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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

“As you will, your Excellency,” he said. “By the way, do you
know there is a rumor these days that the Műhlhelmer credit bank is
going to stop payments?”
“Nonsense,” he replied. “In any case I’ve scarcely put any
money into it.”
“You haven’t?” asked Herr Gontram, a little surprised. “For half
a year now you have kept that institution on a sound financial basis
with over eleven million. You did it to gain tighter control of the
potash industry! I, myself, was obliged to sell Princess Wolkonski’s
mines to fund the cause.”
His Excellency ten Brinken nodded, “The princess–well yes–am
I the princess?”
The Legal Councilor rocked his head thoughtfully.
“She will lose her money,” he murmured.
“What’s that to me,” cried the Privy Councilor. “Anyway, we
will see what can be saved.”
He stood up, drummed on the writing desk with his hand.
“You are right, Herr Legal Councilor. I should pay more
attention to my affairs. Please expect me at the office around six-
o’clock. I thank you.”
He shook hands and accompanied him to the door.
But he didn’t drive into the city that afternoon. Two lieutenants
came to tea, he kept finding reasons for going back into the room on
one pretext or another, couldn’t stand to go out of the house. He was
jealous of every man Alraune spoke with, of the chair she sat on and
the very carpet she walked on. He didn’t go the next day or the next.
The Legal Councilor sent one messenger after another. He sent
them away without an answer, disconnected his phone so he wouldn’t
get any more calls.
Then the Legal Councilor turned to Alraune, told her that it was
very important for the Privy Councilor to come into the office. She
rang for her car, sent her maid to the library to tell the Privy Councilor
to get ready for a drive into the city with her.
He trembled with joy. It was the first time in weeks that she had
gone driving with him. He donned his fur coat, went out into the
courtyard, opened the car door for her. She didn’t speak, but he was
happy enough to be permitted to sit next to her. She drove directly to
the office and told him to get out.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Shopping,” she answered.
“Will you pick me back up?” he begged.
She laughed, “I don’t know, perhaps.”
He was grateful enough for the ‘perhaps’. He climbed up the
stairs and opened the door on the left to the Legal Councilor’s room.
“Here I am,” he said.
The Legal Councilor shoved the documents at him, a huge pile of
them.
“Here’s the junk,” he nodded, “a pretty collection. There are a
couple of old cases that for a long time appeared to be settled.
They’ve taken off again. There are also a couple of new ones since
the day before yesterday!”
The Privy Councilor sighed. “A bit much–would you give me a
report, Herr Legal Councilor?”
Gontram shook his head, “Wait until Manasse comes. He knows
more about them. He will be here soon. I’ve called for him. Right
now he is with the Examiner in the Hamecher case.”
“Hamecher?” asked the professor. “Who is that?”
“The tinker,” the Legal Councilor reminded him. “The expert
opinion of the doctor was very incriminating. The Public Prosecutor
has ordered an investigation–there lies the summons–by the way, it
appears to me that this case is the most important one right now.”
The Privy Councilor took up the documents and leafed through
them, one after the other. But he was restless, listened nervously at
every phone ring, every step that sounded through the hallway.
“I only have a little time,” he said.
The Legal Councilor shrugged his shoulders and calmly lit a
fresh cigar. They waited, but the attorney didn’t appear. Gontram
telephoned his office, then the court, but couldn’t reach him
anywhere.
The professor pushed the documents to the side.
“I can’t read them today,” he said. “I don’t have any interest in
them.”
“Perhaps you are sick, your Excellency,” opined the Legal
Councilor. He ordered some wine and seltzer water. Then the Fräulein
came. The Privy Councilor heard the auto drive up and stop. He
immediately sprang up and grabbed his fur coat. He met her coming
up the corridor.
“Are you ready?” she cried.
“Naturally,” he returned. “Completely.”
But the Legal Councilor stepped between them.
“It’s not true, Fräulein. We have not even begun. We are waiting
for Attorney Manasse.”
The old man exclaimed, “Nonsense! It is all entirely trivial. I’m
riding back with you, child.”
She looked at the Legal Councilor who spoke, “These papers
appear very important to me.”
“No, no,” insisted the Privy Councilor.
But Alraune decided. “You will stay! Adieu, Herr Gontram,” she
cried.
Then she turned around and ran down the stairs. He went back
into the room, stepped up to the window, watched her climb into the
car and leave. Then he stayed standing there, looking out onto the
street into the dusk.
Herr Gontram ordered the gaslights turned on, sat quietly in his
easy chair, smoked and drank his wine. They were still waiting when
the office closed. One after the other, the employees left, opened their
umbrellas and stepped carefully through the mud on the street.
Neither spoke a word.
Finally the attorney came, hurried up the stairs, tore open the
door.
“Good evening,” he growled, put his umbrella in a corner, pulled
off his galoshes, threw his wet jacket onto the sofa.
“High time, Herr Colleague,” said the Legal Councilor.
“High time, yes, it is certainly high time!” he came back.
He went right up to the Privy Councilor, stood right in front of
him and screamed in his face.
“The warrant is out!”
“What warrant?” hissed the Privy Councilor.
“What warrant?” mocked the attorney. “I’ve seen it with my own
eyes–the Hamecher case! It will be served early tomorrow morning at
the latest.”
“We must stand bail,” observed the Legal Councilor carelessly.
The little attorney spun around; “Don’t you think I already
thought of that!–I immediately offered to stand bail–half a million–
right away–denied! The mood has turned sour at the county court
your Excellency. I’ve always thought it would happen some day.
The judge was very cool and told me, ‘Please put your request in
writing, Herr Attorney. But I fear that you will have little luck with it.
Our evidence is overwhelming–and it appears that extreme care must
be taken.’
Those were his exact words! Not very edifying is it?”
He poured himself a full glass, emptied it in short gulps.
“I can tell you more, your Excellency! I met with Attorney Meir
II at court; he is our opposition in the Gerstenberg case. He also
represents the municipality of Huckingen, which filed suit against you
yesterday. I asked him to wait for me–then I had a long talk with him.
That is the reason I am so late getting here, Herr Colleague. He talked
straight with me–we are loyal to each other at county court, thank
God!
That’s when I learned the opposing lawyers have united, they
already had a long conference the day before yesterday. A couple of
newspaper reporters were there as well. One of them was sharp Dr.
Landmann from the General Advertiser. You know very well, your
Excellency, that you haven’t put a penny of money into that paper!
The roles are well divided. I tell you–this time you won’t get out
of the trap so easily!”
The Privy Councilor turned to Herrn Gontram.
“What do you think, Herr Legal Councilor?”
“Wait,” he declared. “There will be a way out of it.”
But Manasse screamed, “I tell you there is no way out of it! The
noose is knotted, it will tighten–you will hang, your Excellency, if
you don’t give the gallows ladder a quick shove ahead of time!”
“What do you advise then,” asked the professor.
“Exactly the same thing that I advised poor Dr. Mohnen, whom
you have on your conscience, your Excellency! That was a meanness
of you–yet what good does it do if I tell you the truth now?
I advise that you liquidate everything you possibly can. By the
way, we can do that without you. Pack your bags and clear out–
tonight! That’s what I advise.”
“They will issue a warrant,” opined the Legal Councilor.
“Certainly,” cried Manasse. “But they will not give it any special
urgency. I already spoke with Colleague Meir about it. He shares my
opinion. It is not in the interest of the opposition to create a scandal –
the authorities would be happy enough if they could avoid one as
well.
They only want to render you harmless, your Excellency, put an
end to your doings–and for that–believe you me–they now have the
means. But if you disappear, live somewhere in a foreign land, we
could wrap this thing up quietly. It would cost a lot of money–but
what does that matter? They would be lenient on you, even today yet.
It is really in their own interests to not throw this magnificent fodder
to the radical and socialistic press.”
He remained quiet, waiting for an answer. His Excellency ten
Brinken paced slowly back and forth across the room with heavy,
dragging steps.
“How long do you believe I must stay away?” he asked finally.
The little attorney turned around to face him, “How long!” he
barked. “What a question! For just as long as you live! You can be
happy that you still have this possibility at least. It will certainly be
more pleasant to spend your millions in a beautiful villa on the
Riviera than to finish out your life in prison! It will come to that, I
guarantee you!–By the way, the authorities themselves have opened
this little door for you. They could just as easily have issued the
warrant this morning. Then it would have already been carried out!
Damned decent of them, but they will be disgusted and take it very
badly if you don’t make use of this little door.
If they must act, they will act decisively. Then your Excellency,
this night will be your last night’s sleep as a free man.”
The Legal Councilor said, “Travel! After hearing all that it really
does seem to be the best thing.”
“Oh yes,” snapped Manasse. “The best–the best all the way
around, and the only thing as well, travel! Disappear–step out–never
to be seen again–and take the Fräulein, your daughter, along with
you–Lendenich will thank you for it and our city as well.”
The Privy Councilor pricked up his ears at that. For the first time
that evening a little life came into his features, penetrating through the
staring apathetic mask, flickering with a light nervous restlessness.
“Alraune,” he whispered. “Alraune–if she goes with–he wiped
his mighty brow with his coarse hand, twice, three times. He sank
down, asked for a glass of wine, and emptied it.
“I believe you are right, Gentlemen,” he said. “I thank you. Now
let’s get everything in order.”
He took the stack of documents and handed over the top one,
“The Karpen brickyards–If you please–”
The attorney began calmly, objectively, gave his report. He took
the next document in turn, weighed all the options, every slightest
chance for a defense, and the Privy Councilor listened to him, threw a
word in here and there, sometimes found a new possibility, like in the
old times.
With each case the professor became clearer, his reasoning better
thought out. Each new danger appeared to awaken and strengthen his
old resiliency. He separated out a number of cases as comparatively
harmless. But there still remained more than enough to get his neck
broken.
He dictated a couple of letters, gave a lot of instructions, made
notes to himself, outlined proposals and complaints–then he studied
the time tables with the Herren, making his travel plans, giving exact
instructions for the next meeting. As he left his office it was with the
conviction that his affairs were in order.
He took a hired car and drove back to Lendenich, confident and
self-assured. It was only as the servant opened the gate for him, as he
walked across the courtyard and up the steps of the mansion, it was
only then that his confidence left him.

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Chapter 20 A Christmas Gift

Tobal glanced over the fire and noticed the girls had left. He saw them by the food table and he went to refill his tankard with hot grog. He wondered what he was going to tell them when he ran into them again. As the celebration wound down, his thoughts drifted to darker matters. He felt like avoiding them.

Then his mind turned to the strange greeting they had given him when he had sat with them. What had been going on? What had prompted both of them to kiss him that way? He was even more interested in his own reaction to Becca when she kissed him. He knew he had done or said something wrong and didn’t know what it was. He hadn’t meant to hurt her.

Tobal in spite of himself became more curious about Becca and thought about her as he sipped the hot grog. It pleased him that both Fiona and Becca had completed their own base camps and were training some newbies during the winter months. They were both obviously very talented and competent in the art of survival.

Zee and Kevin came up to the beer barrel where he was standing and sipping his grog.

