Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
He nodded, but she fell silent again. “So,” he began, “did you read the leather bound volume?” “Yes,” she said. She took a deep breath, looked at him. “So, am I only a joke that you once made, Frank Braun?” “A joke?” he returned. “–An–idea, if you will–” “And I suppose it was funny enough,” she laughed out loud. But that’s not why I waited here for you. I want to know something entirely different. Tell me. Do you believe it?” “Do I believe what?” he answered. “If everything happened like Uncle relates in the leather bound volume? Yes, I believe that.” She shook her head impatiently. “No, that’s not what I mean. Naturally that is true–why would he lie in his book?–I want to know whether you also believe–like my–my–that is–your uncle did–That I am a different type of creature, different from other people, that I–am now, that I am, what my name implies?” “How shall I reply to your question?” he said. “Ask any medical doctor–he will certainly say that you are just as good a human being as anyone else in the world, even if your first appearance was a little unusual–He would add, that all the other details are pure coincidence and unimportant, the–” “That means nothing to me,” she interrupted. “For your uncle these little details were most important. Basically it doesn’t matter if they are or not. I want to know if you share his opinion? Do you believe as well that I am a strange creature?” He remained silent, searched for a reply, didn’t know how he should respond. He did believe it–and then again he didn’t– “You see–” he began finally. “Speak,” she urged. “Do you believe that I am your insolent joke–that took form? Your idea, which the old Privy Councilor threw into his crucible, which he cooked and distilled, until something came out that now sits before you?” This time he didn’t hesitate, “If you put it that way, yes, that’s what I believe.” She laughed softly, “I thought so–and that’s why I waited up for you tonight, to cure you of this vanity as soon as possible. No, cousin, you didn’t throw this idea into the world, not you–not any more than the old Privy Councilor did.” He didn’t understand her. “Then who did?” he asked. She reached under the pillow with her hand. “This did!” she cried. She lightly tossed the little alraune into the air and caught it again, caressed it lovingly with nervous fingers. “That there? Why that?” he asked. She gave back, “Did you think about it earlier–before the day the Legal Councilor celebrated the communion of the two children?” “No,” he replied. “Certainly not.” But then this thing fell down from the wall, that was when the idea came to you! Isn’t that true?” “Yes,” he confessed. “That is how it was.” “Now then,” she continued, “so the idea came from outside somewhere and entered into you. It was when Attorney Manasse gave his lecture, when he recited like a school book and explained to all of you what this little alraune was and what it meant–That’s when the idea grew in your brain. It became so large and so strong that you found the strength to suggest it to your uncle, to persuade him to carry it out, to create me. Then, if I am only an idea that came into the world and took on human form, it is also true that you, Frank Braun, were only an agent, an instrument–no more than the Privy Councilor or his assistant doctor. No different than–” She hesitated, fell silent, but only for a moment. Then she continued– “than the prostitute, Alma and the rapist-murderer whom you all coupled–you and Death!” She laid the little alraune on the silk cushions, looked at it with an almost loving glance and said,” You are my father: You are my mother. You are what created me.” He looked at her. “Perhaps it was so,” he thought. Ideas whirl through the air, like the pollen from flowers and play around before finally sinking into someone’s brain. Often they waste away there, spoil and die–Only a few find good rich soil– “Perhaps she is right,” he thought. His brain had always been a fertile planting place for all kinds of foolishness and abstruse fantasies. It seemed the same to him, whether he was the one that once threw the seed of this idea into the world–or whether he was the fertile earth that had received it. But he remained silent, left her with her thought. He glanced over at her, a child, playing with her doll. She slowly stood up, not letting the little manikin out of her hands. “There is something else I want to tell you,” she spoke softly. “But first I want to thank you for it, for giving me the leather bound volume and not burning it.” “What is it?” he asked. She interrupted herself. “Should I kiss you?” she asked. “I could kiss–” “Was that all you wanted to say, Alraune?” he said. She replied, “No, not that!