedwig opened her eyes. Her hat shaded her
brow, a blonde strand fluttering across it. “You call
me Silvia… like then… I think you invented the
name…”
“Yes… I think I found it: it was there, flowing
around you like song. I only sang it… Silvia…”
A car horn blared a triad on the forest road.
“The children,” Hedwig said, sitting up to greet
them. She felt a faint twitch in her right foot… but
surely she was mistaken. The car rolled through the
courtyard gate, halting before her wheelchair. The
children leapt out, rushing to Hedwig and Ruprecht.
Miss Nelson followed, slim, refined, silent as ever.
“Here already, you rascals?” Ruprecht teased,
laughing. “Your studies today… must’ve been half-
done!”
Lissy and Nelly each brought a bouquet of
meadow flowers, picked along the way. Lissy gave
hers to Hedwig, Nelly to Papa. Hedwig and Ruprecht
exchanged glances—a continuation, a symbolic close
to their talk. Two tears lingered in Hedwig’s eyes.
Laughing, she shook her head, pulled Lissy close,
and kissed her small red mouth.
Meanwhile, Helmina and her group had ventured
into the castle. The castellan, a young man not yet
ossified in his role, was lively enough to answer
unusual questions. Ernst Hugo flaunted his style
knowledge, gleaned from café art enthusiasts. He
spoke of form, material, line, and ornament. The
Major hunted for old locks and keys. In his spare
time, he tinkered with locksmithing and was fond of
gunsmithing. “Everyone’s got their hobby,” he said.
“Locksmithing’s my secret passion.”
And storytelling’s your creepy one, thought the
court secretary, but he didn’t say it, for he and the
Major were in a holy alliance against Fritz Gegely.
The poet of Marie Antoinette paid little heed to his
allied foes. He walked beside Helmina, speaking of
spatial sense. “You see, it’s a peculiar thing… a sixth
sense, so to speak. It brings exquisite delights and
torments… imagine, I enter a room and instantly feel
its spatial design like a physical impression. Without
tape or ruler, I know at once if its proportions are
balanced or left to chance. Proportions are immediate
certainty to me. The harmony of the Golden Ratio is
a heartfelt, if somewhat bourgeois, pleasure. Round
walls make me breathless, restless, caught in a whirl.
Alcoves, odd angles, slanted walls, sloping ceilings
give me strangely romantic sensations. This makes
old castles so fascinating, each room unique. It sours
me on city tenements with their uniformity—
everything cut from one mold, dull, barracks-like,
lacking even basic, natural harmony.”
But Helmina wasn’t listening. She gazed
distractedly out the windows they passed, letting
Gegely’s words flow by. Halls, corridors, vaulted
rooms, and alcoved chambers followed one
another—a glance into the inner courtyard, then at
the verdant moat and an old, gray turret.
The guide opened the door to the balcony over the
Kamp valley. At that moment, the Major called him
back. He’d spotted an intricate lock on a grand
Renaissance cabinet. A key moved seven bolts back
and forth. The fittings depicted Saint George slaying
the dragon—a small marvel. The Major eagerly
questioned the castellan, holding Hugo fast.

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

He searched for Alraune and took it as a good omen that no
guests were there. He heard from the maid that she had dined alone
and was now in her rooms so he went up there. He stepped inside at
her, “Come in.”
“I must speak with you,” he said.
She sat at her writing desk, looked up briefly.
“No,” she cried. “I don’t want to right now.”
“It is very important,” he pleaded. “It is urgent.”
She looked at him, lightly crossed her feet.“Not now,” she
answered. “–Go down–in a half hour.”
He went, took off his fur coat, sat down on the sofa and waited.
He considered how he should tell her, weighed every sentence and
every word. After a good hour he heard her steps.
He got up, went to the door–there she stood in front of him, as an
elevator boy in a tight fitting strawberry red uniform.
“Ah,” he said, “that is kind of you.”
“Your reward,” she laughed. “Because you have obeyed so
beautifully today–now tell me, what is it?”
The Privy Councilor didn’t gloss things over, he told her
everything, like it was, each little detail without any embellishments.
She didn’t interrupt, let him speak and confess.
“It is really your fault,” he said. “I would have taken care of it all
without much trouble–but I let it all go, have been so preoccupied
with you, they grew like the heads of the Hydra.”
“The evil Hydra”–she mocked, “and now she is giving poor,
good Hercules so much trouble! By the way, it seems that this time
the hero is a poisonous salamander and the monstrous Hydra is the
punishing avenger.”