“You’ve got to try this grog.” He told them. “It’s Dirk’s special recipe!”

Dirk laughed and handed them a small bowl to sample.

“That is pretty good,” Kevin remarked. “I think I will try some instead of beer.”

“Me too,” Zee laughed.

“You guys seem like you are having a good time.” Tobal grinned. “How about some Yule Tide Carols?”

“You know any?” Kevin challenged.

“How about O’ Christmas Tree?”

They laughed and burst into a rousing chorus of “Oh, Christmas tree” that Dirk and Tobal joined in with. Soon the idea caught on and later even the drums kept time to Christmas classics that dated from old eon Christianity as well as modern Yule songs. The ancient Christian tradition of Christmas was not completely forgotten and the Lord and Lady celebrated the birth of the Christ spirit within each person’s heart as well. It was a curious mixture of old and new that stirred memories of the past and brought hope for the future.

Tobal mingled and mixed with people he only knew by sight, introducing himself and getting to know them. Later he accidentally intruded on an amorous couple as he was searching for a warm spot to sleep for the night and stumbled out in embarrassment.

It made him wonder if he was ready for a romantic relationship with anyone. The events of the past year had been so intense he had always pushed the thought away without carefully examining it. Now in the dead of winter with romantic couples all around it was rubbed in his face. He was thinking about it as he finally fell asleep.

Each night was a drum circle and dancing that went well into the morning hours and it was a luxury to sleep in and have nothing pressing to do except play games with friends. The late mornings and early afternoons were spent just doing camp cores and making everything ready for the evening’s entertainment.

The second day was bright and cold. This day was spent mainly in honor of the soloists that would be leaving in the morning and missing the rest of the celebration. There were talent shows with singing and juggling acts and other interesting demonstrations. These took place in one of the heated permanent log buildings. Everyone was expected to participate and share some skill or talent. Tobal enjoyed watching the talents of others but dreaded his turn. He didn’t know what he was going to do and didn’t feel he was that good at anything. Luckily those going to solo went first and it would take a day before it got to him.

Crow dazzled everyone with magic tricks and sleight of hand that had the audience laughing and left them wondering how he did it. Especially his final disappearing act when he simply was not there anymore leaving only some smoke. Tobal wondered if he had really disappeared but then later wondered if he had really been there at all. Perhaps he had done his entire act while his physical body lay asleep in one of the nearby teepees doing that bi-location thing.

Anne was a palm reader and kept the crowd entertained as she did private readings for anyone brave enough to hear their future. She had a corner set up with a table in the beer brewery where it was warm and quiet. There was a long line waiting to see her. He noticed Fiona, Becca, and Nikki were all waiting in line together laughing and chatting.

Seth surprised everyone by reciting long poems from memory and putting a lot of feeling into it. It seemed he had a photographic memory and could remember every word he ever read. He chose Edgar Allen Poe’s classic, “The Raven”, and “The Face on the Bar Room Floor” by D’Arcy. Tobal cheered and yelled with the rest of them. Seth really was good! Tobal was very impressed since he had trouble remembering anything at all.

When Derdre’s turn came Tobal felt himself wondering what she would do. He was really amazed when she was an artist and willing to make caricature drawings of anyone. He couldn’t resist and waited in line with a piece of paper and pencil for her to make a quick caricature sketch of himself. He was delighted with the result and couldn’t wait to show some of his friends later that evening. He never did get his own palm read. Maybe he could do that later.

Misty as High Priestess led a very special meditation and ritual for the Yule celebration and the blessings of the Lord and Lady. Tobal was wearing his mother’s jade and amber necklace and his father’s dagger. He carried the hospital bracelets with him in his medicine bag that he carried about his neck and the wand strapped to his left leg above his boot. He was wearing these things during the ritual.

His eyes were closed and he was imagining sitting on the floor of the secret cave beneath the waterfall. He was sitting in front of the central fire and had a heavy fur robe draped over his shoulders so he was warm and comfortable even outside in the dark.

He had been practicing the meditation Crow had taught him and the impressions were becoming extremely vivid when his right arm was jostled and he opened his eyes in annoyance and looked up.

A man was sitting cross-legged grinning at him. The man reached over and placed his hand on the dagger before Tobal could react.

“Hi son,” he said. “Your mom and I have been waiting a long time to get this chance to sit and talk.”

“Yes we have,” a rich melodious voice joined in from the left. “I see you have found some of our things.” She leaned forward and touched the necklace and he felt energy like electricity flow through it and fill him.

As his father touched the dagger and his mother touched the necklace they both seemed to take on a more solid appearance. They also seemed to have more strength and energy.

They were both sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of him. His father was on his right side and his mother on his left. They were dressed in the red robes of Master. Tobal drank in the sight of them, faces he had not seen in physical reality since he was two years old.

He wanted to burn this moment into his memory for eternity and always remember his parents as he was seeing them now. His mother wore her hair long and in braids. She had beautiful lips and gray eyes that twinkled at him. He saw the rise and fall of her breasts through an opening in her robe. He reached out to her and she held him tightly against her. His eyes burned and he blinked back tears.

“Are you really alive?” He blinked hardly daring to hope.

He turned to his father and gripped his hand firmly. His father had long dark curly hair and a thick beard with strong muscular arms and shoulders. Suddenly he was in his father’s arms being crushed in a loving bear hug. He felt his father’s hands on his shoulders gently pushing him away and back down on his cushion.

His father and mother looked at each other and then back at him. There was love in their eyes and humor too. They got up and stood in front of him. Suddenly they seemed taller and more powerful as the room radiated like the sun and his eyes squinted against the brightness. Their robes dropped and they stood as High Priest and High Priestess before him in nude splendor holding hands like the figures in the gold medallion.

“We are the Lord and Lady of the Oak.” They said and seemed to swirl and move like heat waves until they turned two dimensional and receded back into the life sized images painted on the cave wall above the altar. “You have our blessings always. We will talk more later.”

Tobal felt a snapping sound at the base of his neck and suddenly found himself no longer in the secret cave but in the circle at the Yule celebration ritual. Misty and the High Priest were standing in front of him with their arms extended in blessing.

Above the central fire he could see the smiling faces of his father and mother. He was elated and shaken by what had happened and wanted to talk with someone about it. Crow was probably getting ready to leave. Maybe he could find Ellen and ask her. She was supposed to know about talking to the Lord and Lady.

He noticed Angel taking part in the ritual as helper and wondered if she was going to be taking Misty’s place soon. He found an excuse to talk with her and found out she was training but it would be several months until she was ready to take Misty’s place. Serving on the ritual team was not a mandatory part of being a Master.

Only those that felt called to serve on the ritual team did so. Since the ritual positions of all three degrees were voluntary there was quite a change in the number of qualified people. She had seen Ellen around but didn’t know where she was. Tobal thanked her and moved on.

He suddenly remembered that Crow would be leaving soon and he needed to give him his present. Crow was chatting with some of the others as Tobal pulled him aside and gave him his gift and wished him well on his solo.

Tobal had finished his little carvings and it was time to give them to his friends as Christmas presents. He had carefully polished them and laced them on rawhide thongs to wear around the neck like amulets. As he gave them away he loved the looks of surprise and pleasure that lit his friends faces as they accepted the gift.

He found each of his friends and pulled them aside for a minute to quietly give them their gift. He gave Rafe the fox, Fiona got a loon, Sarah got a beaver, Ellen got an eagle and Crow got a wolf. He had made an owl for Nick but Nick was with Tara and he didn’t have anything for her.

As everyone was showing each other their gifts he noticed Becca sitting by herself and looking a little lost and lonely. Summoning up his courage he went over to where she was sitting. He looked down into her troubled green eyes and felt himself being helplessly pulled into them. Tearing his gaze away, he averted his eyes and held out the owl to her.

“Here,” he said gruffly. Then he turned around and walked away, his face contorting with the conflicting emotions he was feeling. Mostly he felt glad and happy. It was like he had finally lain to rest a demon that had been tormenting his inner soul.

He noticed Becca seemed strangely happy and had gone over to share her gift with the others and was chatting gaily. It was good to be with friends, he thought as he made his way to the beer barrel for another tankard and some light conversation with Anne, Derdre and Seth before they left.

This was the first time he was able to really catch up with what was going on in the lives of other clansmen and he took advantage of it as much as he could. The first one he really had a chance to chat with was Wayne. He seemed to have gotten over his breakup with Char and was very protective of his newbie.

Tobal noticed wryly that Wayne’s newbie was a cute brunette with an impish smile and a little girl look that made her appear more helpless than she really was. She had already soloed so he knew she was able to take care of herself. He didn’t understand why she chose to act like she couldn’t. She was very clingy with Wayne and it seemed she was going to wait out at least a few of the coldest months with him before trying to train on her own.

Wayne seemed to be taking it all in stride and was very comfortable with the situation but Tobal noticed that Char kept glancing over at her and didn’t seem too happy about the arrangement. He could feel the tension in the air and mentally reaffirmed something Rafe had told him about not getting into romantic relationships with newbies.

It seemed like it only led to problems and often the newbie didn’t have the skills to just up and leave on their own. Rafe had always told him to get the solos out of the way first and watching this thing between Wayne and Char, he found that he had to agree.

He spoke with some of the others he didn’t know very well and then went over to the drum circle and sat near the fire feeling the beat of the drums against his body. It was restful and he had many things on his mind. He didn’t really feel like dancing.

Much later he decided it was time for sleep and headed for bed. He cleared a spot for sleeping in one of the teepees and spread some furs on the floor. He put more wood on the fire in the center and pulled his clothes off. He was sliding in between his blankets when the door flap on the teepee opened with a gust of cold air and in the firelight he saw Becca slip in through the door and re-close it.

She turned toward him and in a husky voice asked, “Can I sleep here tonight?”

Wordlessly he sat up and took her pack, setting it down to one side. He helped her out of her furs and she slid under the blankets with him feeling warm and smooth against his body. Their hands stroked and explored each other gently and then with more urgency. She moaned and gasped at his touch. His body thrilled at her touch. Soundlessly their lips merged and later their bodies joined in an explosion of uncontrolled passion.

Tobal woke up to the crackle of the flames in the fire. Becca’s arm was across his chest and she was cuddled up against him. He moved a little and she smiled but didn’t wake up. He spent the next hour laying there looking at her face lying next to him. He didn’t want to wake her up. He just wanted to remember forever.

Morning came and the flames died down to the point it was getting cold in the teepee when Becca finally woke up. Seeing she was awake he took advantage and slipped out of the blankets to stir up the fire and put more wood on it.

Any other sleepers had already left for breakfast and they had the teepee to themselves. He was aware of her green eyes watching his naked body as he moved about the cold room and dived back under the blankets. She moved away from him.

“You’re cold,” she whispered. Her eyes laughing.

“Then warm me up,” he challenged and she did. They missed breakfast, but hunger pangs forced them out for lunch.