–I only thought I would like to kiss you once. Just in case–But first I want to tell you this, why I waited. Go away!” He bit his lips, “Why?” “Because–because it would be better,” she answered, “for you– perhaps for me as well. But it doesn’t depend on that–I now know how things are–am now enlightened, and I think that things will continue to go as they have–only, I will not be running around blindly anymore–Now I see everything. Soon–soon it will be your turn, and that’s why it would be better if you left.” “Are you so certain of this?” he asked. “Don’t I need to be?” He shrugged his shoulders, “Perhaps, I don’t know. But tell me, why do you want to do this for me?” “I like you,” she said quietly. “You have been good to me.” He laughed, “Weren’t the others as well?” “Yes,” she answered. “They all were. But I didn’t see it. And they–all of them–they loved me–you don’t–not yet.” She went to the writing desk, took a postcard and gave it to him. “Here is a postcard from your mother. It came earlier this evening; the servant brought it up with my mail by mistake. I read it. Your mother is ill–She very much begs you to come back to her.” He took the postcard, stared in front of him undecided. He knew that they were right, both of them, could feel it, that it was foolishness to remain here. Then a boyish defiance seized him that screamed out, “No! No!” “Will you go?” she asked. He forced himself, spoke with a determined voice, “Yes, cousin!” He looked at her sharply, watched every line of her face searching for some movement, a little tug at the corners of her mouth, a little sigh would have been enough, some something that showed him her regret. But she remained quiet and serious. No breath moved on her inflexible mask. That vexed him, wounded him, seemed like an affront and an insult to him. He pressed his lips solidly together. “Not like this,” he thought. “I won’t go like this.” She came up to him, reached out her hand to him. “Good,” she said. “Good–Now I will go. I can give you a goodbye kiss if you want.” A sudden fire flickered in his eyes at that. Without even wanting to, he said, “Don’t do it Alraune. Don’t do it!” And his voice took on her own tone. She raised her head and quickly asked, “Why not?” Again he used her words, but she sensed that it was on purpose. “I like you, Alraune,” he said. “You have been good to me today–many red lips have kissed my mouth–and they became very pale. Now–now, it would be your turn. That is why it would be better if you didn’t kiss me!” They stood facing each other; their eyes glowed hard as steel. Unnoticed, a smile played on his lips. His weapon was bright and sharp. Now she could choose. Her “No” would be his victory and her defeat–then he could go with a light heart. But her “Yes” would mean war and she felt it–the same way he did. It was like that very first evening, exactly the same, only that time was the beginning and opening round. There had still been hope for several other rounds in the duel. But now–it was the end. He was the one that had thrown the glove– She took him up on it. “I am not afraid,” she spoke. He fell silent and the smile died on his lips–Now it was serious. “I want to kiss you,” she repeated. He said, “Be careful! I will kiss you back.” She held his gaze–“Yes,” she said–Then she smiled. “Sit down, you are a little too tall for me!” “No,” he cried out loudly. “Not like that.” He went to the wide divan, laid down on it, buried his head in the cushions, stretched his arms out wide on both sides, closed his eyes. “Now, come Alraune!” he cried. She stepped closer, kneeled by his hips, hesitated, looked at him, then suddenly threw herself down onto him, seized his head, pressed her lips on his. He didn’t embrace her, didn’t move his arms. But his fingers tightened into fists. He felt her tongue, the light bite of her teeth. “Kiss harder,” he whispered. “Kiss harder.” Red fog lay before his eyes. He heard the Privy Councilor’s repulsive laugh, saw the large piercing eyes of Frau Gontram, how she begged little Manasse to explain the little alraune to her. He heard the giggling of the two celebrants, Olga and Frieda, and the broken, yet still beautiful voice of Madame de Vére singing “Les Papillons”, saw the small Hussar Lieutenant listening eagerly to the attorney, saw Karl Mohnen, as he wiped the little alraune with the large napkin– “Kiss harder!” he murmured. And Alma–her mother, red like a burning torch, snow-white breasts with tiny blue veins, and the execution of her father–as Uncle Jakob had described it in his leather bound volume–Out of the mouth of the princess–And the hour, in which the old man created her–and the other, in which his doctor brought her into this world– “Kiss me,” he moaned, “Kiss me.” He drank her kisses, sucked the hot blood from his lips, which her teeth had torn, and he became intoxicated, knowingly and intentionally, as if from champagne or his oriental narcotics– “Enough,” he said suddenly, “enough, you don’t know what you are doing.” At that she pressed her curls more tightly against his forehead, her kisses became hotter and more wild. Now the clear thoughts of day lay shattered, now came the dreams, swelling on a blood red ocean, now the Maenad swung her thyrsos and he frothed in the holy frenzy of Dionysus. “Kiss me,” he screamed. But she released him, let her arms sink. He opened his eyes, looked at her. “Kiss me!” he repeated softly. Her eyes glazed over, her breath came in short pants. Slowly she shook her head. At that he sprang up. “Then I will kiss you,” he cried. He lifted her up in his arms, threw her down struggling onto the divan, knelt down–there, right where she had knelt. “Close your eyes,” he whispered and he bent down– Good, his kisses were good–caressing and soft, like a harp played on a summer night, wild too, yes, and raw, like a storm wind blowing over the North sea. They burned red-hot like the fiery breath out of mount Aetna, ravishing and consuming like the vortex of a maelstrom– “It’s pulling me under,” she felt, “pulling me into it.” But then the spark struck and burning flames shot high into the heavens, the burning torch flew, ignited the altar, and with bloody jowls the wolf sprang into the sanctuary. She embraced him, pressed herself tightly to his breast–I’m burning–she exalted–I’m burning–at that, he tore the clothes from her body. The sun that woke her was high in the sky. She saw that she was lying there completely naked, but didn’t cover herself. She turned her head, saw him sitting up right next to her–naked like she was. She asked, “Will you be leaving today?” “Is that what you want, that I should leave?” he gave back. “Stay,” she whispered. “Stay!”
