Anarchistbanjo's World

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

They discussed the year’s events. Hugo extracted
Helmina’s promise to attend every festivity.
The afternoon passed. They took a short drive.
The weather had cleared, the thinning clouds hinting
at the sun. Hugo wished to prolong the day, but
evening approached, they returned to the castle,
dined, and his departure loomed.
“I feel so at ease here, madam,” Hugo sighed.
“You may return if you enjoyed it,” Helmina
smiled. Then she excused herself. The fresh air had
tired her, she had a headache, and wished to retire.
The men adjourned to Ruprecht’s study. “A cigar,
a glass of wine, eh?” Ruprecht suggested, ringing the
bell. The Malay appeared at the door.
“Tell Lorenz to fetch a bottle of 1882
Schönberger,” Ruprecht said.
“Lorenz isn’t here.”
“Oh, right—he’s on leave. Linz, or somewhere.
Get the keys and fetch it yourself. You’ll find it. It’s
at the back of the cellar, red-sealed.”
Meanwhile, Hugo surveyed the study’s
furnishings. At the café’s regular table, they had an
arts-and-crafts enthusiast skilled in style
comparisons, giving Hugo a rough sense of Gothic,
Renaissance, and Rococo to prove his cultured
credentials. Here were charming relics: a heavy
cabinet with carved columns and armored men on its
doors; a desk with dainty, curved legs and an oddly
uncomfortable top, fit only for brief love notes, not
serious work. For that, Ruprecht used a cozy
Biedermeier desk, its genial polish beside a sleek
black filing cabinet with lapis lazuli and marble-lined
drawers, supported by two gilded, snarling griffins.
“Ancestral heirlooms,” Hugo said. “The castle’s
full of them.”
“Yes… some are exquisite. Next visit, I’ll show
you a Wenzel Jamnitzer goblet. Dankwardt even
started a medal and seal collection. I know too little
about it.”
“These pieces likely came with the castle from
earlier owners?”
“Not many. The Counts of Moreno, from whom
Helmina’s first husband bought it, stripped it bare.
Later owners were collectors, gradually bringing
things back.”
“Fine pieces… truly! They hold their own. The
whole castle…”
“Yes, the castle’s worth seeing.”
“You’re a lucky man… and your wife…” Hugo
stretched in his seventeenth-century armchair. “You
have a delightful wife.”
Ruprecht glanced at him briefly, saying lightly,
“You haven’t fallen for her, have you?”
A reassuring laugh should’ve followed, but it
sounded forced. “It’d be no wonder,” Hugo said, then
continued, “Tell me, aren’t you ever jealous of your
wife’s past? You’re her fourth husband.”
“It’s not my way. I find that kind of jealousy
absurd.”
“But in this castle… everything must remind you
of your predecessors.”
“It wasn’t entirely pleasant at first. Life’s a
ceaseless flow, washing away past impressions
quickly. The past clings more to dead things. These
furnishings and rooms reflect my predecessors far
clearer. In Helmina, they’re dissolved, swept away by
life.”
“Haven’t you thought of building a new home?
One where… only you exist?”
“Helmina’s attached to these walls… oddly so.
She craves city lights, glamour, noise—she had a
wild Carnival. But this castle holds her. She always
returns. She’d never agree to live elsewhere. And… I
find this grim house intriguing. It has charm… it’s,
how to say… an adventure, a romantic danger…”
Ruprecht’s nonchalance emboldened Hugo,
tempting him to play with fire. “And the present… I
mean, Helmina’s present?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Aren’t you jealous of that?”
“Oh, I’m pleased when people pay Helmina
tribute. Besides, I’m certain of her.”
He’s insufferable, Hugo thought, fuming, and it’s
maddening that he’s right.
Jana returned with bottles, fetched glasses from
the armored-men cabinet, and poured. Ruprecht took
a cigar box from a filing cabinet drawer. Hugo
glimpsed a revolver inside.
“You’re armed,” he said. “Even here?”
“Old habit,” Ruprecht smiled. “In Alaska, I
worked months with a rifle beside me…”
As Ruprecht raised his glass to toast Hugo, he
noticed dirty smudges, like wet earth, on Jana’s white
turban.
“Bumped your head, Jana?” he asked.
“I fell, Master,” the Malay replied. “Water’s
seeped into the cellar, washing it out a bit…”
“Hope the bottles don’t float away.”
Hugo hadn’t heard, spreading the subscription
sheet before Ruprecht, who signed.
“Enough?” the castle lord asked.
“Oh, you’re an angel. Thank you. Truly, I name
you chief patron, top of all sponsors… I’ll honor you
somehow, just need to think how.” Hugo launched
into his anthology, its hopes, its prospects for
recognition from high places. His wine-fueled
imagination bloomed like a Jericho rose. This
anthology would be an event. All notable authors
would contribute. Bystritzky had connections, even
inviting Gegely, though that awkward incident…
“Ah, Gegely,” Ruprecht said, suddenly animated
after listening politely. “I’ve heard nothing of him
lately. I don’t read papers—waste of time. What’s
our famous poet up to?”
Hugo slapped the chair’s smooth arms. “You
really don’t know? Nothing about Gegely… my God,
it was a European scandal…”
“I swear, I know nothing…”
“Well, Gegely… it’s unthinkable… psychologists
are baffled. Our great Gegely, our hope, our pride,
poet of Marie Antoinette… what do you think? He…
he took a manuscript from Heidelberg’s university
library… let’s say, accidentally.”
Oh, the thrill of breaking such news first, asserting
one’s importance. It was a hearty delight, a bold
affirmation of self.
How it shook his friend. Ruprecht paled, his brow
damp. “Is it possible…” he stammered, “he stole…?”
“Well—stole? Legally: yes. Psychologically: a
momentary lapse.”
What bliss to cause such a stir. Gegely, another
carefree glutton for wealth, ignorant of the grind of
being rank-bound, salary-tied.
“How could it happen?” Ruprecht asked, still
reeling.
“No idea what possessed him. He could’ve bought
such scraps by the dozen at an antiquarian’s. It
kicked up a storm… a European scandal, as I said.
They tried to save him, of course… spun theories
about the phenomenon… and finally draped a nice
veil over it…”
“What happened to him?”
“He was put in a sanatorium… a ‘U’ became an
‘X,’ as such cases go. You’ll see… Bystritzky invited
him to contribute to the anthology before this
happened. It’s awkward now. If he sends something,
can we accept it?”
“Poor woman,” Ruprecht said thoughtfully,
swirling his wine.
“Frau Hedwig… yes, terrible for her!” A sudden,
delicious thrill hit Hugo. A memory surged. “Frau
Hedwig, the blonde… say, didn’t you once…?” He
squinted gleefully. “It hurt you deeply, didn’t it,
when Gegely took her from you? You were smitten.
Still think of her?”
“Oh, come now!” Ruprecht said softly, stiffening
in resistance. “A youthful acquaintance. It was long
ago… I pity her… having to endure that.” He stood,
pulling out his watch. “If you want to catch your
train, it’s high time to leave.”
Hugo regretted leaving his scene of triumph. He’d
have savored it longer. Ruprecht escorted him to the
courtyard. They lingered, shivering, in the renewed
rain. The carriage emerged from the stable, its dim
lights casting trembling patches at their feet. The
horses snorted, restless, loath to leave the warm
stable. The courtyard felt like a pit’s bottom,
darkness rising in steep walls around them.
“Well, thanks for everything,” Hugo said,
climbing in. “Hand-kiss to your wife. So… our
anthology? What do you think…” He poked his
pinky through his overcoat’s buttonhole. “How’d this
suit me?”
“Splendidly!” Ruprecht replied evenly. “You were
born for a medal…”
“Here’s hoping!” Hugo laughed, closing the
carriage door. The carriage arced around Ruprecht
and out the gate.