The third day of the Yule festival was sunny and bitter cold. But Tobal hardly noticed as he and Becca grabbed some food and headed over to watch the talent show. Fiona gave an impressive knife-throwing exhibition that drew applause from the crowd and also a growing respect as she hit several thrown targets while they were still in the air. As she left the stage she saw them at the back of the room and moved toward them smiling.

“It’s about time the two of you storm clouds got together,” she teased. “Now maybe the rest of us can have some fun without getting rained on.”

“Storm clouds?” Tobal asked puzzled.

“Don’t give me any of that crap,” she put her hands on her hips. “I’ve not only had to listen to you, but I’ve had to listen to her,” and she pointed at Becca who was smiling. “Whenever the two of you are within six feet of each other there is so much static electricity in the air that it makes my hair stand up and anyone else’s that’s was around you. The whole camp has been making bets on when the two of you would finally get together.”

“It wasn’t that bad was it?” He whispered to Becca.

She just nodded at him and kissed him. There were some tears in her eyes. He hoped they were tears of happiness. “Everything is all right now though.” She brushed at her eyes.

Fiona gave them both a big hug and kiss and they watched the rest of the show together.

Kevin and Zee had put together a crazy puppet show complete with a small stage. The story was about two Apprentices that partnered up for the winter and fell in love. They proclaimed undying love for each other and then later wore black tunics and fought each other all the time in a bizarre twist on the Journeyman degree until angels came in air sleds and carried them away. The crowd thought it was funny. Tobal wondered where they got the ideas though and asked them as they came off the stage.

Zee joked, “Why from you and Becca of course. Good to see you’ve finally come to your senses.”

Both Kevin and Zee congratulated them and gave them hugs. It seemed that Zee and Kevin were really happy exploring their new relationship and staying warm as possible this winter.

It was Kevin that asked, “So are you two going to partner up for the rest of the winter?”

Becca glanced first at Tobal and then at Fiona. “We are both going to keep training newbies through the winter. Right?” She looked at Tobal expectantly and his arm a squeeze.

“Uh, that’s right,” he mumbled. “Got to keep training newbies. We can partner up as Journeymen.” He knew he had given the right answer as Becca brightened and smiled widely.

They turned their attention back to the stage as Sarah sang some beautiful Celtic music she had learned from her father. Her voice and the songs were haunting and left a hush over the crowd. Tobal looked and could see tears in the eyes of some of the listeners. There was definitely love and romance in the air.

Mike and Butch took the stage next and had everyone gasping and rolling on the floor at their stand up comic routine. They were natural clowns and comedians and loved to entertain people. They concluded their act to wild applause and a break for dinner. As people broke for dinner a line formed to congratulate Mike and Butch. It seemed they had really made a hit.

Sarah came over and they all gave her a big hug and told her how beautiful her songs were. The six of them left to get some food and drink. Later they met with others and headed back to watch more of the talent show. The remainder of the evening was a lot of fun even though Tobal didn’t know many of the performers. It was almost as fun watching the antics of the audience and chatting with friends.

Mike and Butch showed up after dinner in high spirits and were looking to have some fun with the girls. Their comedy routine had made them very popular and like celebrities they were surrounded with groupies. They were party animals and liked to play with the girls at circle where it was fun and light. There were lots of girls that liked fun too and Tobal guessed neither Mike nor Butch would be sleeping alone tonight.

Becca noticed his jet and amber necklace and asked about it. He suggested they go back to the teepee where they could talk. They helped each other undress and slid into the blankets to keep warm. It was about an hour later when Becca reminded him about the necklace.

Slowly he told her the story from the beginning and showed her the necklace, the hospital bands, the ceremonial dagger and the wand. She was quiet and didn’t say very much after that.

They made love once more and fell asleep. In the morning they both agreed the sweat hut sounded like a good idea. They laughed as they sat in the steam and told stories as the sweat ran off them. They dared each other to run outside and roll in the snow and run back in. To the amazement of several onlookers they were both crazy enough to do it although their hair was frozen all most immediately once they made it out side. Once was enough and the next trip was to get their clothes. It was refreshing and did put them in a good mood.

Becca made up her mind to take the stage at the talent show. She was a surprising gymnast and did some cart wheels, headstands and handsprings that showed just how good of shape she was really in. She topped it off with a back flip that brought cheers. Then it was Tobal’s turn. In desperation Tobal painted his face and did a pantomime routine about claiming sanctuary, how bad the food and water were how it took his things and did the med-exam. He pantomimed all of it down to taking a shower without clothing much to the hoots and laughter of the crowd after they finally realized what he was doing. The newbies especially thought it was funny and everyone had a good laugh out of it. Later people came up and said how they had enjoyed it.

Next on the stage were Nick and Tara. Tara had gotten Nick as drummer and did a strip dance for the entire group to enthusiastic applause.

Tobal and Becca talked with them after the show. Nick and Tara looked happy together. They had settled for the winter at her base camp and Nick had done lots of heavy work getting things ready for the winter. Tara boasted they even had enough firewood already cut to last through the winter. Nick had made stone axes for both of them and they had worked at it till it was all done.

Nick flushed at the praise but there was a quiet glow of acceptance in knowing he had earned it. Tobal realized Nick had matured a lot in just the few months since he had worked with him and known him. Sometimes relationships did that to a person. Nick had shown his stone axes at the talent show earlier.

The celebration was not all fun and games though. Ox showed up for the Yule party, he had two chevrons and was boasting about beating Rafe, which almost got him into a fight there. Rafe was well liked and no one likes a bully, especially one that rubs things in. After a bit he stuck with some of the rowdier Journeymen and concentrated on getting drunk.

Drunken Journeymen brought their own share of problems into the camp. That week the entire camp went through the emergency beer supply and ran out. Tobal thought that might be one of the reasons people started the cold journeys back to their own base camps by the end of the fourth day.

Nikki was planning to try for another newbie. She was determined to at least try training in the wintertime and see if it suited her or not. She really didn’t look forward to spending the entire winter partnering with anyone and was trying to avoid it if she could. She liked both training and the solitude of being alone at times.

She already had two chevrons and was tied with Becca and Fiona. Having a little fun at the parties once a month was just fine for her. She wanted to be a citizen and didn’t want to waste precious months and years camping out in the woods like Wayne and Char. Tobal had noticed Nikki really seemed to not like Wayne and Char for some reason and couldn’t figure out why.

Fiona and Becca were competitive enough that they hated the thought of Nikki advancing ahead of them and someone needed to train this month’s newbies. All three girls tried talking him into going to sanctuary with them but he really felt like he needed a break. There had been too much happening and he needed some time to sort things out, especially about Becca and himself.

Late January was bitter with sub-zero temperatures. There were several cases of frostbite that needed tending at the gathering spot and the medics made a point to question everyone if they needed to be treated. Frostbite if not treated could lead to infection and the loss of a limb.

Sarah proclaimed her newbie, Ben as ready to solo. There were two others willing to solo and the elders grudgingly gave their approval after issuing strict warnings about the dangers of these extreme temperatures. Each soloist had two weeks supply of food they had prepared ahead of time and warm clothing. They felt they were ready.

Four more people had gone. They just packed up and headed west toward the coast. The medics kept track of them until they were out of range. The winter months were the ones when they lost the most people even though it was the most dangerous time of year for travel.

That month not many showed up at circle. Zee and Kevin continued staying together and didn’t show up at circle. Neither did Wayne or his soloed student. Tobal suspected they were waiting out the winter together. Char and her partner didn’t come either and it was probably because of the bitter cold this time of year. Tara and Nick were not there either. Those were just clansmen Tobal had hoped to see but didn’t.

Mike and Butch showed up in high spirits and looking to have some fun with the girls like last month. They were hoping for a little casual sex with no strings attached. Just something to release the tension of cabin fever that started to grow this time of year. Last months’ week long celebration had given the two eternal optimists much encouragement and they hoped to push their luck again. The trouble was no matter how much they tried none of the girls seemed interested.

Crow was back and talking with the others when Tobal got there. They all looked as he came over. Becca slipped into his arms and gave him a passionate kiss. His grip tightened on the tankard, voice low with shock as she whispered in his ear.

“Everyone knows,” she whispered in his ear.

“Knows what?” He said with a grin, teasing one of her stray hairs back in place.

“About the rogues, your parents, Crow’s parents, Sarah’s parents, the massacre and the possible attack on the village.”

“What!” His smile vanished.

“I told Melanie and Nikki,” she confessed. “On the way to sanctuary last month. It seemed important. They are both very concerned. But Crow has been telling everyone else since he came in this morning. He’s getting a group together to go to the village to ensure its protection.”

Crow’s voice steadied as he outlined the plan. He looked at Tobal, “Grandfather says it is good if I bring as many others as I can. He says it will help ensure the safety of the village. He says you can come if you want.”

“You have been in contact with your Grandfather about this?”

Crow nodded, “We are only planning on staying there for a month and then coming back. The main point is to show there is good will between the village and us and that we are in contact with each other when we need to be. Grandfather thinks the city needs to know this. We will all be leaving in the morning. They’d packed overnight, urgency driving them.”

Tobal couldn’t think of anything useful to say. “Can you talk to Ellen before you go?”

“Sure,” Crow replied. “Things will be fine.”