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Eighteenth Chapter Ruprecht woke with uneasy feelings. The joyful uplift of yesterday’s afternoon and evening had given way to deep despondency. A heavy weight pressed on him again. His talk with Schiereisen had rolled boulders over his soul, blocking light and air. He saw it was impossible to live alongside Helmina any longer. Something must be done… but the worst was not knowing what. Should he warn Helmina about Schiereisen? That would make him complicit in her crimes. Could he let Schiereisen continue his probe and catch her unawares…? Should he let events unfold, taking their outcome as divine judgment? Tormented and drained, he went to breakfast. Only the children and Miss Nelson were there. Sitting across from the Englishwoman, he had a strange sensation. As she sat—black, slender, composed, ever equable—she seemed the axis of all events in the castle. A link between poles, unmoving yet the spine of all motion around her. With a surge, he resolved to regain his composure. He pushed back his chair and left to speak with Helmina. The chambermaid said the mistress hadn’t called for her. It was nearly eight; she should be up. His knocks went unanswered. The door was locked. Suddenly, as he stood with his ear to the wood, a wedge drove into his mind. Ah… she played me, saw through Schiereisen, knew of my talk with the detective yesterday—she’s fled! He stood motionless a moment, then called old Johann, ordering a crowbar, pickaxe, or similar tool. Until the servant returned, Ruprecht stood like a sentinel before the door. His composure returned; his nerves relayed clear sensations, his thoughts focused on the immediate. Johann brought a pickaxe. Ruprecht wedged its blade into the door’s lower gap, pressed it firm, and with one heave, tore the door from its hinges, crashing it into the room. Johann followed, horrified. Helmina was gone. Her bed untouched. The window open, morning sunlight on white pillows and blue silk coverlet. Ruprecht searched the room… no letter, no explanation. Behind him stood an old man, broken, swaying, crushed by a temple’s sudden collapse. Schiereisen entered. Ruprecht turned, and one glance at the detective’s face grasped the event’s meaning. “You can go, Johann,” he said. “Tell the staff the mistress has left.” When Johann was gone, Ruprecht approached Schiereisen. “You already know what’s happened?” The detective nodded. “Yes… I know. I was present at your wife’s departure. Uninvited, of course.” “You saw Helmina? You were there? I don’t understand… and you didn’t arrest her? Why didn’t you stop her? You suspect her gravely…” “Yes… you see, Herr Baron, I could’ve detained her. Perhaps! Certainly! I was about to… but I didn’t. Why? I’m proud to be your friend, Herr Baron.” “For my sake?” “Yes… it wasn’t entirely dutiful… but perhaps aligns with my duty. I’m here on behalf of Herr Peter Franz von Zaugg, the late Herr Dankwardt’s brother- in-law. His main concern is proving Frau Helmina seized the deceased’s assets through a crime, to renew certain inheritance claims. I’ve fulfilled that commission as far as possible. But I also have a duty to the public—to neutralize dangerous criminals like your wife and Lorenz. I’ll fulfill that too. But for you, I delayed it.” “Delayed? You’ll still pursue Helmina?” “Yes. I’ve given her a head start. By ten, two of my agency’s men arrive. At ten, I’ll take up Frau Helmina’s trail. Chance, luck, or my skill will decide. I’ll do everything to apprehend her then. Relentlessly! But I had to give her that head start… I owed it to our friendship… I know you love this woman.” “You’re mistaken,” Ruprecht said calmly. “I no longer love her. But I couldn’t betray her. You’ll agree…” Schiereisen studied Ruprecht’s face. “So,” he said slowly, “you don’t love Helmina anymore… well, then…” “Did you know of her escape plan?” “No… it was an intuition. I hear a noise in the night, like someone rattling a door. My senses are sharp in such hours. I hear it, leap to the garden door… I see someone tampering with the small tower gate… my instinct was to seize them. I creep along the walls, but before I reach it, the door opens… someone slips out. I rush forward… it’s Helmina.” “You were in the castle last night?” “Yes… I was in the castle.” Before Ruprecht’s eyes flickered a cinematograph’s chase again. He steadied himself, adjusted a lever, and focused. “You searched?” “And found,” Schiereisen replied calmly. Ruprecht flinched. “Yes… I got to the secret’s core,” Schiereisen continued. “I finally did the obvious, what I