“Certainly,” he nodded, “from the viewpoint of the people. They
have their ‘justice for everyone’ and I have made my own. That is
really my only crime. I believed that you would understand.”
She laughed in delight, “Certainly daddy, why not? Am I
reproaching you? Now tell me, what are you going to do?”
He proposed his plans to her, one after the other, that they had to
flee, that very night–take a little trip and see the world. Perhaps first
to London, or to Paris–they could stay there until they got everything
they needed. Then over the ocean, across America–to Japan–or to
India–whatever they wanted, even both, there was no hurry. They had
time enough, then finally to Palestine, to Greece, Italy and Spain.
Where ever she wanted–there they could stay and leave again when
they had enough. Finally they could buy a villa somewhere on Lake
Garda or on the Riviera. Naturally it would be in the middle of a large
garden. She could have her horses and her cars, even a yacht. She
could fill the entire house with people if she wanted–
He wasn’t stingy with his promises, painted in glowing colors all
the tempting splendors that awaited her, was always finding new and
more alluring reasons that she should go.
Finally he stopped, asked his question, “Now child, what do you
say to that? Wouldn’t you like to live like that?”
She sat on the table with her slender legs dangling.
“Oh yes,” she nodded. “Very much so–only–only–”
“Only?”–he asked quickly, “If you wish something else–say it! I
will fulfill it for you.”
She laughed at him, “Well then, fulfill this for me! I would very
much like to travel–only not with you!”
The Privy Councilor took a step back, almost fell, grabbed onto
the back of a chair. He searched for words and found none.
She spoke, “With you it would be boring for me–you are
tiresome to me–I want to go without you!”
He laughed, attempting to persuade himself that she was joking.
“But I am the one that must be leaving right away,” he said. “I
must leave–tonight yet!”
“Then leave,” she said quietly. “I’m staying.”
He began all over again, imploring and lamenting. He told her
that he needed her, like the air that he breathed. She should have
compassion on him–soon he would be eighty and wouldn’t be a
burden to her very much longer.
Then he threatened her again, screamed that he would disinherit
her, throw her out into the street without a penny.
“Just try it,” she threw back at him.
He spoke yet again, painting the wonderful splendors that he
wanted to give her. She should be free, like no other girl, to do and
have as she desired. There was no wish, no thought that he couldn’t
turn into reality for her. She only had to come with–not leave him
alone.
She shook her head. “I like it here. I haven’t done anything–I’m
staying.”
She spoke quietly and calmly, never interrupted him, let him talk
and make promises, start all over again. But she shook her head
whenever he asked the question.
Finally she sprang down from the table and went with soft steps
toward the door, passing him.
“It is late,” she said. “I am tired. I’m going to bed–good night
daddy, happy travels.”
He stepped into her way, made one last attempt, sobbed out that
he was her father, that children had a duty to their parents, spoke like
a pastor.
She laughed at that, “So I can go to heaven!”
She stood near the sofa, set down astride the arm.
“How do you like my leg?” she cried suddenly and stretched her
slender leg out toward him, moving it back and forth in the air.
He stared at her leg, forgot what he wanted, thought no more
about flight or danger, saw nothing else, felt nothing–other than her
slender strawberry red boy’s leg that swung back and forth before his
eyes.
“I am a good child,” she tittered, “a very dear child that makes
her stupid daddy very happy–kiss my leg, daddy–caress my beautiful
leg daddy!”
He fell heavily onto his knees, grabbed at her red leg, moved his
straying fingers over her thigh and her tight calf, pressed his moist
lips on the red fabric, licked slowly along it with his trembling
tongue.
Then she sprang up, lightly and nimbly, tugged on his ear, and
patted him softly on the cheek.
“Now daddy,” her voice tinkled, “have I fulfilled my duty well
enough? Good night then! Happy travels–and don’t get caught–it
would be very unpleasant in prison. Send me some pretty picture
postcards, you hear?”
She was at the door before he could get up, made a bow, short
and stiff like a boy and put her right hand to her cap.
“It has been an honor, your Excellency,” she cried. “And don’t
make too much noise down here while you are packing–it might
disturb my sleep.”
He swayed towards her, saw how quickly she ran up the stairs.
He heard the door open upstairs, heard the latch click and the key turn
in it twice. He wanted to go after her, laid his hand on the banister.