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Eleven
Renders to the reader the end of the Privy Councilor through
Alraune.
IN leap year night a storm blew in over the Rhine. Coming
in from the south it seized the ice flows, pushing them
downstream, piling them on top of each other and crashing
them against the old toll bridge. It tore the roof off the
Jesuit church, blew down ancient linden trees in the courtyard garden,
loosened the moorings of the strong pontoon boat of the swimming
school and dashed it to pieces on the mighty pillars of the stone
bridge.
The storm chased through Lendenich as well. Three chimneys
tumbled down from the community center and old Hahnenwirt’s barn
was destroyed. But the worst thing it did was to the house of ten
Brinken. It blew out the eternal lamps that burned at the shrine of St.
John of Nepomuk.
That had never been seen before, not in the several hundred years
that the Manor house had stood. The devout villagers quickly refilled
the lamps and lit them again the next morning, but they said it
portended a great misfortune and the end of the Brinken’s was certain.
That night had proven that the Saint had now turned his hand
away from the Lutheran house. No storm in the world could have
extinguished those lamps unless he allowed it.
It was an omen, that’s what the people said. But some whispered
that it hadn’t been the storm winds at all. The Fräulein had been
outside around midnight–she had extinguished the lamps.
But it appeared as if the people were wrong in their prophecies.
Large parties were held in the mansion even though it was lent. All
the windows were brightly lit one night after the other. Music could
be heard along with laughter and loud singing.
The Fräulein demanded it. She needed distraction, she said, after
her bereavement and the Privy Councilor did as she wished. He crept
behind her where ever she went. It was almost as if he had taken over
Wőlfchen’s role.
His squinting glance sought her out when she stepped into the
room and followed her when she left. She noticed how the hot blood
crept through his old veins, laughed brightly and tossed her head. Her
moods became more capricious and her demands became more
exaggerated.
The old man handled it by always demanding something in
return, having her tickle his bald head or play her quick fingers up and
down his arm, demanding that she sit on his lap or even kiss him.
Time after time he urged her to come dressed as a boy.
She came in riding clothes, in her lace clothing from the
Candlemass ball, as a fisher boy with opened shirt and naked legs, or
as an elevator boy in a red, tight fitting uniform that showed off her
hips. She also came as a mountain climber, as Prince Orlowski, as
Nerissa in a court clerk’s gown, as Piccolo in a black dress suit, as a
Rococo page, or as Euphorion in tricots and blue tunic.
The Privy Councilor would sit on the sofa and have her walk
back and forth in front of him. His moist hands rubbed across his
trousers, his legs slid back and forth on the carpet and with bated
breath he would search for a way to begin–
She would stand there looking at him, challenging him, and
under her gaze he would back down. He searched in vain but could
not find the words that would cover his disgusting desires and veil
them in a cute little jacket.
Laughing mockingly she would leave–as soon as the door latch
clicked shut, as soon as he heard her clear laughter on the stairs–the
thoughts would come to him. Then it was easy, then he knew exactly
what to say, what he should have said. He often called out after her–
sometimes she even came back.
“Well?” she asked.
But it didn’t work; again it didn’t work.
“Oh, nothing,” he grumbled.
That was it, his confidence had failed him. He searched around
for some other victim just to convince himself that he was still master
of his old skills. He found one, the little thirteen-year-old daughter of
the tinsmith that had been brought to the house to repair some kettles.
“Come along, little Marie,” he said. “There is something I want
to give you.”
He pulled her into the library. After a half hour the little one
slunk past him in the hall like a sick, wild animal with wide open,
staring eyes, pressing herself tightly against the wall–
Triumphant, with a broad smile, the Privy Councilor stepped
across the courtyard, back into the mansion. Now he was confident–
but now Alraune avoided him, came up when he seemed calm but
pulled back confused when his eyes flickered.
“She plays–she’s playing with me!” grated the professor.
Once, as she stood up from the table he grabbed her hand. He
knew exactly what he wanted to say, word for word–yet forgot it
instantly. He got angry at himself, even angrier at the haughty look
the girl gave him.
Quickly, violently, he sprang up, twisted her arm around and
threw her screaming down onto the divan. She fell–but was back on
her feet again before he could get to her. She laughed, laughed so
shrilly and loudly that it hurt his ears. Then without a word she
stepped out of the room.
She stayed in her rooms, wouldn’t come out for tea, not to
dinner. She was not seen for days. He pleaded at her door–said nice
things to her, implored and begged. But she wouldn’t come out. He
pushed letters in to her, swore and promised her more and still more,
but she didn’t answer.
One day after he had whimpered for hours before her door she
finally opened it.
“Be quiet,” she said. “It bothers me–what do you want?”
He asked for forgiveness, said it had been a sudden attack, that
he had lost control over his senses–
She spoke quietly, “You lie!”
Then he let all masks fall, told her how he desired her, how he
couldn’t breathe without her around, told her that he loved her.
She laughed out loud at him but agreed to negotiate and made
her conditions. He still searched here and there trying to find ways to
get an advantage.
“Once, just once a week she should come dressed as a boy–”
“No,” she cried. “Any day if I want to–or not at all if I don’t
want to.”
That was when he knew he had lost and from that day on he was
the Fräulein’s slave, without a will of his own. He was her obedient
hound, whimpering around her, eating the crumbs that she
deliberately knocked off the table for him. She allowed him to run
around in his own home like an old mangy animal that lived on
charity–only because no one cared enough to kill it.
She gave him her commands, “Purchase flowers, buy a
motorboat. Invite these gentlemen on this day and these others on the
next. Bring down my purse.”
He obeyed and felt richly rewarded when she suddenly came
down dressed as an Eton boy with a high hat and large round collar,
or if she stretched out her little patent leather shoes so he could tie the
silk laces.
Sometimes when he was alone he would wake up. He would
slowly lift his ugly head, shake it back and forth and brood about
what had happened. Hadn’t he become accustomed to rule for
generations? Wasn’t his will law in the house of ten Brinken?
To him it was as if a tumor had swelled up in the middle of his
brain and crushed his thoughts or some poisonous insect had crawled
in through his ears or nose and stung him. Now it whirled around
right in front of his face, mockingly buzzed in front of his eyes–why
didn’t he kill it?
He got half way up, struggling with resolution.
“This must come to an end,” he murmured.
But he forgot everything as soon as he saw her. Then his eyes
opened, his ears grew sharp, listening for the rustle of her silk. Then
his mighty nose sniffed the air greedily, taking in the fragrance of her
body, making his old fingers tremble, making him lick the spittle from
his lips with his tongue.
All of his senses crept toward her, eagerly, lecherously,
poisonously, filled with loathsome vices and perversions–that was the
strong cord on which she held him.
Herr Sebastian Gontram came out to Lendenich and found the
Privy Councilor in the library.
“You have got to be careful,” he said. “We are going to have a
lot of trouble getting things back in order. You should be a little more
concerned about it, your Excellency.”
“I have no time,” answered the Privy Councilor.
“That’s not good enough,” said Herr Gontram quietly. “You
must have some time for this. You haven’t taken care of anything this
past week, just let everything go. Be careful your Excellency, it could
cost you dearly.”
“Ok,” sneered the Privy Councilor. “What is it then?”
“I just wrote you about it,” answered the Legal Councilor. “But it
seems you don’t read my letters any more. The former director of the
Wiesbaden museum has written a brochure, as you know, in which he
has made all kinds of assertions. For that he was brought in front of
the court. He moved to have the pieces in question examined by
experts. Now the commission has examined your pieces and for the
most part they have been declared forgeries. All the newspapers are
full of it. The accused will certainly be acquitted.”
“Let him be,” said the Privy Councilor.
“That’s all right with me, your Excellency, if that is what you
want!” Gontram continued, “But he has already filed a new suit
against you with the District Attorney and the authorities must act on
it.
By the way, that is not everything, not by far. In the
Gerstenberger foundry bankruptcy case the bankruptcy administrator
has placed an accusation against you on the basis of several
documents. You are being accused of concealing financial records,
swindling and cheating. A similar accusation has been filed, as you
know, by the Karpen brickworks.
Finally Attorney Kramer, representing the tinsmith Hamecher,
has succeeded in having the District Attorney’s office order a medical
examination of his little daughter.
“The child lies,” cried the professor. “She is a hysterical brat.”
“All the better,” nodded the Legal Councilor. “Then your
innocence will surely come out.
A little more distant there is a lawsuit by the merchant
Matthiesen for damages and reimbursements of fifty thousand Marks
that comes with another accusation of fraud.
In a new lawsuit in the case of Plutus manufacturing the
opposing attorney is charging you with falsification of documents and
has declared as well that he wants to take the necessary steps to bring
it into criminal court.
You see, your Excellency, how the cases multiply when you
don’t come into the office for a long time. Scarcely a day goes by
without something new being filed.”
“Are you finished yet?” the Privy Councilor asked.
“No,” said Herr Gontram calmly, “absolutely not. Those were
only some little flowers from the beautiful bouquet that is waiting for
you in the city. I advise your Excellency, insist that you come in.
Don’t take these things so lightly.”
But the Privy Councilor answered, “I told you already that I
don’t have any time. You really shouldn’t bother me with these trifles
and just leave me alone.”
The Legal Councilor rose up, put his documents in his leather
portfolio and closed it slowly.