should’ve done long ago. The simplest, most necessary things come last. Last night, I entered the old tower, where all events pointed.” Ruprecht gripped the bedpost’s knob with an iron fist, silent. “I see you know what I found,” Schiereisen said. “It wasn’t easy. Jérome Rotrehl helped mightily. You may know there’s an opening high in the tower. We climbed in. It was fascinating. The tower’s filled with rubble, always risking being crushed. Recently, many obstacles were added. We crawled under a stone slab balanced on its edge. A fingertip’s touch, and it falls. A perfect mousetrap. But we pressed deeper. Finally, we reached a vault far below. Nothing there. I wasn’t fooled. We searched on, finding the hiding place— carefully crafted, like Egyptian kings’ tomb chambers… Yes, there were bodies to hide. Three. You understand. Caustic lime was used, recently… well, let’s leave it. We know why Jana ‘met with misfortune,’ don’t we? I’d reached my goal. Then… discovering Helmina’s flight… was a bonus.” “And you let her escape… what can I say…” The bedpost creaked in Ruprecht’s grip. Schiereisen placed a hand on his shoulder, his gaze kind and concerned. “You know,” he said with a half-smile, “at first I thought… well, I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d warned Helmina.” “I said nothing of our talk.” Schiereisen nodded. “I know. It was clear the moment I reached the gate. You told her nothing! Her flight was long planned. A stranger waited for her outside.” “Lorenz!” “No! Lorenz was below, with a car. It was another.” Ruprecht stood firm, his gaze steady. He asked sharply, demandingly. “I hope you’re not mistaken, that you no longer love Helmina,” Schiereisen said. “If that’s true, it’s good for you. The man who waited was Fritz Gegely. He fled with her—” “Fritz Gegely!” Ruprecht said. The connection eluded him at first, then one thought pushed through the chaos… “I must go to her… he’s gone… I must go to her…” He ran off, grabbed his hat, and raced down the stairs. Schiereisen kept pace. Ruprecht’s sudden unraveling, his composure shattered, made the detective feel he couldn’t leave him alone. He had no explanation. Halfway, on the bridge, a messenger met Ruprecht, summoning him to Hedwig. The Red Ox chambermaid was distraught, stammering her message. Her outrage matched her pity for the abandoned woman, knotting within her. Men were such vile scum, and Schorsch would hear it today. Hedwig lay pale in her wheelchair by the open window, bathed in morning sunlight, her hands covering a paper. She turned toward the door, a halo around her light hair. Ruprecht seized her hand. “Hedwig!” he said, voice trembling from deep within. “Yes!” she replied, no further words needed between them. She handed him the letter Fritz Gegely had left. Ruprecht read: “I may bring grief and pain upon you, my Hedwig, yes, I know, but I cannot do otherwise. Don’t judge me; try to understand. A new love has entered my life, a new sun has risen, I must chart a new course. I must… it’s more compelling than death. I find it unworthy of an honest man to hide what the brutality of events makes all too clear: I could no longer bear life with you. I loved you, you know that. But now life tears me from you. Life and my great duty to myself. I am an upright man, great strength is in me, but by your side, I couldn’t stay upright, my flight couldn’t soar. I feel my creative force fading. My Marie Antoinette would’ve been my only work. I can’t endure that. Your presence is a constant reminder of humiliation. I must find another world, free of these reminders. I must fly again. I’ve been told you’ve rekindled an old friendship. That eases my parting. I know you have solace. Farewell.” Ruprecht placed the letter back on the blanket over Hedwig’s knees. She looked up at him, resigned to her fate, more bewildered than outraged or sad. Schiereisen quietly left the room. He knew enough now; a great relief washed over him. The plump landlady stopped him outside with indignant questions and exclamations. Word had spread that Helmina had vanished, and wild speculations raced. A carriage rolled down the village street, stopping at the Red Ox. Two strangers alighted and greeted Schiereisen. “You’re punctual, thank you,” the detective said. “We’ll begin at once.” Ernst Hugo had rushed through his visit to his elderly mother in Linz. She found little joy in her son this time. He was restless, irritable, his thoughts elsewhere. Her small concerns—Linzer acquaintances, relatives—were mere annoyances, and he struggled to feign interest in her tales of engagements, financial losses, and wayward sons. What was happening in Vorderschluder? He’d left the field to another for forty-eight hours. A few vacation days remained, then duty’s jaws would swallow him. He couldn’t imagine how he’d cope, already losing his mind after two days away. He and Helmina must reach a decision before he returned to Vienna. Fritz Gegely was an intruder on prior claims, shifting love’s boundaries. He had to be neutralized. Ernst Hugo resolved to cast aside decorum and expose the Heidelberg theft.