But he felt that she would not open, despite all his pleading. That door
would remain closed to him even if he stood there for hours through
the entire night until dawn, until–until–until the constable came to
take him away.
He stood there unmoving, listening to her light steps above him,
back and forth through her room. Then no more. Then it was silent.
He slipped out of the house, went bare headed through the heavy
rain across the courtyard, stepped into the library, searched for
matches, lit a couple of candles on his desk. Then he let himself fall
heavily into his easy chair.
“Who is she,” he whispered. “What is she? What a creature!” he
muttered.
He unlocked the old mahogany desk, pulled a drawer open, took
out the leather bound volume and laid it in front of him.
He stared at the cover, “A.T. B.”, he read, half out loud.
“Alraune ten Brinken.”
The game was over, totally over, he sensed that completely. And
he had lost – he held no more cards in his hand. It had been his game;
he alone had shuffled the cards. He had held all the trumps–and now
he had lost anyway. He smiled grimly, now he had to pay the price.
Pay the price? Oh yes, but in what coin?
He looked at the clock–it was past twelve. The people would
come with the warrant around seven o’clock at the latest–he still had
over six hours. They would be very considerate, very polite–they
would even bring him into custody in his own car. Then–then the
battle would begin. That would not be too bad–he would defend
himself through several months, dispute every move his opponents
made.
But finally–in the main case–he would lose anyway. Manasse
had that right. Then it would be–prison–or flee–but alone, entirely
alone? Without her? In that moment he felt how he hated her, but he
also knew as well that he could think of nothing else any more, only
her. He could run around the world aimlessly, without purpose, not
seeing, not hearing anything but her bright twittering voice, her
slender swinging red leg.
Oh, he would starve, out there or in prison–either way. Her leg–
her sweet slender boy’s leg! Oh how could he live without that red
leg?
The game was lost–he must pay the bill, better to pay it quickly,
this very night–with the only thing of value he had left–with his life.
And since it wasn’t worth anything any more, perhaps he could bring
someone else down with him.
That did him good, now he brooded about whom to take down
with him, someone that would give him a little satisfaction to give one
final last kick.
He took his last will and testament out of the desk, which named
Alraune as his heir, read through it, then carefully tore it into small
pieces.
“I must make a new one,” he whispered, “only for whom?–for
whom?”
There was his sister–was her son, Frank Braun, his nephew–
He hesitated, him–him? Wasn’t it him that had brought this
poisonous gift into his house, this strange creature that had now
ruined him?
He–just like the others! Oh, he should pay, even more than
Alraune.
“You will tempt God,” the fellow had said. “You will put a
question to him, so audacious that He must answer.”
Oh yes, now he had his answer! But if he inexorably had to go
down, the youth should share his fate. He, Frank Braun, who had
engendered this thought, given him the idea.
Now he had a bright shiny weapon, her, his little daughter,
Alraune ten Brinken. She would bring him as well to the point where
he was today. He considered, rocked his head and grinned in
satisfaction at this certain final victory.
Then he wrote his will without pausing, in swift, ugly strokes.
Alraune remained his heir, her alone. But he secured a legacy for his
sister and another for his nephew, whom he appointed as executor and
guardian of the girl until she came of age. That way he needed to
come here, be near her, breathe the sultry air from her lips, and it
would happen, like it had happened with all the others!
Like it had with the Count and with Dr. Mohnen, like it had with
Wolf Gontram, like with the chauffeur–and finally, like it had
happened with he, himself, as well.
He laughed out loud, made still another entry, that the university
would inherit if Alraune died without an heir. That way his nephew
would be shut out in any case. Then he signed the document and
dated it.
He took the leather bound volume, read further, wrote the early
history and conscientiously brought everything up to date. He ended it
with a little note to his nephew, dripping with derision.
“Try your luck,” he wrote. “To bad that I won’t be there when
your turn comes. I would have been very glad to see it!”
He carefully blotted the wet ink, closed the book and laid it back
in the drawer with the other momentos, the necklace of the Princess,
the alraune of the Gontrams, the dice cup, the white card with a hole
shot through it that he had taken out of the count’s vest pocket.
“Mascot” was written on it. Near it lay a four leaf clover–several
black drops of clotted blood still clung to it–
He stepped up to the curtain and untied the silk cord. With a long
scissors he cut the end off and threw it into the drawer with the others.
“Mascot”, he laughed. “Luck for the house!”