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

The guests pressed to the edges, those in back climbed up on
chairs and tables. They watched, breathless.
“I congratulate you, your Excellency,” murmured Princess
Wolkonski.
The Privy Councilor replied, “Thank you, your Highness. You
see that our efforts have not been entirely in vain.”
They changed directions, the Chevalier led his Lady diagonally
across the hall, and Rosalinde opened her eyes wide, throwing quiet,
astonished glances at the crowd surrounding them.
“Shakespeare would kneel if he saw this Rosalinde,” declared the
professor of literature.
But at the next table little Manasse barked from his chair down to
Legal Councilor Gontram.
“Stand up and look just this once, Herr Colleague! Look at that!
Your boy looks just like your departed wife–exactly like her!”
The old Legal Councilor remained sitting quietly, sampling a
new bottle of Urziger Auslese.
“I can’t especially remember any more how she looked,” he
opined indifferently.
Oh, he remembered her well, but what did that have to do with
other people?
The couple danced, down through the hall and back. Rosalinde’s
white shoulders rose and fell faster, her cheeks grew flushed–but the
Chevalier smiled under his powder and remained equally graceful,
equally certain, confident and nimble.
Countess Olga tore the red carnations out of her hair and threw
them at the couple. The Chevalier de Maupin caught one in the air,
pressed it to his lips and blew her a kiss. Then all the others grabbed
after colorful flowers, taking them out of vases on the tables, tearing
them from clothing, loosening them from their hair, and under a
shower of flowers the couple waltzed to the left around the hall
carried by the sounds of “Roses of the South”.
The orchestra started over and over again. The musicians, dulled
and over tired from nightly playing, appeared to wake up, leaning
over the balustrade of the balcony and looking down. The baton of the
conductor flew faster, hotter rushed the bows of the violinists and in
deep silence the untiring couple, Rosalinde and the Chevalier de
Maupin, floated through a sea of roses, colors and sounds.
Then the conductor stopped the music. Then it broke loose. The
Baron von Platten, Colonel of the 28th cried out with his stentorian
voice down from the gallery:
“A cheer for the couple! A cheer for Fräulein ten Brinken! A
cheer for Rosalinde!”
The glasses clinked and people shouted and yelled, pressing onto
the dance floor, surrounding the couple, almost crushing them.
Two fraternity boys from Rhenania carried in a mighty basket
full of red roses they had purchased downtown somewhere from a
flower woman. A couple Hussar officers brought champagne. Alraune
only sipped, but Wolf Gontram–overheated, red-hot and thirsty,
guzzled the cool drink greedily, one goblet after another.
Alraune pulled him away, breaking a path through the crowd.
The red executioner sat in the middle of the hall. He stuck out his long
neck, held out his axe to her with both hands.
“I have no flowers,” he cried. “I myself am a red rose. Pluck
me!”
Alraune left him sitting, led her lady further, past the tables
under the gallery and into the conservatory. She looked around her. It
was no less full of people and all of them were waving and calling out
to them. Then she saw a little door behind a heavy curtain that led out
to a balcony.
“Oh, this is good!” she cried. “Come with Wölfchen!”
She pulled back the curtain, turned the key, and pressed down on
the latch. But five coarse fingers rested on her arm.
“What do you want there?” cried a harsh voice.
She turned around. It was Attorney Manasse in his black hooded
robe and mask.
“What do you want outside?” he repeated.
She shook off his ugly hand.
“What is it to you?” she answered. “We just want to get a breath
of fresh air.”
He nodded vigorously, “That’s just what I thought, exactly why I
followed you over here! But you won’t do it, will not do it!”
Fräulein ten Brinken straightened up, looked at him haughtily.
“And why shouldn’t I do it? Perhaps you would like to stop us?”
He involuntarily sagged under her glance, but didn’t give up.
“Yes, I will stop you, I will! Don’t you understand that this is
madness? You are both over heated, almost drenched in sweat–and
you want to go out onto the balcony where it is twelve degrees below
zero?”
“We are going,” insisted Alraune.
“Then go,” he barked. “It doesn’t matter to me what you do
Fräulein–I will only stop the boy, Wolf Gontram, him alone.”
Alraune measured him from head to foot. She pulled the key out
of the lock, opened the door wide.
“Well then,” she said.
She stepped outside onto the balcony, raised her hand and
beckoned to her Rosalinde.
“Will you come out into the winter night with me?” she cried.
“Or will you stay inside the hall?”
Wolf Gontram pushed the attorney to the side, stepped quickly
through the door. Little Manasse grabbed at him, clamped tightly onto
his arm. But the boy pushed him back again, silently, so that he fell
awkwardly against the curtain.
“Don’t go Wolf!” screamed the attorney. “Don’t go!”
He looked wretched, his hoarse voice broke.
But Alraune laughed out loud, “Adieu, faithful Eckart! Stay
pretty in there and guard our audience!”
She slammed the door in his face, stuck the key in the lock and
turned it twice. The little attorney tried to see through the frosted
window. He tore at the latch and in a rage stamped both feet on the
floor. Then he slowly calmed himself, came out from behind the
curtain and stepped back into the hall.
“So it is fate,” he growled.
He bit his strong, tangled teeth together, went back to his
Excellency’s table, let himself fall heavily into a chair.
“What’s wrong, Herr Manasse?” asked Frieda Gontram. “You
look like seven days of rainy weather!”
“Nothing,” he barked. “Absolutely nothing–by the way, your
brother is an ass! Herr Colleague, don’t drink all of that alone! Save
some of it for me!”
The Legal Councilor poured his glass full.
But Frieda Gontram said quite convinced, “Yes, I believe that
too. He is an ass.”
The two walked through the snow, leaned over the balustrade,
Rosalinde and the Chevalier de Maupin. The full moon fell over the
wide street, threw its sweet light on the baroque shape of the
university, then the old palace of the Archbishop. It played on the
wide white expanses down below, throwing fantastic shadows
diagonally over the sidewalk.
Wolf Gontram drank in the icy air.
“That is beautiful,” he whispered, waving with his hand down at
the white street where there was not the slightest sound to disturb the
deep silence.
But Alraune ten Brinken was looking at him, saw how his white
shoulders glowed in the moonlight, saw his large deep eyes shining
like opals.
“You are beautiful,” she said to him. “You are more beautiful
than the moonlit night.”
He let go of the stone balustrade, reached out for her and
embraced her.
“Alraune,” he cried. “Alraune.”
She endured this for a moment, then freed herself, and patted
him lightly on the hand.
“No,” she laughed, “No! You are Rosalinde–and I am the boy, so
I will court you.”
She looked around, grabbed a chair out of the corner, dragged it
over, beat off the snow with her sword-cane.
“Here, sit down my beautiful Fräulein. Unfortunately you are a
little too tall for me! That’s better–now we are just right!”
She bowed gracefully, then went down on one knee.
“Rosalinde,” she chirped. “Rosalinde! Permit a knight errant to
steal a kiss–”
“Alraune,” he began.
But she sprang up, clapped her hand over his lips. “You must say
‘Mein Herr!’” she cried.
“Now then, will you permit me to steal a kiss Rosalinde?”
“Yes, Mein Herr,” he stammered.
Then she stepped behind him, took his head in both arms and she
began, hesitated.
“First the ears,” she laughed, “the right and now the left, and the
cheeks, both of them–and your stupid nose that I have so often kissed.
Finally–lookout Rosalinde, your beautiful mouth.”
She bent lower, pressed her curly head against his shoulder under
his hat. But she pulled back again.
“No, no, beautiful maiden, leave your hands! They must rest
quietly in your lap.”
He laid his shivering hands on his knee and closed his eyes. Then
she kissed him, slowly and passionately. At the end her small teeth
sought his lip, bit it quickly so that heavy drops of red blood fell down
onto the snow.
She tore herself loose, stood in front of him, staring blankly at
the moon with wide-open eyes. A sudden chill seized her, threw a
shiver over her slender limbs.
“I’m freezing,” she whispered.
She raised one foot up and then the other.
“The stupid snow is everywhere inside my dance slippers!”
She pulled a slipper off and shook it out.
“Put my shoes on,” he cried. “They are bigger and warmer.”
He quickly slipped them off and let her step into them.
“Is that better?”
“Yes,” she laughed. “I feel good again. For that I will give you
another kiss, Rosalinde.”
And she kissed him again–and again she bit him. Then they both
laughed at how the moon lit up the red stains on the white ground.
“Do you love me, Wolf Gontram?” she asked.
He said, “I think of nothing else but you.”
She hesitated a moment, then asked again–“If I wanted it–would
you jump from the balcony?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Even from the roof?”
He nodded.
“Even from the tower of the Münster Cathedral?”
He nodded again.
“Would you do anything for me, Wölfchen?” she asked.
“Yes, Alraune,” he said, “if you loved me.”
She pursed her lips, rocked her hips lightly.
“I don’t know whether I love you,” she said slowly. “Would you
do it even if I didn’t love you?”
His gorgeous eyes that his mother had given him shone, shone
fuller and deeper than they had ever done and the moon above,
jealous of those eyes, hid from them, concealing itself behind the
cathedral tower.
“Yes,” said the boy. “Yes, even then.”
She sat on his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck.
“For that, Rosalinde–for that I will kiss you for a third time.”
And she kissed him again, still longer and more passionately and
she bit him–more wildly and deeply. But they couldn’t see the heavy
drops in the snow any more because the jealous moon had hidden its
silver torch.
“Come,” she whispered. “Come, we must go!”
They exchanged shoes, beat the snow off their clothing, opened
the door and stepped back inside, slipped behind the curtain and into
the hall. The arc-lamps overhead were glaring; the hot and sticky air
stifled them.
Wolf Gontram staggered as he let go of the curtain, grasping
quickly at his chest with both hands.
She noticed it. “Wölfchen?” she cried.
He said, “It’s nothing, nothing at all–just a twinge! But it’s all
right now.”
Hand in hand they walked through the hall.
Wolf Gontram didn’t come into the office the next day, never got
out of bed, lay in a raging fever. He lay like that for nine days. He was
often delirious, called out her name–but not once during this time did
he come back to consciousness.
Then he died. It was pneumonia. They buried him outside, in the
new cemetery.
Fräulein ten Brinken sent a large garland of full, dark roses.

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

People like me come once a generation. Who grasps the irresistible
urge of a soul whose sole element is beauty? Beauty
as the condition, the air, the only law. We few should
take whatever we need to nurture our genius. Private
property loses meaning before us. For the artist,
there’s no private property; we’re the rightful owners
of beauty in all forms. Everything bows to us. What
our consecrated hands touch is ours—by right. We
craft new beauty, gifting it to the world. What do
those dull Heidelberg scholars get from a
manuscript? They count syllables, write
commentaries, and every decade, one pens a
monograph, borrowing a few artist’s phrases to dress
up their dry drivel. Who among them feels the
delicate wonders of an old monk’s manuscript, the
scent rising from its lines, the symbolism of its
images, the deep, glowing colors that sear our souls,
birthing bold, unheard thoughts… but you’re like
them. You wield the tongs, grasping the coal to spare
the bourgeois parlor’s floor from burns.”
Hedwig fell silent. When Fritz Gegely reached this
point, he had to go to the bitter, painful end. He
paced behind the table. “You’ll drive me to…
renounce my name… I won’t hide—in a place like
Vorderschluder…”
A clatter arose on the stairs. Gegely opened the
door. The luggage and wheelchair arrived. The
stableman, the butcher, and two other Cyclopes
panted and sweated up the steps. The landlady had
marshaled all her male staff. The chambermaid led,
switching on electric lights everywhere. They
brought the baggage piece by piece, a considerable
haul. The rooms filled with trunks and boxes. It
looked chaotic. Fritz Gegely fled. “You, country
lass,” he addressed the chambermaid, “you’ll unpack
the trunks under my wife’s supervision.”
“Oh, yes,” the girl, who’d stood reverently, said
with eager goodwill.
Hedwig beckoned her husband, wanting to speak,
but, realizing it was futile to hold him back, only
nodded. “Don’t let time drag, dearest,” he said. “I’ll
be back soon. My heart stays with you. You know
that, don’t you?” He returned from the door, leaned
over, and kissed her forehead with a tender, soft kiss.
The chambermaid melted. It was like the finest
novels. My heart stays with you! he’d said. She must
remember that. Her next letter to Schorsch, the
gallant Forty-Niner, would end with this phrase,
which seemed imbued with magic.
She set to work, guided by Hedwig’s brief
instructions. She was rarely so deft and willing.
When unpacking ran smoothly, Hedwig gazed out the
window. Below, summer guests spoke softly. A girl’s
laughter swirled playfully. The evening was gentle,
as if the day had lived much and grown wise and
infinitely kind. Twilight lingered over rooftops,
forested hills, and the castle opposite. It fell from the
sky like fine, soft cigar ash, settling on green
shingles, golden-brown thatch, or rust-red tiles. As
impartial as all heavenly messages, for the just and
unjust alike. So Hedwig mused, looking out. A
distant accordion stretched and sighed in yearning
tones. Suddenly, a goose shrieked, as if jolted from
sleep by a rough grasp. The castle up there, Hedwig
thought—how it stands, firm and sure like him. She
remembered him thus, as he was then, and surely still
was. He’d have breathed his spirit into those old
walls; he needed no setting to create, shaping his
world to his will. Tomorrow, perhaps, she’d see him.
The thought surged like a hot wave, but its glow
faded, leaving her chilled. She trembled, fearing his
gaze. Why had she come?
These thoughts followed her into the first night’s
sleep. They say, she thought before drifting off, the
dream of the first night in a new place comes true,
with special power. But Hedwig dreamed nothing,
though she urged herself somewhere deep within to
dream. No images formed. Only a gentle floating in
lightness remained, a caress like comforting hands,
silencing all sobs. That was as good as a dream.
Morning brought dense fog to the Kamp valley.
The village was submerged, only houses jutted with
green-black shingles, golden-brown thatch, and rust-
red tiles from the curdled milk. The castle basked in
morning clarity. As the sun climbed, boldly
beckoning the wooded valley, the fog dissolved,
retreating to the forests, lingering as a thin,
opalescent haze over the Kamp. By noon, Frau
Hedwig could venture out for the first time.
Through the Red Ox landlady, Gegely had found a
man to push Hedwig’s wheelchair. It was
Maurerwenzel, jobless and pleased with the task, as it
required no shift from his “slow” gait.
Gegely walked beside his wife’s wheelchair.
Summer guests watched, confident these were people
worth gossiping about. The spectacle wasn’t baseless.
A beautiful, young, paralyzed woman in a
wheelchair, and Gegely, never lifting his hand from
the chair’s armrest, tenderly poised to fulfill her
wishes. He’d traded his pressed travel suit’s
correctness for a bohemian nonchalance, signaling:
here I’m at home. He wore purple velvet slippers,
loose bohemian trousers, and a velvet jacket once
owned by Gustave Flaubert. His walking stick, with
an ivory duck-bill handle, came from Jules de
Goncourt’s estate, and for larger bills, he used a
crocodile-leather wallet embossed with Oscar
Wilde’s name in tiny gold letters.
They went down the village street and over the
bridge with its twisting baroque saints, who turned
their heads to the invalid, lamenting their stone forms
couldn’t help.
“That’s Saint Nepomuk,” Maurerwenzel said of
one. “When he hears midnight strike, he turns a
page… in the book he holds…”
“A folk tale?” Hedwig smiled kindly.
Maurerwenzel grinned. “Nah… he turns when he
hears… but does he hear?”
“Oh, a jest!” Fritz Gegely said, his glance adding:
You’re hired to push, not joke.
Maurerwenzel nodded, pleased. A jest! For a
Social Democrat, who knew the divide between
capital and labor, this was much. Had steadfast Rauß
heard, he’d have chewed him out.
They followed the Kamp a stretch, on the soft
meadow path to the paper factory. On the tennis court
behind, balls flew back and forth. A slender, lithe
woman deftly caught and returned them with graceful
precision. Hedwig halted, wanting to watch. She took
selfless joy in beautiful movement, with just a faint
ache in her heart. Having been so near death, she was
grateful for life’s remaining light and joy.
“Who’s the lady?” she asked the tamed
Maurerwenzel.
When he named her, she flinched slightly. So, that
was Helmina von Boschan, Ruprecht’s wife. Such
radiance, elegance, beauty, and grace. The ache in her
heart reared, threatening her eyes.
Fritz Gegely grew alert. “What did you say,
Helmina von Boschan?” he asked Maurerwenzel.
“What’s her husband’s name?”
He learned Ruprecht von Boschan resided at
Vorderschluder Castle, noting the respectful tone.
Maurerwenzel couldn’t deny respect for a man who’d
once so neatly floored Rauß and himself.
“Did you know, Hedwig?” Fritz turned to his wife.
“Did you know Ruprecht lives here?”
This was the question Hedwig had dreaded. Fritz
wouldn’t erupt before a third party, but she felt his
tension. She couldn’t lie. “Yes,” she said. “Some
time ago, I read his name in a paper, a report about a
festival in Vorderschluder. There were riots, and it
said the district captain and… Herr von Boschan’s
decisive actions prevented the worst. That’s how I
knew he’s settled here.”
Maurerwenzel held back details of Ruprecht’s
decisive actions. Hedwig looked at her husband; his
quivering nostrils signaled rising menace. But with a
third party present, no outburst came. “And so you
thought we should spend the summer here,” he said.
She placed her hand on his, feeling angry,
twitching fingers. “Yes… I believe his calm and
balance will do you good. You were friends. You’ll
see, he’s as he was… I didn’t tell you, or you
might’ve refused…” That was a lie, but unavoidable.
“Yes, yes, I know,” Gegely said venomously.
“Ruprecht, the flawless knight, free of prejudice.
He’ll shake Fritz Gegely’s hand.”
The game on the white-lined court, between high
wire nets, ended. Two men joined Helmina for lively
talk, soon turning toward the wheelchair. One stared
steadfastly over.
“I think there’s another acquaintance,” Fritz
Gegely said. “Shall we move on?”
But a rider approached along the meadow path,
trotting past the onlookers. A fleeting glance fell on
them, the horse took a few more steps… a jolt ran
through man and beast. The rider turned and came
back…