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter Fourteen Describes how Frank Braun played with fire and how Alraune awoke. THAT evening the Fräulein didn’t come to dinner, only allowed Frieda Gontram to bring in a little tea and a few cakes. Frank Braun waited awhile for her, hoping that perhaps later she would come down. Then he went to the library and reluctantly took up the documents from the writing desk. But he couldn’t bring himself to read them, put them down again and decided to drive into the city. Before he left he took the last little mementos from out of the desk drawer, the piece of silk curtain cord, the card and four-leaf clover with the bullet holes through them and finally the alraune manikin. He packed everything together, sealed the brown paper package and had it sent up to the Fräulein. He attached no written explanation to it– Everything would be explained to her inside the leather bound volume that bore her initials. Then he rang for the chauffeur and drove into the city. As he expected, he met Herr Manasse in the little wine pub on Cathedral Square. Stanislaus Schacht was with him. He sat down with them and began to chat. He got into a deep discussion with the attorney about legal questions, debating the pros and cons of this and that lawsuit. They decided to turn a few of the doubtful cases over to the Legal Councilor for him alone. He would bring them to some acceptable compromise. Manasse believed that a victorious settlement could be reached with the others. In some of the cases Frank Braun calmly suggested they simply acknowledge the claim, but Manasse refused. “Never acknowledge–even if the opponent’s demands are as clear as day and justified a hundred-fold!” He was the straightest and most honest attorney in the county courthouse, one that always told his clients the truth, right to their face. In front of the bar he might remain completely quiet but he would never lie–and yet he was way too much a lawyer not to have an innate hatred of recognizing an opponent’s claim. “It only costs us more,” Frank Braun objected. “So what!” barked the attorney. “What does that have to do with it?–I tell you, one never knows–there is always a chance…” “A legal one–perhaps–” answered Frank Braun. “–but–” He fell silent. There was no other way for the attorney. The Court determined justice–what ever it said was just, even how it decided. Today it would be just–and totally different after a couple of months in the higher courts. Nevertheless, the Court gave the final decision and it was sacred–not the parties involved. To recognize a claim yourself, without such a decision, was usurping the right of the Court. As an attorney Manasse was partial to his own clients. He desired the judge to be impartial, so it was an abomination to him to make such a decision for his own party. Frank Braun smiled. “As you wish,” he said. He spoke with Stanislaus Schacht, listened as this friend of Dr. Mohnen talked of all the others that had been there as students with him. “Yes, Joseph Theyssen has been a Government Advisor for some time now and Klingel Hőffer is a professor at Halle–he will be the new chair for Anatomy, and Fritz langen–and Bastian–and–” Frank Braun listened, turned the pages of this living directory of German nobility that knew everyone. “Are you still enrolled?” he asked. Stanislaus fell silent, a little offended. But the attorney barked, “What! Didn’t you know? He passed his doctoral exam–five years ago.” “Really–five years ago!” Frank Braun calculated backward, that must have been in his forty-fifth, no, forty-sixth semester. “Well,” he said. He stood up and reached out his hand, which the other heartily shook. “Allow me to congratulate you, Herr Doctor!” he continued. “But–tell me–what are you doing now?” “Yes, if he only knew!” cried the attorney. Then chaplain Schrőder came. Frank Braun stood up to greet him– “Back in the country again?” cried the black suited priest. “We must celebrate!” “I am the host,” declared Stanislaus Schacht. “He must drink to my doctor’s degree.” “And with me to my newly becoming a vicar,” laughed the priest. “Let’s share the honor then, if it’s alright with you, Dr. Schacht.” They agreed and the white haired vicar ordered a 93 Scharzhofberger, which the wine pub had placed in stock on his recommendation. He tested the wine, nodded with satisfaction and toasted with Frank Braun. “You have it good,” he said, “sticking your nose into every unknown place on land and sea. Yes, we can read about them in the newspapers–but we must sit at home and console ourselves with the fact that the Mosel still always produces a good wine–You certainly can’t get this label out there!” “We can get the label,” he said, “but not the wine– Now Herr Reverend, what have you been up to?” “What should I be up to?” replied the priest. “One just gets themselves angry. Our old Rhine is always becoming more Prussian. But for relaxation one can write rotten pieces for the Tűnnes, Bestavader, Schâl, Speumanes and the Marizzebill. I have already plundered Plautus and Terence in their entirety for Peter Millowwitsch’s puppet theater in Cologne–Now I’m doing it to Holberg. And just think, that fellow–Herr Director, he calls himself today–now pays me royalties–Another one of those Prussian inventions.” “Be happy about it!” growled Attorney Manasse. “By the way, he’s also published on Iamblicos.” He turned to Frank Braun, “And I tell you, it is a very exceptional book.” “Not worth talking about,” cried the old vicar. “Only a little attempt–” Stanislaus Schacht interrupted him. “Go