He searched around the walls, climbed onto a chair and with
great difficulty took down a mighty iron cross from a heavy hook, laid
it carefully on the divan.
“Excuse me,” he grinned, “for moving you out of your place–it
will only be for a short time–only for a few hours–you will have a
worthy replacement!”
He knotted the cord, threw it high over the hook, pulled on it,
considered it, that it would hold–and he climbed for a second time
onto the chair–
The police found him early the next morning. The chair was
pushed over; nevertheless the dead man stood on it with the tip of one
toe. It appeared as if he had regretted the deed and at the last moment
tried to save himself. His right eye stood wide open, squinting out
toward the door and his thick blue tongue protruded out–he looked
very ugly.

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

Fifteenth Chapter
The colors of summer grew ever darker and
deeper. Each day showered new gifts, every hour
seemed to weave something strange. Strength pulsed
everywhere in the fine fabric of existence. The
farmers, unaware, lived as part of nature; city
dwellers felt their weary bodies renewed, worn atoms
replaced by fresh ones. But once past initial delight,
they paid little heed to the splendor.
Only one person remained ever grateful for each
day and hour, never letting pure joy dull—Frau
Hedwig. She had Maurerwenzel guide her wheelchair
wherever it could go, marveling with clear eyes at the
summer world. For the first time in ages, she was
utterly happy. Carried along, she forgot her paralyzed
limbs. So potent was summer’s joy, the hum of
constant cheer. Her husband was sullen and irritable
alone with her, showering her with tenderness when
watched, but she didn’t mind, enduring his moods
and mild kindness. Each day brought an hour that
shone brightly from morning’s awakening. Every
afternoon, she met Ruprecht.
Among the summer society, a new alignment had
formed: Helmina and Ruprecht, Gegely and Frau
Hedwig, Hugo and Major Zichovic! Two beautiful
women—one drawing desire and admiration, the
other pity; Gegely gravitated to Helmina, Ruprecht
quietly joined Hedwig. He remained calm, finding,
like her, a transfiguration of twenty-four hours in
their afternoon meetings. Gegely, however, unfurled
his full grandeur, bestowing his graces on
Vorderschluder’s small world, radiating regally, yet
ensuring Helmina felt her beauty fueled such favor
and light.
Hugo and Zichovic were the group’s linking
members, bound by rivalry for favor. Hugo fought
with mocking superiority, earnestly sought but not
always successful. The Major was simpler, content
with quips he deemed witty. Yet he sometimes joined
petty, spiteful alliances. Gegely let his shield be
peppered with their barbs, as if dueling such foes
wasn’t worth his effort.
An excursion to Rosenburg was planned. That
morning, Helmina suffered a great vexation. War
rumors swirled. A risky stock speculation, launched
with nervous haste and without her usual caution, had
collapsed utterly—a painful loss. Recently, she’d
been forced to settle, abandoning her claims under
Baron Kestelli’s will. Defeat followed defeat. Worse,
her confidence wavered. The sensual bond with
Ruprecht was loosening. With bitter scorn, she noted
he was “spiritualizing” himself at Hedwig’s
wheelchair. He no longer desired her. The twilight of
her reign had come. To top it, Lorenz, fresh from
Vienna, pressed her. Anton Sykora sent word: she
must be ready to leave with them. Staying was
impossible; no hope remained. Ruprecht had evaded
all danger, and now only his goodwill kept him from
attacking. Herr Diamant’s advances were barely
resistible. The Galician oil venture was defunct. New
possibilities slumbered in a new world. Lorenz was
ordered to resign and withdraw first. He was relieved,
long feeling he trod quaking bog in this castle, as if
he might sink any moment. His bold confidence was
gone.
Before departure, he stood before Ruprecht,
requesting dismissal. He felt uneasy, unsure how
much Ruprecht knew or if he’d let an enemy slip his
grasp.
But Ruprecht was elated. A fine day beckoned. He
glanced at Lorenz’s uncertain face. So, he wanted
out—his role was done. Fine, let him go. Ruprecht
had no wish to serve the police again.
“Good,” he said. “Leave when you wish. I won’t
hold you. If you’ve found a better post, you needn’t
serve your two weeks. You’ll need the Baroness’s
permission, of course.”
Lorenz felt a master above him—a fist, a whip.
Oh, to throttle this man, to erase the shame of failed
plots. He longed to unleash his giant strength in a
furious wrestle. But he could only bow and leave.