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

Fourteenth Chapter
Summer had arrived, and with it the summer
guests, bringing streams of sunlight and wealth to the
Kamp valley.
On a June evening, a carriage descended the final
curves of the forest road from Gars. An ordinary
vehicle, like any other, but extraordinary for its cargo
of compassion and purest love. Two people sat
within. A pale, beautiful young woman with gently
waved blonde hair wore a soft, flowing dress loosely
gathered beneath her chest. Half-reclining in her
corner, she let her wise, slightly sorrowful eyes
wander. They were drinking eyes, filled with much
yearning and joy, but also much resignation. The man
beside her strove for a correctness softened by
devotion. His clothing, collar, English mustache, and
manicured hands were mirrors of fashionable
perfection. His devotion was expressed by the arm
curved behind her shoulders, as if to make his ever-
present protection a comforting delight.
When the carriage jolted over the drainage ruts of
the steep road, like an old circus horse recalling
forgotten tricks, he shouted at the driver, “Drive
carefully… I told you!”
The driver grumbled, braking harder, so the
carriage creaked and groaned, inching along like a
snail. Thus, they reached Vorderschluder and the
door of the “Red Ox,” where the landlady offered her
warmest, most unctuous smile of welcome. These
were the distinguished guests who had reserved all
five front rooms on the first floor two weeks earlier.
The man leapt from the carriage, the driver
clambered down, but the young woman remained
leaning in her corner. Her smile was anxious, sad,
pleading the world’s forgiveness.
“Bring a chair,” the man told sturdy Resi. She
stared, astonished. One never stopped learning. Did
city women now need chairs to alight? Surely a
pampered princess, one who supposedly slept in
gloves.
But, reluctantly fetching the chair, she saw the
beautiful young woman wasn’t spoiled but a poor
paralytic, needing to be carried upstairs in the chair.
With infinite care and tenderness, the husband
oversaw the transport, supporting her back, holding
her dangling hand, asking ten times if all was well,
and snarling at helpers for any minor misstep.
“Let it be,” the invalid protested.
“No… we must insist you’re treated gently from
the start.”
Tears welled in the Red Ox landlady’s eyes. First,
the pity was unbearable—such youth, beauty, and
sweetness so afflicted. Second, balm flowed for the
husband, so devoted and tender. Her late husband, the
Ox landlord, could never have shown such sacrifice.
He’d turned surly when she ailed. With these
thoughts, she went to the kitchen, mingling tears with
the cook, chambermaid, and Resi, who’d returned
from upstairs with touching details. Schorsch, sadly
absent, would’ve wept too, the chambermaid said,
despite being a man with a less soft heart.
Unable to bear it, she grabbed a registration form
and pencil, rushing upstairs. With her finest curtsy,
she said, “Please,” placing paper and pencil on the
table. The man eyed the short, grubby pencil, licked
from use, then drew a gold fountain pen from its case
and wrote.
The young woman, still in the chair she’d been
carried in, gazed out. My God, how beautiful she
was. The chambermaid swallowed, her simple heart
yearning to do something kind for her. Such tiny,
rosy ears—not just the evening glow spreading wide
outside. Oh God, she thought, what use is wealth if
she can’t take a step?
The man finished. “When the luggage arrives,” he
said, “send the yellow suitcase and wheelchair up at
once—they’re essential.”
On the stairs, the chambermaid read the form:
Surname and First Name: Fritz Gegely, Occupation:
Writer, Birthplace: Linz, and so forth, ending with a
proud flourish: Travel Documents: None! Amid the
questions, it noted: Accompanied by: Wife. This
irked her; her pity and affection so fixed on the
paralyzed woman that, if justice ruled, she should’ve
topped the form, with the husband relegated to
“Accompanied by.”
Meanwhile, Fritz Gegely toured the five rooms of
their summer quarters, lips curled in mockery. It was
rurality supreme. Furniture painted a ghastly yellow,
walls daubed with hideous patterns, and the
pictures… Christ on the Cross, a garish van Dyck
print, hair-raising. In the bedroom, the late Ox
landlord in oil and vinegar, painted by an artist who’d
bartered a two-week stay. The artist supplied the oil
of mischief, the landlord the vinegar of forced
cheer—or vice versa. The deceased looked ready to
step from his frame at night and perch on a sleeper’s
chest. Under a glass dome crouched a wax scene: a
blind beggar with a child, a fitting companion to the
landlord. A plaster poodle in the last room completed
the set, perched on the white tiled stove, bearing
years of dust in its folds with canine stoicism.
Fritz Gegely returned from his sardonic survey to
Frau Hedwig. “Well, here we are…” he said.
Hedwig turned to him. “Do you like it?” she
asked, uncertain.
“Oh, yes!” he laughed. “We’re in a curiosity
cabinet… an ethnographic museum of Kamp valley
life.”
Hedwig grew uneasy. “You can’t expect these
simple folk to match your refined taste. When our
trunks arrive, you’ll set out your comforts, your dear
trinkets, and make these rooms your own…”
“Never,” Fritz snapped, glaring around. “These
rooms resist it. They’re steeped in smug, peasant
malice. Look—the cupboard doors squeak; to fetch a
shirt button, you get a concert, scales up and down.
The windows don’t close. A breeze will give us a
nightly rattle. There’s surely mouse holes behind the
furniture. I’m certain the beds creak. That’s a
summer retreat—for rustic art fools, not me. For
blockheads diving into the ‘folk soul,’ seeking the
‘wellspring’… how did I end up here? How does
Fritz Gegely land in Vorderschluder?”
“I feared you’d be unhappy,” the invalid said
softly. “We won’t stay long… I don’t want you
always cross.”
“Oh, please,” the poet retorted sharply. “We’ll
stay as planned. I have a will too. I’ll adapt…
protective mimicry… surely I can muster that much
resolve… or do you think me incapable even of
that?”
Hedwig waved off his words.
“Stop,” he said, irritated. “I know why you
dragged me to this backwater. You want me out of
the world’s sight. Yes… we could’ve gone to Ostend
or a Swedish spa… but you insisted on
Vorderschluder. Why? I’m not that foolish. I know
you think little of me. But I’m not that dim. I’m to
vanish… into oblivion… curtain down, show’s over.
Fritz Gegely’s memory must fade… because my
name carries scandal. The man who stole a
manuscript from Heidelberg’s university library…”
“We’ll go to Ostend tomorrow if you wish,”
Hedwig said, tears in her eyes. Silent, clear tears
traced a familiar path from wide, unblinking, fearful
eyes. Her translucent, invalid hands twisted in her
lap.
Fritz Gegely strode to the door, peered out, then
returned, lowering his voice. “Run off again? That’d
be rich. My name’s in their hands now… passed from
mouth to mouth. ‘Oh, that’s the poet of Marie
Antoinette, the Heidelberg thief—you know!’ And
we’d flee tomorrow? No, the hypocrites would say,
‘See, he can’t stay put, it’s his conscience, he’s
restless, cursed like Ahasuerus.’ We must stay.”
Hedwig reached out both hands. “Fritz, why
torment yourself… and me? That wretched affair
must be forgotten. The doctors ruled you weren’t
responsible. Everyone knows. Those aware of your…
confusion know you were acquitted and in a
sanatorium.”
But Gegely stayed clear, pacing behind the table.
Her hands sank alone.
“That’s it. Everyone knows—they handle my
name with tongs… like a hot coal. The tongs are
‘temporary insanity.’ They smirk with pity. Pity
shames.”
Hedwig shook her head. “Fritz,” she whispered,
timidly, “what should I say, then?”
He ignored her. “Those sheep-heads… instead of
explaining my case through the radiant phenomenon
of the artist, they pin it to their paltry judicial medical
terms. Fine for tailors and glovemakers dealing in
‘temporary insanity.’ Talk that way about a fifteen-
year-old schoolboy killing himself or his fourteen-
year-old sweetheart from grammar school. Or a
hysterical maid swallowing phosphorus.