on!” he said. “Your work lays out the foundation of the very essence of the Alexandrian school. Your hypothesis about the Emanation Doctrine of the Neo-Platonists–” He went on, lecturing like an argumentative Bishop at the high council. Here and there he made of few considerations, gave his opinion, that it wasn’t right the author based his entire work on the three cosmic principles that had been previously established. Couldn’t he have just as well successfully included the ‘Spirit’ of Pophyrs?” Manasse joined in and finally the vicar as well. They argued as if there was nothing more important in the entire world than this strange monism of Alexander, which was based on nothing other than a mystical annihilation of self, of the “I”, through ecstasy, asceticism and theurgy. Frank Braun listened silently. “This is Germany,” he thought. “This is my country–” It occurred to him that a year ago he had been sitting in a bar somewhere in Melbourne or Sidney–with him had been a Justice of the Supreme Court, a Bishop of the High Church and a famous doctor. They had disputed and argued no less ardently than these three that were now sitting with him–But it had been about whom was the better boxer, Jimmy Walsh of Tasmania or slender Fred Costa, the champion of New-South Wales. But here sat a little attorney, who was still being passed over for promotion to Legal Councilor, a priest that wrote foolish pieces for a puppet theater, that had a few titles of his own, but never a parish, and finally the eternal student Stanislaus Schacht, who after some fourteen years was happy to have his doctor’s degree and now didn’t know what to do with himself. And these three little poor wretches spoke about the most abstract, far-fetched things that had nothing at all to do with their occupations. And they spoke so easily, with the same familiarity as the gentlemen in Melbourne had conversed about a boxing match. Oh, you could sift through all of America and Australia, even nine-tenths of Europe–and you would not find such an abundance of knowledge– only–it was dead. He sighed, it was long dead and reeked of decay–really, the gentlemen didn’t even notice! He asked the vicar how it was going with his foster son, young Gontram. Immediately Attorney Manasse interrupted himself. “Yes, tell us Herr Reverend–that’s why I came here. What does he write?” Vicar Schröder unbuttoned his jacket, pulled out his wallet and took a letter out of it. “Here, read for yourself,” he said. “It doesn’t sound very encouraging!” He handed the envelope to the attorney. Frank Braun threw a quick glance at the postmark. “From Davos?” he asked. “Did he inherit his mother’s fate as well?” “Unfortunately,” sighed the old priest. “And he was such a fresh, good boy, that Josef, absolutely not meant for the priesthood though. God only knows what he would have studied, or I would have allowed him to study if I didn’t wear the black robe. But I promised his mother on her deathbed. By the way, he has already gone as far in his studies as I have–I tell you–he passed his doctoral exam–summa cum laude! I obtained a special dispensation for him through the ArchBishop, who has always been very benevolent towards me personally. He helped me a lot with the work about Iamblichos–yes, he could really become something! Only–unfortunately–” He hesitated and slowly emptied his glass. “Did it come so suddenly, Herr Reverend?” asked Frank Braun. “You could say that,” answered the priest. “It first started with the psychological shock of the sudden death of his brother, Wolf. You should have seen him outside, at the cemetery. He never moved from my side while I gave my sermon, stared at the enormous garland of blood red roses that lay on the coffin. He held himself upright until the ceremony was ended, but then he felt so weak that Schacht and I had to downright carry him. In the carriage he seemed better, but at home with me he once more became entirely apathetic–The only thing I could get out of him at all that entire evening was that now he was the last of the Gontram boys and it was his turn next. This apathy would not yield and from that hour he remained convinced that his days were numbered, even though a very thorough medical examination gave me a lot of hope in the beginning. But then it went rapidly. From day to day you could see his decline–now we have sent him to Davos–but it appears that his song will soon be over.” He fell silent, fat tears stood in his eyes– “His mother was tougher,” growled the attorney. “She laughed in the Reaper’s face for six long years.” “God grant her soul eternal peace,” said the vicar and he filled the glasses. “We will drink a silent toast to her–in her memory.” They raised the glasses and emptied them. “The old Legal Councilor will soon be entirely alone,” observed Dr. Schacht. “Only his daughter appears to be completely healthy– She is the only one that will survive him.” “The attorney grumbled, “Frieda?–No, I don’t believe it.” “And why not?” asked Frank Braun. “Because–because–” he began, “–well, why shouldn’t I say it?” He looked straight at Frank Braun, cutting, enraged, as if he wanted to take him by the throat. “You want to know why Frieda Gontram will never grow old?–I will tell you. Because she is now completely caught in the claws–of that damned witch out there!