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

Oh no, where do you think, Herr Czerski. For that Certain is much too knowing. Ha, ha… 

Yes, I misunderstood you. You as philanthropist naturally ask why he wanted to do that. 

Why? He doesn’t know that. 

That would all be incredibly ridiculous if it weren’t so fatal. The small tiny gap widens with rapid speed. It is like a growth with long processes that crawl into every pore of his soul, force themselves into every opening with growing rage and spread the terrible poison into the whole organism… Ha, ha, ha… 

Why do I laugh so ugly? To thunder, man! isn’t that to laugh at?! 

But so it goes on. The fantasy is once set in motion. It suddenly becomes as lush as a jungle, sharp and poisonous as an Indian arrow, inventive as Edison, brooding and enduring in thinking like Socrates, who is known to have stood the whole night before his tent without noticing that a foot-deep snow had fallen. Don’t you think the old gentleman posed a little?… Well, Certain’s fantasy activity is also very interesting. 

He tries to imagine the two. They sat in the room. He had carefully locked it. She had slowly let down her hair, then unbuttoned her waist, he stood there meanwhile, hot, trembling and devoured her with greedy glances… 

Cute pictures, what? 

Or, let’s pass to another side… He looks at his child. It suddenly shoots through his head by what miracle it was prevented that she didn’t get a child with the other earlier. This question, and the possibility that she actually should have got it, makes him quite mad. 

Or: he reads an indifferent story of two lovers… He, he… Why was he not the first? And this question makes him quite raging with despair. 

Or: he gets to see one of her youth photographs. Was it before or after? Yes, naturally before. He looks at the photograph, he makes a painful science of it, he loves her there, loves her with a painful torment, he worships her in an agony of rage and despair. Why? Why? Why did she not keep herself so, so pure, so unknowing for him? 

From everything I cited here you will probably have gotten the sufficient impression of the psychic state of our Certain. 

He loses balance. He still tries to tear out the proliferating weed, to cut off the roots of the poisonous evil, but it is too late. He no longer gets rid of the visions. In his soul rage boils, hate takes away his reason, he cannot touch her without thinking of the other, he cannot look at her without being reminded of him. His soul gets wrinkles and gray hair. And yet he drags himself after his wife like a sick dog. He cannot do without her, he loves her a thousand times more than before in this frenzy, this boiling rage and this hate. Can you understand that? 

Falk screamed. 

Can you understand that? That is madness! That is no pain, that is… that is… 

He suddenly got fear of himself and a wild fit of rage seized him against the person who forced him to live through all this again, to tear open the old scabs. 

He walked searching around the room with clenched fists, he was completely out of his senses. 

Why do I scream? Because I have heart cramp, I have colic, stitches all around in the whole chest… Oh if I had you here, you cursed Satan with your demand for truth, your marriage proposals… Ha, ha, ha… me marry Janina! 

His strength left him. He sat at the window. He dried the sweat from his forehead, and suddenly became calm. He fell into heavy brooding. Now he will probably understand how one comes to seduce a girl. Naturally he will understand. He sat and sat, repeated incessantly in his thoughts that Czerski must now finally understand, and woke again. 

He had probably fallen asleep. 

And again he looked at the sky, at the dark, sick melancholy of the sky and then felt how the spaces widened and began to flee with the impetuosity of a wild debris. 