Ruprecht grabbed his gloves and bounded
downstairs. Two carriages waited. They met the
others at the bridge below. Hedwig turned from Saint
John Nepomuk, now a dear friend, to Ruprecht. They
laughed together. Ruprecht rejoiced at her rosy
cheeks. Her arms no longer lifted wearily as in early
days but playfully, her hands gripping firmly.
He told her so. “Perhaps you’ll be fully well
again,” he added, eyes gleaming with joy.
She shook her head. “I no longer hope for it,” she
said softly, “…nor am I sure I wish it.”
They lifted her into the carriage with Ruprecht and
the Major. The wheelchair was stowed behind, and
Maurerwenzel climbed to the driver’s seat. He no
longer minded being seen. He and Rauß had clashed.
The General called his adjutant a capitalist slave; the
adjutant called the General a people’s cheat living off
strike funds. A duel ensued at the Hotel Bellevue,
costing Maurerwenzel a tuft of hair above his right
ear and a canine, but not his new conviction. The
paper factory workers, back at work, watched without
interfering, leaving Maurerwenzel uplifted, as if
they’d wished him victory.
In the second carriage sat Helmina, Fritz Gegely,
and Ernst Hugo. The poet of Marie Antoinette wore a
strange, sack-like coat of yellow checkered cloth,
once Dostoevsky’s. His vest was Paul Verlaine’s, and
the walking stick with a Moor’s head between his
knees was bought as Balzac’s from a Paris junk
dealer. As always, he wore his purple velvet
slippers—his personal signature, preserved through
all changes. Gegely ignored Ernst Hugo’s mocking
glances, addressing Helmina alone with a discourse
on landscape in Gottfried Keller.
They drove through the wooded valley’s curves,
revealing only slivers of the world, then climbed
slowly to the plain, where the gaze reveled in frothy
freedom. Rooftops gleamed above waves of ripening
grain, church spires stood like lighthouses in a sea of
fertility. It was a sunny, wind-bright day. Bedding
aired on garden fences, as if the region had conspired
to adorn the landscape with blue and red blankets and
cushions.
Ruprecht watched Hedwig’s forehead curls dance
in the breeze, fluttering back under her hat brim.
“Why didn’t you bring the children?” she asked.
“It’s such a lovely day.”
“They’ll join us with Miss Nelson after their
lessons. Work before pleasure. I don’t want them
forming other notions of order. A person unable to
delay pleasure for serious work can’t be taken
seriously.”
Hedwig looked at Ruprecht. A tender gravity
shone in his eyes. She was always touched when he
spoke of the children. They weren’t unprotected; he
loved them like a father. Yet she pitied them, sensing
they lacked a mother. Helmina, in rare bursts of
animal whimsy, played with them like a cat with
kittens, relishing their small, warm bodies. Hedwig
saw this sharply, her world shaped by maternal
longing—a heavy sacrifice, recognizing such joy as
unattainable after her catastrophe. She found
Helmina’s ingratitude her gravest fault. So richly
blessed, yet lacking life’s piety, the constant
reverence with which Hedwig marveled at each hour,
each sunbeam, every flower, and the horses’ lithe
trot.
She leaned back, gazing at the sky. It was pure
blue, with white clouds trailing like paper boats set
adrift by playful children on a stream.
As Ruprecht and Hedwig were silent, the Major
had free rein. They listened kindly, without
interrupting. He regretted that war threats might force
his departure soon but spoke with bold trumpet blasts
of battle and victory. He hoped diplomacy would
dispel the storm clouds, at least until the Emperor’s
jubilee year. Then he spun anecdotes, each capped
with his own booming laugh.
The Rosenburg is the centerpiece of the Kamp
valley. Where the Taffa stream joins the Kamp, and
the river itself shifts from an eastern to a southern
course, the castle stands on the tip of the high
plateau. It neither towers nor defies like other
German fortresses; it simply exists, unassumingly. It
doesn’t soar boldly as a lookout, like Aggstein or
Götzens’ robber-knight nest, Hornberg. Nor is it built
around a grand hall, like the Wartburg, where the
core purpose is clear. It seeks no special distinction,
and despite its sprawling, picturesque charm, it boasts
nothing, free of any pose. This makes it the perfect
expression of its landscape’s essence, where vanity
and ostentatious splendor are alien. From the Kamp
valley, it looks mighty. But from the plateau, a wide
road leads straight to the tournament courtyard.

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