–That’s why–Now you know!” “Witch,” thought Frank Braun. “He calls her a witch, just like Uncle Jakob did in his leather bound volume.” “What do you mean by that, Herr Attorney?” he asked. Manasse barked, “Exactly what I said. “Whoever gets to close to the Fräulein ten Brinken–gets stuck, like a fly in syrup. And whoever is once caught by her–stays there and no amount of struggling will do any good! Be careful, Herr Doctor, I’m warning you! It is thankless enough–to give warnings like this. I have already done it once– without any success–with Wölfchen–now it is you–flee while there is still time. What do you still want here?–It seems to me exactly as if you are already licking at the honey!” Frank Braun laughed–but it sounded a little forced. “Have no fear on my account, Herr Attorney,” he cried–But he didn’t convince the other–and even less, himself. They sat and drank, drank to Schacht’s doctoral degree and to the Priest’s becoming a vicar. They drank as well to the health of Karl Mohnen, of whom no one had heard since he had left the city. “He is lost,” said Stanislaus Schacht. Then he became sentimental and sang melancholy songs. Frank Braun took his leave, went out on foot back to Lendenich–through the fragrant trees of spring – like in the old times. He came across the courtyard, then saw a light in the library. He went in–Alraune sat on the divan. “You here, little cousin?” he greeted. She didn’t answer, waved to him to take a place. He sat across from her, waiting. But she remained silent and he didn’t press her. Finally she said, “I wanted to speak with you.”
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
She looked at him sharply. “Really?” she said, drawing each word out slowly. “And just what is it that you think would be worth my effort?” He didn’t respond–Didn’t have any answer at the moment. He stood up, shrugged his shoulders and went into the garden. Her laughter sounded behind him. “In a bad mood, Herr Guardian?” That afternoon he sat in the library. Some documents lay in front of him that Attorney Manasse had sent over yesterday. But he didn’t read them. He stared into the air, hurriedly smoking one cigarette after the other. Then he opened a desk drawer and once more took out the Privy Councilor’s leather bound volume. He read slowly and carefully, considering every little incident. There was a knock; the chauffeur quickly stepped inside. “Herr Doctor,” he cried. “Princess Wolkonski is here. She is very upset, screamed for the Fräulein while she was still in her carriage. We thought that perhaps it might be better if you received her first–So Aloys is bringing her here right now.” “Well done!” he said. He sprang up and went to meet the princess. With great effort she squeezed through the narrow door and waltzed her heavy masses into the half darkened hall, which was lit only by the sparse sunlight that came through the green Venetian blinds. “Where is she?” she panted. “Where is the Fräulein?” He took her hand and led her over to the divan. She recognized him immediately and called him by name, but had no intention of getting into a conversation with him. “I want to see Fräulein Alraune,” she cried. “Bring the Fräulein here!” She would not calm down until he rang the servant and instructed him to announce the visit of the princess. Then, for the first time, she consented to listen to him. He asked after the health of her child and the princess related to him, in an immense flood of words, how she had met with her daughter. Not once had she recognized her own mother, had simply sat by the window looking out into the garden, passive and listless. It had been in the old Privy Councilor’s clinic, that fraud, which Professor Dalberg had now turned into an insane asylum, the same building where– He interrupted her, cutting short her flood of words. He quickly grabbed her hand, bent over it and looked with simulated interest at her rings. “Excuse me, your Highness,” he cried quickly. “Where did you ever get this marvelous emerald? Definitely a showcase piece!” “It was a button from the Magnate’s beret of my first husband,” she replied. “It’s an old heirloom.” She prepared to continue her tirade, but he didn’t let her get a word in. “It is a stone of uncommon purity!” he affirmed. “And of remarkable size! I only once saw a similar one, in the royal stud of the Maharajah of Rolinkore–He had it set into his favorite horse’s left eye. For the right it carried a Burmese ruby that was only a little smaller.” Then he told of the hobby of Indian princes, how they gouged out the eyes of their beautiful horses and replaced them with glass eyes or large round highly polished stones. “It sounds cruel,” he said. “But I assure you, your Highness. The effect is amazing when you see such a magnificent animal, when they stare at you with Alexandrite eyes, or glance at you out of deep blue sapphires.” Then he spoke of precious stones, remembering from his student days that she knew quite a bit about jewels and pearls. It was the only thing she was really interested in. She gave him answers, at first quickly and briefly, then became calmer with every minute. She pulled off her rings, showed them to him one after the other, telling him a little story about each one. He nodded attentively. “Now let my cousin come,” he thought. “The first storm is over.” But he was wrong. Alraune had