He listened tensely. 

It seemed to him as if the abysses of eternities coiled into still deeper depths, as if calm formed into an infinite funnel that swallowed everything and time and sound and the melancholy light of the stars—it seemed to him as if he were enveloped in dark, dull distances: everything had disappeared, only one remained: the wide, sick sky above him. 

And this sky he had begotten with his eyes, with his arms he had thrown its vault over the earthly all… 

He jumped up. 

It seemed to him as if the door had opened and someone had come in. 

No! It only seemed so to him. And again he walked up and down. 

Terrible, terrible that something like that can destroy one’s soul. Why? He became raging. Am I there to solve all riddles? Haven’t I rummaged enough in my soul? Haven’t I searched every corner of my soul with the greatest meticulousness? But can I grasp what lies under my consciousness, what plays out beyond the ridiculous brain life? Can I? Hey? Don’t you understand, you stupid man, that under certain circumstances one can come to betray one’s wife? Don’t you understand that there are moments when one can hate a woman so intensely, so unheard-of that one must soil her through intercourse with another woman out of rage, out of pain, out of frenzy, out of a sick need for revenge? Falk shook with laughter. Out of revenge because the poor woman five years earlier, yes, before she met me, didn’t sense me! 

Falk ran around. The unrest grew so that he thought his head must burst. 

And now, just now, when the torment subsided, when the wound began to scar, now Isa will be torn from him. 

She will naturally go. 

He tried to imagine it to himself. 

No, impossible! He was bound to her. She was everything to him. He could not live without her. He had grown together with her, he rooted in her… 

One thing became clear to him: He had to get rid of Czerski. But how, how? 

A feeling of desperate powerlessness seized him. He became limp and resigned. What could he do? Now everything had to break over him. 

Then suddenly a thought shot through his head. 

Olga had to arrange the whole thing. That was the only way out. He became glad. 

That he hadn’t thought of that earlier! 

With feverish haste he wrote a long letter, put paper money in, sealed the envelope, leaned back in the chair and stared thoughtlessly ahead. 

Suddenly he started. Now he hated her again. 

Yes, she was to blame that he became so torn, so miserable, that he had lost all faith, that he saw no goal and no purpose in life. 

She, she was to blame that in his brain he had only the one great, sick idea, the one rage, the one raving hate, that he was not the first… 

Isa, Isa, if that hadn’t happened!… He, he, he… Yes, naturally, Herr Czerski… Naturally? Did I say: naturally!? Nothing is natural, everything is a riddle, everything is an abyss and everything a torment and a nonsense… 

It was after all better that now everything came to an end. 

And the torment laid itself on his heart and constricted it tightly and bit into it with fine, long, pointed teeth… 

The night was so sultry and so wide and so dark. He sank into himself. 