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

But Wolf Gontram didn’t understand one syllable. She laughed,
left him standing there, and took the arm of Fräulein ten Brinken.
“My brother is a more beautiful girl that you are,” she said. “But
you are a sweeter boy.”
“And you,” laughed Alraune, “my blonde abbess, you prefer
sweet boys?”
She answered, “What is permitted for Héloise? It went very
badly for my poor Abalard, you know. He was slender and delicate
just like you are! There I can learn much about self-modesty.
But you, my sweet little boy, you appear like a strange priest
with a new and fresh doctrine, one that would harm no one.”
“My doctrine is ancient and venerable,” said the Chevalier de
Maupin.
“That is the best covering for such sweet sin,” laughed the
blonde abbess.
She took a goblet from the table and handed it to him.
“Drink, sweet boy.”
The countess came up with hot pleading eyes, “Let me have
him!”
But Frieda Gontram shook her head. “No,” she said sharply.
“Not him! Fair game, if you like–”
“She kissed me,” insisted Tosca and Héloise scoffed.
“Do you believe you are the only one tonight?”
She turned to Alraune, “Decide, my Paris. Who shall it be? The
worldly lady, or the pious one?”
“For today?” asked Fräulein de Maupin.
“Today–and as long as you want!” cried Countess Olga.
The fancy dressed boy laughed, “I want the abbess–and Tosca as
well.”
He ran laughing over to a blonde Teuton that was strutting as a
red executioner with a mighty axe made of cardboard.
“You–brother-in-law,” she cried. “I’ve got two mama’s. Will
you execute them, both of them?”
The student straightened up and raised both arms high.
“Where are they?” he bellowed.
But Alraune found no time to answer; the Colonel of the 28th
regiment had snatched her up for the two-step.
–The Chevalier de Maupin stepped onto the professors’ table.
“Where is your Albert?” asked the professor of literature.
“Where is your Isabella?”
“My Albert is running around here somewhere, Herr Professor,”
answered Alraune. “He appears in two dozen different versions in this
very ballroom!”
“As for Isabella”–her eyes searched around the room–“Isabella,”
she continued, “I will present her to you as well.”
She stepped up to the professor’s daughter; a fifteen year old,
timid thing that looked at her with large amazed blue eyes.
“Will you be my page, little gardener?” she asked.
The flaxen haired girl said, “Yes, gladly–If you want me to!”
“You must be my page when I am a lady,” the Chevalier
instructed, “and my maid when I go as a gentleman.”
The little girl nodded.
“How is that, Herr Professor?” laughed Alraune.
“Summa cum Laude!” acknowledged the professor. “But leave
my dear little Trudi here with me.”
“Now I ask!” cried the Fräulein ten Brinken and she turned to a
short, round botanist.
“Which flowers bloom in my garden, Herr Professor?”
“Red hibiscus,” answered the botanist. He knew the flora of
Ceylon very well, “golden lotus and white temple flowers.”
“Wrong!” cried Alraune. “Entirely wrong! Do you know, Herr
Rifleman from Harlem? Which flowers grow in my garden?”
The art professor looked at her sharply, a light smile tugged at
his lips.
“Les fleurs du mal; the flowers of evil,” he said. “Aren’t they?”
“Yes,” cried Mlle. de Maupin. “Yes, you’ve got it right.”
“But they don’t bloom for you my dear scientist. You must
patiently wait until they are dried and pressed into a book or in a
frame after the varnish dries.”
She pulled her pretty sword, bowed, saluted and snapped her
sword-cane back together. Then she turned around on her heel,
danced a few steps with the Baron von Manteuffel from Prussia,
heard the light voice of her Royal Highness and sprang quickly up to
the table of the princess.
“Countess Almaviva,” she began. “What do you desire from
your faithful cherubim?”
“I’m really disappointed with him,” said the princess. “He has
really earned a beating, scampering around the hall with one
scoundrel after another!”
“Don’t forget the Susanna’s either,” laughed the prince-escort.
Alraune ten Brinken pulled her lips into a pout. “What should
such a poor boy do,” she cried, “who knows nothing of this evil
world?”
She laughed, took the lute from the shoulder of the adjutant who
was standing in front of her dressed as Frans Hals. She strummed,
stepped back a few paces and sang:
“You, who instinctively
Know the ways of the heart
Tell me, is it love
That burns so here in mine?”
“From whom do you want advice cherubim?” asked the princess.
“Doesn’t my Countess Almaviva know?” Alraune gave back.
Her Royal Highness laughed, “You are very daring, my page!”
Cherubim answered, “That is the way of pages!”
He lifted the lace on the sleeves of the princess and kissed her on
the hand–a little too high on the arm and a little too long.
“Shall I bring you Rosalinde?” he whispered, and he read the
answer in her eyes.
Rosalinde danced past–not a moment’s rest was she allowed this
evening. The Chevalier de Maupin took her away from her dance
partner, led her up the steps to the table of her Highness.
“Give her something to drink,” she cried. “My beloved thirsts.”
She took the glass the princess handed to her and placed it to
Wolf Gontram’s red lips. Then she turned to the prince consort.
“Will you dance with me, wild outrider from the Rhine?”
He laughed coarsely and pointed to his gigantic brown riding
boots with their immense spurs.
“Do you believe that I can dance in these?”
“Try it,” she urged, and pulled him by the arm away from where
he was sitting.
“It will be alright! Only don’t trample me to death or break me,
you rough hunter.”
The prince threw a doubtful glance at the delicate thing in
perfumed lace, then put on his buckskin gloves and reached out to
her.
“Then come, my little page,” he cried.
Alraune threw a hand kiss over to the princess, waltzed through
the hall with the heavy prince. The people made room for them and it
went well enough diagonally across and then back. He raised her high
and whirled her through the air so that she screamed. Then he got
entangled in his long spurs–oops! They were both lying on the dance
floor.
She was up again, like new, reaching out her hand to him.
“Get up Herr Outrider. I can’t very well lift you.”
He raised his upper body, but when he tried to get onto his right
foot a quick “ouch!” came out of his mouth. He steadied himself with
his left hand, tried to get up again, but it didn’t work. An intense pain
took his Majesty across the foot.
There he sat, big and strong, in the middle of the dance floor and
couldn’t get himself up. Several came up and tried taking off the
mighty boot, which covered his entire leg, but it wouldn’t go. The
foot had swelled up so quickly they had to cut away the tough leather
with sharp knives. Professor Dr. Helban, Orthopedic, examined him
and determined the anklebone was broken.
“I’m done with dancing for today,” grumbled the prince-escort.
Alraune stood at the front of the thick circle that surrounded him,
near her pressed the red executioner. A little song occurred to her that
she had heard the students howling at night.
“Tell me,” she asked. “How does that song go, the one about the
fields, the forests and the strong man’s strength?”
The tall Teuton was thoroughly drunk and reacted as if someone
had thrown a coin into an automated machine. He swung his axe high
into the air and bellowed out:
“He fell on a stone.
He fell on a–crack, crack, crack –
He fell on a stone!
Broke three ribs in his body
In the fields and the forests
And all of his strength–
And then his right –crack, crack, crack
And then his right leg!”
“Shut up!” whispered a fraternity brother to him. “Are you
entirely crazy?”
That quieted him. But the good natured prince laughed.
“Thanks for the appropriate serenade! But you can save the three
ribs–My leg here is completely enough!”
They carried him out on a chair, helped him into his sleigh. The
princess left the ball with him. She was not at all happy about the
incident.
Alraune sought out Wolf Gontram, found him still sitting at the
abandoned Royal table.
“What did she do?” she asked quickly. “What did she say?”
“I don’t know,” answered Wölfchen.
She took his fan, hit him sharply on the arm.
“You do know,” she insisted. “You must know and you must tell
me!”
He shook his head, “But I really don’t know. She gave me
something to drink and smoothed back the hair on my forehead. I
believe she also squeezed my hand, but I can’t say exactly, don’t
know exactly all that she said. A couple of times I said, ‘Yes.’ But I
wasn’t listening to her at all. I was thinking about something entirely
different.”
“You are terribly stupid Wölfchen,” said the Fräulein
reproachfully. “You were dreaming again! What were you dreaming
about this time?”
“About you,” he replied.
She stamped her feet in anger.
“About me! Always about me! Why are you always thinking
about me?”
His large deep eyes pleaded with her.
“I can’t help it,” he whispered.
The music began, interrupting the silence that the going away of
the Royalty had caused. “Roses of the South” sounded soft and
seductive. She took his hand, pulled him out with her.
“Come, Wölfchen, we will dance!”
They stepped out and turned around. They were alone in the
large hall. The gray bearded art professor saw them, climbed up on
his chair and shouted:
“Quiet, special waltz for the Chevalier de Maupin and his
Rosalinde!”
Hundreds of eyes rested on the beautiful couple. Alraune was
highly aware of it and felt the admiration with every step that she
took. But Wolf Gontram noticed nothing, he only felt, as he lay in her
arms and was carried by the soft sounds. His heavy black eye lashes
lowered, shadowing his deep, dreamy eyes.
The Chevalier de Maupin led, certain, as confidant as a slender
page that has lived on the smooth dance floor since the cradle. His
head was bowed slightly forward, his left hand held two of
Rosalinde’s fingers while the right rested on the golden knob of the
sword-cane that he had pushed down through the lace trimmed sash
till the other end showed behind him. His powdered hair curled like
tiny silver snakes, a smile spread his lips revealing smooth white
teeth.
Rosalinde followed every light pressure. Her red and gold train
slid smoothly over the floor and her figure grew out of it like a
graceful shaped flower. Her head lay back, white ostrich plumes
dangled heavily from her large hat. She was worlds away from
everyone else, enraptured by the garlands of roses that hung
throughout the hall. They passed under them again and again on their
way around the dance floor.

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

He looked around timidly. 

“I want to tell you something, only to you alone, because you made such an extraordinary impression on me, right the first time I saw you. The man who my wife… whom my wife seduced, also told me such extraordinary things about you.” 

Falk became very impatient. He hardly understood half of his speech. He felt alternately heat and cold in his body. At times he believed he was near fainting. 

“Hurry; I am sick. I have a strong fever.” The stranger looked at him with a strange smile. 

“I know it, I know it very exactly. I had it very bad in the last time.” 

Suddenly he became even paler, he became quite green in the face and moved quite close to Falk. 

“He told me that I should come to you to make you happy. Today, when you ran away from me…” 

A cold shiver ran down Falk’s back. Was it really a vision? A raging fear seized him as he saw the stranger’s eyes fixed unceasingly on him. 

“How? What—what do you mean?” “I want to make you happy.” 

He was silent and seemed to brood deeply. 