The world is going under! The world is going under…

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

Eighth Chapter
On Saturday, Frau Helmina had business in
Vienna. A ball gown needed discussion with the
seamstress—a poem of silk, tulle, and lace, a riot of
color and light. In Krems, women’s eyes would pop
with envy. In Vienna, Helmina would hold her own
among the most beautiful and elegant.
Ruprecht couldn’t join her. He’d scheduled an
afternoon meeting with his stewards, who no longer
dared resist. He noted with satisfaction that he’d
trained them to obey, acknowledging his insight and
expertise. He’d reined them in, swiftly dismissing
two or three defiant outliers on distant tenant farms
who’d acted like petty vassal lords.
He was the master, not merely his wife’s husband.
They’d realized he was a selfless steward,
unswayed by personal gain, his work a necessity, an
essential expression of robust vitality.
That evening, after the children were abed, he sat
with a half-bottle of wine from Helmina’s vineyard
and a book on Indian philosophy. Jana crouched in a
corner by a bronze Buddha, as still as the statue,
gazing unblinkingly at his master. Ruprecht had
allowed the Malay to linger in the Indian room
sometimes, understanding the homesickness that
drove his request. Jana could sit motionless for hours,
undisturbed by Ruprecht.
Near eleven, Ruprecht rose to sleep. The Vedanta
philosophy yielded to fatigue.
Jana stood too. “Master,” he said, “will you not
sail again to the lands of the rising sun?”
“I don’t know, Jana,” Ruprecht replied, yawning
heartily. “You long for home.”
“It is not good here!”
“Homesick, Jana?”
“It is not good for you here, either.”
Too tired to dwell on Jana’s words, Ruprecht
glanced at him briefly. The Malay stood bronze-like,
unmoving in the lamp’s glow.
With heavy steps, Ruprecht entered the bedroom,
Jana trailing to the threshold, where Lorenz took
over. The room was warm, cozy. The old-fashioned
stove in the corner glowed. Seeing the heavy snow
blanketing the courtyard and roofs, one could be
content with the warmth.
Lorenz lit the electric lamp on the nightstand—a
relic of Dankwardt’s time, powered by the paper
factory’s current. From all accounts, Dankwardt must
have been a man of deep knowledge and goodwill.
Why hadn’t Helmina gotten along with him? She was
difficult, prone to rebellion, true, but a bridge could
always be found.
Ruprecht began undressing, dismissing Lorenz.
Too weary to read in bed, as was his habit, he
glanced at the silent bed to his left. Helmina won’t
return until morning. She wasn’t finished and must
stay in Vienna. Predictable. The first night she
wouldn’t sleep beside him.
He switched off the light and lay on his right side,
seeing a few large stars against the deep black sky.
A wildness and cruelty lurk deep within her, he
thought. She’s a beautiful, dangerous beast, and I
love her. I miss her… I feel it. What do I truly know
of her? I barely know her at all. I doubt she’s shown
me all she is and can be. Well, I have time to learn
her thoroughly…
Sleep came.
There’s a sleep that grows ever deeper, heavier,
feeling like a blanket, a stone, a tomb. You sense its
danger, struggle to break free, but it holds fast.
Rock walls loomed, down which he slid. At first,
it was like snowshoeing, then a fall—plunging into
dark, bottomless depths. Something waited below.
Horror crouched in the gloom—a polyp with a
hundred slimy tentacles, thick blue snakes, red
suckers swelling. Two glowing eyes stared. He fell
through endless chasms… a buzzing, humming in his
head, a roaring, howling… a tempest tore through his
brain, raging fiercer. His skull swelled, ready to
burst… faces flew upward on the rock walls—
Hanuman, the monkey king, a throng of bayadères in
fluttering robes, a tiger’s head with Helmina’s eyes…
a long blue snake slithered, tonguing upward… one
of the polyp’s tentacles, lurking below… his head
thundered, stormed…
Ruprecht kept falling… the wall’s grimaces
blurred, a gray veil sweeping over them.
A jolt, a painful wrench, halted the fall…
something cold draped his head… his arms—yes, he
had arms, forgotten—were pulled forward, thrust
back. Something cool pierced his chest… a thing
pounded, rapid and fierce, like a shaken clock…
Ruprecht opened his eyes.
The light burned on the marble nightstand. Jana
was there. A wet cloth lay on his head; Jana tugged
his arms, pulling and pushing. All windows were
open, cold snowy air flooding the room—but a foul
smell lingered… like…
His head buzzed as if hammered, like that Andean
fall years ago.
He tried to speak. His tongue was leaden. Jana
offered a glass of water. Now he could stammer,
“What… is… it?”
“Master, you were over there,” Jana said gravely.
“I didn’t think you’d return.”
“Over there?” In India, Jana’s home? No… he’d
gone to bed here. This bed! Helmina was in Vienna.
That strange smell… like… coal… carbon…
monoxide…
Ruprecht spelled the word mentally, his right
forefinger tracing the “y”’s flourish on the blanket.
He looked at Jana. “Jana… I was over there?”
“Yes, Master,” the Malay nodded.
“So… so…” His head throbbed, a lorry rumbling
over a bridge. “Yes… well, good! Fetch the aspirin
tube from the cabinet… bottom right. And… how did
you know? That I was… on my way over there?”
Ruprecht took the glass and aspirin from Jana’s
trembling hand—his head a machine shop of
whirring flywheels—and swallowed.
Jana leaned close, whispering in Ruprecht’s ear. “I
saw the other one enter your bedroom, Master! He
moved softly, unseen. What’s Lorenz doing in your
bedroom at night?”
“He might’ve forgotten something, Jana.”
“I thought so too, Master, and went to bed. But it
nagged me. We split into parts, Master. My body lay
in bed; my spirit stayed here, searching. It urged me
to check. I found the room full of smoke and evil
smell. The stove breathed poison. I flung the
windows open…”
“The stove’s damper was closed?”
“Yes, Master, the stove full of embers, exhaling
death.”
“You long to leave here, Jana?”
“Yes, Master!” Jana’s gaze was a dog’s, awaiting
his master’s verdict. “You see, it’s no good place.”
Ruprecht thought, propping his head on his arm.
“You mustn’t tell a soul you saw Lorenz.”
“It is done, Master.”
“Pour me a cognac, then you can go, Jana.”
A faint glass clink sounded above Ruprecht’s
head. Soft steps approached. Cognac’s rich amber
gleamed from brown fingers. “I’ll watch over you
tonight, Master.”
“What’s gotten into you, Jana!” Ruprecht tried to
laugh, but it hurt his head. His stomach churned, too.
This cognac might settle it. “Go back to sleep…
leave the windows open. I won’t freeze after escaping
suffocation.”
“Master, lock your door.”
“Nonsense… no such coincidence twice in one
night… go on…”
Jana left but crouched outside the door on the cold
corridor tiles, head on his drawn-up knees, keeping
vigil until morning.
Ruprecht slept late. Awakening near noon, he
stood, swaying. He paced the room unsteadily; his
head and stomach still ached. The poison’s effects
lingered.
Lorenz appeared, face etched with sorrow and
humility. “I don’t know how it happened, gracious
sir.”
“You must be more careful, Lorenz, or I’ll have to
dismiss you,” Ruprecht said calmly.
The matter was settled. Lorenz turned. In the
mirror, where Ruprecht watched, his contrite
expression didn’t shift. He truly looked like a servant
wracked with self-reproach.
My most intriguing adventure, Ruprecht thought.
Let’s see where it leads.
When Helmina arrived around midday, Lorenz,
taking her fur coat in the hall, whispered the night’s
events in her ear. Then, loudly, for all to hear, he
added, “Last night, a great misfortune nearly struck.
The gracious master almost suffocated in coal
fumes.”
Helmina rushed upstairs. Ruprecht sat with the
children in the bay room, playing Wilhelm Tell. The
valiant archer was shooting the apple from his son’s
head. The paper Gessler looked so fearsome that
Nelly couldn’t bear to watch. Her affection went to
beautiful Bertha in her green riding dress and kindly
young Ulrich. Papa had promised to keep them safe.
“How could this happen?” Helmina cried. “How
did it occur? Is it true? I might’ve found you dead?”
Ruprecht looked up. Helmina seemed distraught.
No surprise—a wife learning her husband nearly
suffocated would be. Yet was there a touch too
much—a slight excess beyond her usual cold control?
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, smiling. “That’s the
main thing. I’m glad I didn’t have to leave you so
soon after our marriage.”
“How could such a thing happen?” Helmina
repeated, agitated. “How do you feel now?”
“You see—well enough to play Wilhelm Tell with
Nelly and Lissy. I’ve hung up work for today…”
“As long as you’re unharmed,” Helmina said,
breathing calmer. Ruprecht recounted how Jana,
passing the bedroom by chance, smelled the carbon
monoxide and saved him. Helmina listened intently,
studying him. His face was gaunt, pale, his eyes wide
with dilated pupils, as if dosed with atropine. It
must’ve cut close to his life’s core. A bit deeper,
closer—
She stopped herself, feeling his gaze probe her
thoughts. The children sat timidly, grasping little but
enough to know they’d nearly lost Papa. Nelly
climbed onto Ruprecht’s knee, wrapping her arms
around his neck.
Ruprecht swiftly shifted to Helmina’s Vienna trip
and gown matters. His gesture dismissed the accident
as trivial, signaling a change of topic.
He truly knows no fear, Helmina thought. He’s the
first to match me. I should have time to wrestle with
him.