Falk looked at him distractedly. Then cold sweat broke out on his forehead, he began to tremble. The lowest button was missing from the stranger’s coat. Where had he seen the man? Yesterday, yes yesterday… But then it was only in the dream, in the fever. 

The stranger seemed to struggle for expression. 

“Do you know, Herr Falk, a feeling of calm? No, you naturally don’t know it… It is actually no calm… it is a feeling of such absolute harmony… One feels no pain, one no longer feels a body; one is redeemed from all bodily. One sinks into something infinite. The spaces have widened; the miles become millions of miles, the most miserable huts become palaces… You no longer know where you are, you know no path and no direction…” 

His eyes shone in a rapt ecstasy. 

Again Falk felt slow, cold shivers run down his back. 

“In one second you can live through centuries, on a piece of earth you can see a thousand cities—oh, and the happy splendor, the splendor!” 

His eyes suddenly became quite fixed and his face distorted painfully. 

“At first I felt an inhuman fear… When the ground suddenly began to waver under me, when I suddenly felt transported to foreign cities, it happened that I threw myself on my knees in the middle of the street and begged the passers-by to hold me. I asked them to let me hold only the hem of their clothes… Oh, they were hard times of trial.” 

“Do you suffer from epilepsy?” asked Falk shaken. 

“No, no…” the stranger smiled insanely. “I am not sick. I am happy. And I came to bring you happiness, to you alone, because you made this extraordinary impression on me, and because you were his friend…” 

He moved the chair even closer to Falk so that he whispered in his ear. “It is hard, very hard, but just try it. Drive all thoughts away. All, all! They are the mightiest support of the spirit that will not believe, of the spirit that doubts eternally. Drive everything from the brain so that you remain pure from doubt, then sit down and collect yourself so that the forces of the whole organism flow together to one point, so that you feel yourself only as a point, a trembling atom in world space… Then wait long, patiently… Then it comes suddenly over you, like a horrible chaos it comes over you, you will see an abyss, terrible ghosts crawl out of all corners. 

His eyes tore unnaturally wide open. 

“You will hear horrible voices, the walls will become bodily and will step toward you to crush you… You will experience torments against which human torment is a joy, a pleasure… Suddenly everything disappears… Something leads you out, the whole life streams before the eyes in infinite clarity… there is no more riddle, no secret—one can read in the soul of another like in an open book…” 

“Why do you come to me with this, why?” whispered Falk. 

The stranger did not hear his question. 

“Then there is no more torment,” he continued, “no pain, no hate. I love the man who took the woman from me, I followed him with you, I wanted to save him, but in the moment of death one must not disturb…” 

Now it shot through Falk’s head like lightning. Everything became clear to him. He trembled violently and held onto the armrest so as not to collapse. 

“The man shot himself today!” he cried hoarsely. The stranger smiled strangely. 

“Yes,” he said after a while. Falk came completely out of himself. 

“What do you want from me?” he stammered almost unconsciously. 

“You caused his death, Falk. He was like wax in your hands, you were his god, and you destroyed his soul. You made him a criminal against himself and others. Listen to me, follow me…” 

“I did not do it! Can I help it that he perished from his debauchery?” 

The stranger looked at him sternly. 

“Oh, how hardened your heart is… You know well what you did to him. Why are you so pale, why do you tremble? He lies on your conscience.” 

“Who, who?” 

“Grodzki,” said the stranger softly. 

Falk groaned tormentingly, and his head sank to his chest. But suddenly he came completely out of his senses, he straightened up and cried: 

“I do not repent it. I want to ruin and destroy the whole world. I laugh at your mystical revelations. I don’t need them. I need no happiness. I spit on happiness. I repent that I destroyed and ruined too little, do you understand me?” 

He suddenly stopped. 

The stranger was completely transformed. His eyes expressed an uncanny fear. They ran restlessly around. 

“The spirit of evil! the spirit of evil!” he repeated with trembling lips. 

Suddenly his face became clear and his voice mild. 

“You are sick, Falk, I will not disturb you… I followed you, I was afraid for you, how you stood there at the corner and trembled and waited for the shot.” 

Again he became restless. He leaned far toward Falk, his voice trembled violently. 

“I… I…” he stammered with difficulty… “followed you. You sat long with him… did he not speak about my wife?… He left her… she is perishing.” 

“Nothing, nothing did he tell me… just go! You are killing me… go then!” 

Falk felt that he could not hold himself any longer. 

“You are so sick, Falk, so sick…” He went slowly out the door. Falk heard and saw nothing more. A dizziness seized him, the room began to turn around him, he sank and fell into unconsciousness.

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

Indeed, the new and old faiths had collided. For
now, the new faith gripped the old by the scruff,
thrashing it. Bolstered by numbers and fueled by
fervor from the Hotel Bellevue, the new faith
outmatched the old, still seeking its zeal at the Red
Ox.
The banquet guests had barely settled at the long
tables in the Red Ox’s transformed dance hall when a
man burst in, shouting, “The socialists are coming!
They’ve a red flag and are all drunk!”
This news pierced Mathes Dreiseidel’s heart. He
feared losing his feast’s reward. He cursed his God
and parson for scheduling the rite before the meal,
robbing him of his due.
The district captain, seated at the head table to
Helmina’s left, set down his napkin and glared at the
alderman. “This is disastrous!” he said. “Such things
in my district. I don’t tolerate this. If only the
gendarmes were here. Such sloppiness…”
But the rebels were already there, launching a
furious assault on the pious crowd outside, scattering
them into alleys and over fences. They filled the
street, yelling, waving hats and cudgels, flaunting
their defiance of authority.
The plump, appetizing Red Ox landlady stood at
the kitchen door, lamenting Schorsch’s absence at
military drills. Glancing at the tables, she debated
clearing them before the brawl began. Half her dishes
were borrowed from Gars, and such occasions risked
breakage.
The parson stepped to the window, hoping to pour
soothing words over the uproar. But they drowned
him out with murderous howls, brandishing the red
flag to flaunt their oath.
The district captain tried next, pale but composed,
regretting no reporter was there to immortalize his
poise. He thrust out his chest, summoning his voice
to pierce the din. But his words were swept away like
a mandolin’s note in a gale.
He retreated, snapping at the alderman, “Now you
stand there, mute… why didn’t you prepare? This
happens in my district…”
The rebels, emboldened, surged forward. The door
flew open, Rauß stormed in, Maurerwenzel close
behind, and a dense throng of comrades packed the
steps, head to head.
The factory director mustered courage, advancing
toward them. “Dear people…!” he began.
Rauß flailed the air, bellowing, “What do you
want? Do what we want, and we’ll be your dear
people again. Not before! Got it? We’re here to
watch the gentry gorge on our sweat and blood…”
God, if Schorsch were here, the landlady thought,
ordering the tables cleared.
Rauß saw and roared, “Oh no—leave it! That’s set
for us too. We’ll sit at this table. We’ll show you the
future state!” From the stair’s crush, a voice shouted,
“Long live the republic!”
“Come,” Ruprecht said to Helmina, “we’re
leaving. I’ve had enough.”
“We can’t get out,” Helmina whispered, terrified.
“Just come!” He pulled her up, striding toward the
door. Rauß’s dull mind dredged up irony. “Your
Grace, Herr Baron… perhaps you’d like an honor
guard?”
“Let me out, I said,” Ruprecht repeated calmly.
“And the lovely Frau Baronin—no, that won’t do.
She gave so much for the banner; she can’t run now.
The best part’s coming. The real fun. Our
consecration.”
The workers jeered. Maurerwenzel slapped his
knees in glee. Ruprecht glanced around. Helmina’s
entourage stood frozen. Some twitched, but caution
quashed their bravery: a fight now would spark a
slaughter. The farmers’ faces gleamed with delight at
this woman’s humiliation, their instincts and wives’
gossip aligned against her.
Then, something unexpected happened. Ruprecht
released Helmina’s arm, stepping toward Rauß as if
to speak. Suddenly, two fists shot out, slamming like
steel pistons into the ruffian’s gut. Rauß yelped,
doubling over. In the same breath, Ruprecht seized
his arm, twisted it back, and hurled the lanky man
over his shoulder into the hall, landing at the district
captain’s feet—a lithe, tripping jiujitsu move from Japan.
The farmers gaped. Even the wildest fair hadn’t
seen such a feat.
Rauß groaned on the floor. Another followed—
Maurerwenzel, loyal aide, lunging to avenge his
leader. Ruprecht took Helmina’s arm and strode
down the steps through the rebels, who now parted
for him.
At the bridge, where baroque saints gazed at their
rippling reflections, their carriage trailed, dust
swirling. The coachman grinned, cracking his whip in
victory. Ruprecht and Helmina climbed in. Just then,
a cart with eight gendarmes rolled up from the other
side. The scrawny horses trotted frantically,
gendarmes clinging to seats and ladder rungs to
arrive intact for battle.
Their task was easy, the fight swiftly won. The
rebels glimpsed the eight cork helmets’ gleaming
spikes and felt the rifles’ persuasive butts, then fled.
With limping, whimpering Rauß and Maurerwenzel— sporting a swollen bruise over his
left eye—at their core, they retreated to the Hotel
Bellevue.
The red flag was found next day in the alderman’s
garden, drooping sadly in a thornbush, flapping
feebly.
The interrupted banquet resumed. The Red Ox
landlady reset what she’d cleared, and appetites
surged. Only Mathes Dreiseidel lacked hunger.
During the fray, he’d slipped into the kitchen behind
the dishes. To salvage something, he’d embraced a
platter of pork roast and kraut salad so fervently that
his insides had no room left.
When Helmina and Ruprecht returned to the
castle, she immediately retreated to her room and
locked the door. She wanted to see no one. She was
beside herself. Ruprecht’s victory over the rabble-
rouser Rauß felt like her own defeat. Two crushing
blows in one day for her. Two triumphs for Ruprecht.
He had thwarted her cunning with his vigilance and
caution. And he had lifted her from fear—yes, a
trembling fear. She had seen clear proof of his
regained strength. Helmina raged against herself. In
the afternoon, Lorenz knocked, reporting that Herr
Anton Sykora had arrived and wished to see her. But
she was ill, she’d stay in her room, she regretted…
Lorenz’s urgent tone availed nothing.
“No… no… no!” Helmina screamed. “Tell him to
go. I won’t see him!” Only in the evening did she
emerge from her lair. Ruprecht hadn’t approached
her door all day. He’d dined without her, chatted with
the children, and sent them off with Miss Nelson.
Now he sat in a fine, comfortable Biedermeier chair,
smoking a cigarette, awaiting Helmina.
She came. A hesitant shadow in the doorway.
Then she entered, slowly closing the door. A glowing
ember in the dark showed where Ruprecht sat. She
approached him slowly.
“Ruprecht!” she gasped.
“It’s you, Helmina,” his voice calm as ever.
She lunged at him, furious, hate-filled, biting his
hand, pressing her lips to his throat. Ruprecht smiled.
She couldn’t see it in the dark, but she felt it. She
gripped him fiercer, as if to kill that smile.

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