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Five
Informs about her father and how Death stood as Godfather
when Alraune came to life.
DR. Karl Petersen brought the Privy Councilor a large
beautifully bound book that he had prepared especially for
this project. The old ten Brinken family crest showed on
the upper left corner of the red leather volume. In the
middle glowed the large golden letters ATB.
The first page had been left blank. The professor had reserved it
to write some early history himself. The next page began with a
paragraph in Dr. Petersen’s hand. He wrote of the short and simple
life history of the mother and of her character and demeanor.
He had asked the prostitute to tell her life story and then quickly
wrote it down. Even her previous convictions were mentioned. Alma
had been sentenced twice for vagrancy; five or six times due to
violations of police regulations concerning her profession and once
because of theft–Yet, she maintained that she was innocent of the
theft–the gentleman had given her the diamond pin.
Further down in the second paragraph Dr. Petersen had written
down things about the presumptive father, the unemployed miner,
Peter Weinland Noerissen, who had been condemned by a court and
jury and sentenced to death in the name of the King.
The public prosecutor had presented the facts in an amiable,
charming fashion. It appeared that P. Noerissen had been predestined
to such a fate from infancy. His mother had been a notorious drinker.
His father, an occasional worker, had been previously convicted
because of frequent crude misdemeanors. One of his brothers was
even now serving ten years in prison on similar grounds.
Peter Weinland Noerissen had become apprenticed to a
blacksmith after he finished school. This had played an important part
in the proceedings because of the skill and strength that had been
displayed in the murder. Many witnesses gave evidence of his
displays of unusual strength. He had a history of pushing himself on
females even when they said they were not interested.
He had been released from military service because of a
congenital defect. He was missing two fingers on his left hand. He
worked in several diverse factories before finally coming to the
Phoenix mine in the Ruhr industrial district. He was not a member of
any trade union, not the old socialist union, the Christian or the
mysterious Elks.
He was fired from the mine when he pulled a knife on an
overseer. This was a serious violation and he received his first
sentence of a year in jail. He was released after his counsel for the
defense argued during appeal that the conviction was only based upon
the word of the overseer with no real evidence that it was attempted
manslaughter.
After that he was on the road, had crossed over the Alps twice
and fought his way from Naples to Amsterdam. While he did work
occasionally, he spent most of his time as a vagabond or hobo and
was further convicted of a few other petty crimes. It was enough for
the public prosecutor to assume that in the course of seven or eight
years he had become a hardened criminal with no conscience.
The crime that he was now condemned for was not that clear
either. It was still not entirely certain if it had been a robbery gone
wrong or an intentional sex murder. The defense tried to portray it as
if the accused had only intended to rape the well dressed and well
endowed nineteen year old daughter of the home owner, Anna Sibilla
Trautwein, when he encountered her in the Ellinger Rhine meadow
that fateful evening.
That when he tried to rape the strong and vigorous girl she
started screaming and he pulled his knife only to threaten her into
silence. It didn’t work and she fought back more vigorously and in the
struggle was stabbed. He only finished her off out of the fear of
discovery. It was then only natural that he take her petty tip money
and jewelry to help him make good his escape.
This account did not match the condition of the corpse itself. It
was established that the terrible dismemberment of the victim’s vitals
was most skillfully done and the cut almost workman like. The public
prosecutor ended with a plea that the appeal to the Imperial court be
refused, that there was no need for further reprieve and that the
execution take place early in the morning on the following day at six
o’clock.
In conclusion the book stated that the delinquent did agree to Dr.
Petersen’s request on the condition that he be brought two bottles of
whiskey that evening around eight o’clock.
The Privy Councilor finished reading and then gave the book
back.
“The father is cheaper than the mother!” he laughed.
“You will attend the execution as well. Don’t forget to bring the
common salt solution and other things you will need. Hurry back as
soon as possible. Every minute counts, especially in a situation like
we have here. There will scarcely be enough time. I will expect you at
the clinic early in the morning. Don’t bother finding an attendant. The
princess will assist us.”
“Princess Wolkonski, Your Excellency?” Dr. Petersen asked.
“Certainly,” nodded the professor. “I have my reasons for
bringing her into this little operation–Besides, she is very interested in
such things. By the way–how is our patient today?”
The assistant doctor said, “Ah, your Excellency. It is the same
old story, always the same now for the two weeks that she has been
here. She cries, screams and raves–In short, she wants out. Today she
smashed a couple of wash basins to pieces.”
“Have you seriously tried to talk with her again?” asked the
professor.
“I tried, but she scarcely let me get a word out,” answered Dr.
Petersen. “It is fortunate that tomorrow is finally almost here–How we
can ever keep her here until the child comes into the world is a puzzle
to me.”
“That won’t be your problem Petersen,” the Privy Councilor
clapped him benevolently on the shoulder. “We will find a way–Just
do your duty.”
The assistant doctor said, “Your Excellency can count on me for
that.”
The early morning sun kissed the honeysuckle leaves in the arbor
and clean gardens where the Privy Councilor’s white women’s clinic
lay. It lightly fondled the many colored dahlias in their dew fresh beds
and caressed the large deep blue clematis on the wall.
Many colored finches and large thrushes ran across the smooth
path, scurried through the evenly mown lawn and quickly flew off as
eight iron hoofs struck sparks as they lightly hit the cobblestones of
the street.
The princess climbed out of the carriage and came with quick
strides through the garden. Her cheeks glowed, her strong bosom
breathed heavily as she climbed the high steps up to the house. The
Privy Councilor came up and opened the door for her.
“Come in, I’ve just had some tea made for you.”
She said–in a panting and hurried voice–“I just came from–there.
I saw it. It–it was fabulous–exciting.”
He led her into the room. “Where have you just come from, your
Highness? From the– execution?”
“Yes,” she said. “Dr. Petersen will be here soon–I received a
ticket–just last night. It was intense–very intense.”
The Privy Councilor offered her a chair. “May I pour for you?”
She nodded, “Please, your Excellency. Very kind of you! A pity
that you missed it! He was a splendid fellow–tall–strong.”
“Who?” He asked, “The delinquent?”
She drank her tea, “Yes, certainly, him! The murderer! Muscular
and strapping–a powerful chest–like a boxer. He wore some kind of
blue sweater–it was open at the neck. No fat, only muscle and sinews.
Like a bull.”
“Could your Highness see the execution clearly?” asked the
Privy Councilor.
“Perfectly, your Excellency!” she cried. “I stood at the window
in the hall. The guillotine was right in front of me. He swayed a bit as
he stepped up. They had to support him.”
“Please, another piece of sugar, your Excellency.”
The Privy Councilor served her. “Did he say anything?”
“Yes,” said the princess. “Twice, but each time only one word.
The first time as the attorney read the sentence. That’s when he cried
out half-loud–but I can’t really repeat it–”
“But your Highness!” The Privy Councilor grinned and patted
her lightly on the hand. “You certainly don’t need to get embarrassed
in front of me.”
She laughed, “No, certainly not. Well then–but reach me another
slice of lemon. Thank you. Put it right there in the cup! Well then–he
said, no–I can’t say it.”
“Highness,” said the professor with mild reproof.
She said, “You must close your eyes first.”
The Privy Councilor thought, “Old monkey!” but he closed his
eyes. “Now?” he asked.
She still hesitated, “I–I will say it in French–”
“That’s fine–in French then!” he cried impatiently.
Then she pressed her lips together, bent forward and whispered
in his ear, “Merde!”
The professor bent backward, the princess’s strong perfume
bothered him. “So that’s what he said?”
“Yes,” she nodded. And he said it as if he was indifferent to it
all. I found it very attractive, almost gentleman like.”
“Certainly,” confirmed the Privy Councilor. “Only a pity that he
didn’t say it in French as well. What was the other word he said?”
“Oh, that was bad,” the princess sipped her tea, nibbled at a
cookie. It completely ruined the good impression he had made on me!
Just think, your Excellency, just as the executioner’s assistants seized
him, he suddenly began to scream and cry like a little child.”
“Well,” said the professor. “Another cup, your Highness?–And
what did he scream?”
“First he defended himself,” she explained. “The best he could,
silent and powerfully even though both hands were tightly tied behind
his back. There were three assistants and they threw themselves on
him while the executioner stood there watching quietly in his dress
suit and white gloves. At first it pleased me, how the murderer threw
off the three butchers, how they tore at him and pushed without
bringing him one step closer. Oh, it was terribly exciting, your
Excellency.”
“I can only imagine, your Highness,” he blurted out.
“But then,” she continued. “Then it all changed. One grabbed his
leg while another pushed his bound arms high and he stumbled
forward. At that moment he must have felt his resistance was useless,
that he was lost. Perhaps–Perhaps he had been a little drunk–and was
now suddenly very sober –Pfui–That’s when he screamed.”
The Privy Councilor smiled, “What did he scream? Must I close
my eyes again?”
“No,” she cried. “You can leave them open, your Excellency–He
became a coward, a pathetic coward, full of fear. He screamed,
‘Mama!–Mama!–Mama!’ dozens of times while they had him on his
knees, dragged him to the guillotine and pushed his head into the
circular opening of the board.”
“Was he still crying for his mama at the last moment?” asked the
Privy Councilor.
“No,” she answered. “Not at the very last. After the hard board
was locked firmly around his neck with his head sticking out the other
side he became very quiet. Something seemed to be going on inside of
him.”
The professor became very attentive, “Could you see his face,
your Highness? Could you guess at what was going on inside him?”
The princess said, “I could see him just as clearly as I see you
right now sitting in front of me–What was going on inside him–I
don’t really know–there was just an instant–After the executioner
looked around one last time to see that everything was ready–when
his hand pressed the button that released the blade. I saw the eyes of
the murderer, they stood wide open, with insane passion, saw his
mouth panting and his features contorted with desire–”
She stopped.
“Was that all?” inquired the Privy Councilor.
She finished, “Yes, then the guillotine fell and his head sprang
into the sack that one of the assistants held open- Please, reach me the
marmalade, your Excellency.”
There was a knock at the door. It opened and Dr. Petersen
stepped inside. In his hand swung a long glass tube, tightly corked
and wrapped in wadding.
“Good morning, your Highness,” he said. “Good morning, your
Excellency–Here–here it is.”
The princess sprang up, “Let me see–”
But the Privy Councilor held her back. “Slow down, your
Highness. You will see it soon enough. If it is all right with you, we
will get right to work.”
He turned to the assistant doctor, “I don’t know if it will be
important, but just in case it would be a good idea if you–”
His voice sunk as he put his lips to the ear of the doctor.
He nodded, “Very well, your Excellency. I will give the orders
immediately.”
They went through the white corridors and stopped just in front
of No. seventeen.
“Here she is,” said the Privy Councilor as he carefully opened
the door.
The room was entirely white, radiant with sunlight. The girl lay
deeply asleep in bed. A bright ray scurried in from the tightly barred
windows, trembled on the floor, clambered up a golden ladder, darted
across the sheets and nestled lovingly on her sweet cheek, plunging
her red hair into glowing flames. Her lips were moving–half-open–as
if she were lightly whispering words of love.
“She’s dreaming of her prince,” said the Privy Councilor.
Then he laid his cold, moist hand on her shoulder and shook it.
“Wake up Alma.”

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

Sixth Chapter
In one of the few Viennese alleys that hasn’t yet
surrendered all its past to the present, stands the
house of the marriage bureau “Fortuna.” A narrow
building, no wider than two windows. Above the
dark entrance, in a small niche, is a Mother of God
with the infant Jesus. The little Madonna wears a silk
dress, changed twice yearly. The Jesus child, perched
on her right arm, reaches eagerly for the orb of the
world, which his mother playfully holds out. Before
the glass shielding the figures from street dust, a
flame burns year-round in a red chalice. Passing
under the Madonna’s blessing, one enters the house,
climbs a dim staircase, and may knock at the first-
floor door bearing a tin sign inscribed “Fortuna.”
Here, the Madonna yields to the pagan goddess of
luck.
The “Come in!” answering the knock booms like a
shotgun blast. Entering, one finds Herr Anton
Sykora, and the shotgun makes sense. Clearly,
Sykora was once an athlete. His shoulders could still
bear a piano with two players; his neck is a bulging
ridge; his arms, swollen with muscle, strain his black
frock coat. Clean-shaven, he peers cheerfully through
gold-rimmed glasses, chewing constantly. His lips
are lush—the upper starts near his nose, the lower
curls toward a massive, blunt chin. When Sykora
moves, chewing, jutting his jaw, arms dangling, he
resembles a great ape. Such giants are always good-
natured. Kindness and joviality are the first traits a
stranger notices in him. But these don’t hinder his
business acumen. On the contrary, he’s highly skilled
in his trade. He boasts a fine clientele, with
connections across all social strata. His stock is well-
assorted. Through “Fortuna,” one can enter any
marriage—dowries of any size, various ranks, titles,
even the best-preserved characters in rich variety.
The bureau’s chief is convinced of his profession’s
importance. He often says, “Matchmaking is one of modern life’s most
ingenious institutions. Marriages are no longer made
in heaven but through the classifieds. This has
practical and moral advantages. The practical are
obvious—you know where you stand, no time
wasted. The moral are equally clear. How degrading
for parents to parade their daughters through balls
and socials for years. It’s against human dignity,
leaving moral scars. Self-esteem springs a leak. It’s
different with us. We’re true benefactors of
humanity.”
In his long dealings with all classes, Sykora has
gained great eloquence and a wealth of terms and
phrases, deployed with full effect. He can speak for
hours, adorning his speech or punctuating it with
quips.
Sykora is immensely popular with the tax
authority. He submits to assessments without protest,
never appealing. He greets his district’s tax
administrator with a hat swept to the ground.
Among the pious of his neighborhood, Sykora
enjoys great esteem. He doesn’t hoard what the pagan
Fortuna brings. He gives to churches, charitable
foundations, youth groups, and the poor. No plea for
a worthy cause goes unanswered.
On a December day, shortly before Christmas, he
received a telegram from Vorderschluder: “Buy
Südbahn shares immediately per H’s order.”
Sykora smoothed the telegram with a bone folder,
correcting the “n” in “Südbahn” that looked like a
“u” with his pencil—he valued order and couldn’t
abide postal sloppiness—then rose from his swivel
chair. The ring-shaped rubber cushion sighed back
into shape. He tapped the adjacent glass partition.
Behind it sat Herr Moritz Diamant, Sykora’s
secretary, the bureau’s second-in-command.
Diamant, once a medical student, abandoned his
studies upon realizing most human ailments stem
from the wallet’s state and are best cured there. He’d
become an expert diagnostician in this field, his
therapies highly effective. In good spirits, he’d say,
“A marriage bureau is the best sanatorium.” A small,
wiry man with a bushy mop of hair falling in two
tufts to his temples, he looked like David beside
Sykora’s Goliath. He had to look up to his boss,
always with a mischievous twinkle, as if saying,
“Comrade, we know each other.”
Diamant emerged from his cubicle, gazing
absently at Sykora. “Listen, Edelstein,” the chief said,
“I’m traveling this afternoon.”
Diamant’s distraction vanished. He was all
attention. “Aha! Vorderschluder!”
“Don’t be cheeky, Doctor; it’s none of your
business.”
Diamant twinkled at him. “Comrade, we know
each other!”
“Fine, I’m off this afternoon. Everything’s in
order, right? Have you written to young Kanitz,
Früchtel, about Margarete Schweigel?”
“It’s being typed.”
“And the Statthaltereirat from Graz?”
“That… what’s her name? The Prague
manufacturer’s daughter won’t have him. Too old.”
“For a miss with her fifty thousand, we’ll find
something special. What these women fancy! Send
him another selection. Anything else?”
“No—that is, I’d like another small advance.”
Sykora clapped a paw on Diamant’s shoulder.
Diamant stood firm, unflinching. “Let me tell you,
Jewel, you’re asking for advances a bit too often!”
“Well—given the Vorderschluder deal…”
“You, Crown Jewel, the Vorderschluder deal’s
mine alone. Besides, what deal’s there? You
know…”
David twinkled up at Goliath. “Comrade, we
know each other.” Goliath withdrew his paw,
grumbling, “We’ll talk when I’m back.”
Sykora donned his winter coat, raised the fur
collar, and stepped into a light snowfall turning
Vienna’s streets to coffee-brown slush. He visited his
lawyer for a meeting with the owner of the
“Misericordia” funeral parlor, discussing a
partnership stake. Then he attended a board meeting
of the League of Christian Progress Friends, recently
elected its honorary chairman. After lunch at his
regular tavern with a bank clerk, two tax officials,
and a prosecutor’s deputy, he headed to the station.
Soon after dusk, the carriage sent to meet him
rolled into Vorderschluder’s castle courtyard. Snow
fell thicker here than in the city, blanketing the yard
an inch deep. Between the stables and servants’ wing,
a groom swept a path, his broom flinging powder left
and right. Across the yard, the overseer stood in his
open doorway, warm yellow-red light behind his
shoulders, curious about the station visitor.
In the vestibule, Lorenz awaited, taking Sykora’s
fur with the haughty deference of a lackey. They
ascended the stairs, Sykora leading, Lorenz trailing
with the coat. Cozy warmth enveloped them; below,
logs crackled in the hall’s fireplace.
On the first floor, Lorenz opened the door to the
mistress’s rooms, ushering the guest in. They entered
58an octagonal, blue-papered chamber. “Servus!”
Sykora said.
“Servus!” Lorenz replied.
They laughed, shaking hands. Matched in size and
strength, they shared similar noses and foreheads,
their faces strikingly alike. But Lorenz’s expression
leaned toward guarded vigor, Sykora’s toward genial
affability.
“Well, then,” the Fortuna chief said, rubbing his
hands, “here we are again. Where’s Helmina?”
“She’s waiting—come!”
Frau Helmina sat in her boudoir on a tabouret
inlaid with mother-of-pearl and ivory, a gift from
Herr Dankwardt’s oriental travels. She turned,
offering Sykora her hand.
“God greet you, Helma,” he said. “How’s it going,
what’re you up to? Sapperment, it always smells
divine here.” He thrust his short nose forward, lips
parting, inhaling deeply. “Nowhere smells as good as
your place. You’ve got a knack, I’ll give you that. So,
the loving husband’s away?”
“Yes, he’s in Krems. There’s a stallion show
tomorrow. He wants to buy something…”
“Bravo, tending to the estate. He’s capable. Happy
with him? Doing his duty at home and hearth?”
Sykora shook with good-natured laughter.
Helmina rose, standing between the two burly
men, slender and supple, like a fine steel blade
between two wooden clubs.
“Well, then, got nothing for me?” Sykora said, his
laughter subsiding into a chuckle. “A decent cognac
or something? That trip here’s a fair haul. Got a weak
spot in my stomach from it. The lord husband’s got
something in the house, I hope. No matter—Lorenz’ll
fetch it. Grab a cigar too, Lorenz. Right… now let’s
settle for a cozy chat.”
Lorenz nodded and left. As Helmina crossed the
black Afghan rug to lock the antechamber door,
Sykora sank with a contented sigh into a wide
cushioned chair behind a small, round Indian brass
table. His hand covered a quarter of its surface.
“You kept me waiting long for news, Helmina,”
he said, chewing with his massive jaws, puffing.
Helmina stood before him. “What was there to
write? Nothing important happened.”
“How’s the inheritance from the baron going?”
Helmina glared, annoyed. “What? Well… I don’t
know. We’re litigating. The relatives won’t yield,
claiming he was incompetent. They’re a vile lot. I
don’t know how it’ll end.”
“It’d be nice to have Rotbirnbach. But if it falls
through, it won’t kill us. We’ve got other irons in the
fire.”
Lorenz returned from the bedroom with a cognac
bottle, two glasses, and a cigar box. He poured a
glass, drank it, and nodded to Sykora, as if
confirming the cognac’s quality. Refilling both
glasses, he sat beside the guest on a low divan,
stretched his legs, and closed his eyes.
“Here’s the thing,” Sykora said after a sip, “we
need money. A lot of it.”
“I can’t give you anything,” Helmina said firmly.
“I’ve had bad luck lately. Struck out three times.”
“Yes, yes… it happens. Our bicycle and car
factories aren’t doing as well as they should either.
Lorenz must’ve mentioned, right?”
Lorenz nodded, eyes shut, a long, thin Havana
dangling from his teeth.
“But now we’ve got something new… something
splendid. I’ll say just this: Galician petroleum.
Galicia’s our European America. There’s still a
fortune to be made.

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