soundlessly come through the door, walked softly across the carpet and set herself down in the easy chair right across from them. “I am so happy to see you, your Highness,” she piped. The princess cried out and gasped for breath, crossed herself, then a second time, in the Orthodox manner. “There she is,” she moaned. “There she sits!” “Yes,” laughed Alraune, “alive and breathing!” She stood up and reached her hand out to the princess. “I am so sorry,” she continued. “My sympathies, your Highness!” The princess didn’t take her hand. She was speechless for a minute, struggled for composure–Then she found herself again. “I don’t need your sympathy!” she cried. “I have something to say to you!” Alraune sat back down, waved lightly with her hand. “Please speak, your Highness.” The princess began. Did the Fräulein know that she had lost her fortune through the machinations of his Excellency? But yes, naturally she knew. The gentlemen had explained every detail to her, explained what she had to do–But she had refused to fulfill her obligation. Did she know what had happened to her daughter? She explained how she had found her in the asylum and what the doctor’s opinion was. She became more excited, her voice swelled, becoming higher and more shrieking. She knew all of that, declared Alraune calmly. The princess asked, what was she now intending to do? Did she intend to walk in the same dirty footsteps of her father? Oh, there was a fine scoundrel. You couldn’t find a finer or more cunning blackguard in any book. Now he had his just reward. She continued screaming and yelling about his Excellency, saying everything that came to her tongue–She screamed that Olga’s sudden attack had been because of the failure of her mission and not wanting to come back. Alraune had made things worse by enticing her friend of many long years away from her. She believed that if the Fräulein would now help, not only would her fortune be saved, but her child as well, when she heard the news. ‘I’m not asking,” she screamed. “I’m demanding! I demand what is rightfully mine. You have done this wrong, you, my own Godchild, and your father. Now make it right again, as much as you possibly can–It is a shame that I must be the first to tell you this–But you will have it no other way.” “What is there left to save?” Alraune said softly. “As far as I know, the bank collapsed three days ago. Your money is gone, your Highness!” She stressed the ‘gone’–You could hear the bank notes fluttering in all directions. “That doesn’t matter,” declared the princess. “The Legal Councilor told me that almost twelve million of my money was invested into that rotten bank. You will simply give me those twelve million out of your own money. That will be nothing to you–I know that very well!” “Is that all?” said Fräulein ten Brinken. “Are there any more commands, your Highness!” “Many more,” cried the princess. “You will inform Fräulein Gontram that she is to leave your house immediately. She will go with me to my poor daughter. I promised to bring her along the next time I came. Especially now, so she can share the news that this sad misfortune has been made right. It will have a very good effect on the countess–Perhaps a sudden recovery. I won’t reproach Fräulein Gontram in any way over her ungrateful behavior or continue pointing out your own behavior to you. I only wish this affair to be settled immediately.” She fell silent, took a deep breath after the tremendous exertion of her long speech. She took her handkerchief, fanned herself, and wiped the thick drops of sweat that beaded on her bright red face. Alraune stood up briefly, made a slight bow. “Your Highness is too gracious,” she piped. Then she remained quiet. The princess waited awhile, then finally asked, “Well?” “Well?” the Fräulein came back in the same tone of voice. “I’m waiting, –” cried the princess. “So am I, – ” said Alraune. Princess Wolkonski moved back and forth on the divan, whose old springs sagged heavily under her weight. The way she was pressed into her mighty corset, which even now formed the huge masses into some type of shape, made it difficult for her to breath or even move. Her breath came short and unconsciously her thick tongue licked her dry lips. “May I be permitted to have a glass of water brought for you, your Highness?” twittered the Fräulein. She acted as if she had not heard. “What do you intend to do now?” she asked solemnly. Alraune spoke with infinite simplicity, “Absolutely nothing.” The old princess stared at her with round cow eyes, as if she could not comprehend what the young thing meant. She stood up, confused, took a few steps, looked around as if she were searching for something. Frank Braun stood up, took the carafe of water from the table, filled a glass and gave it to her. She drank it greedily. Alraune stood up as well. “I beg to be excused, your Highness,” she said. “May I be permitted to convey your greetings to Fräulein Gontram?” The princess went up to her, seething, full of repressed anger. Now she is going to burst, thought Frank Braun. But she couldn’t find the words, searched in vain for a beginning. “Tell her,” she panted. “Tell her that I never want to lay eyes on her again! She is no better a woman than you are!” She stamped with heavy steps through the hall, gasping, sweating, and waving her mighty arms in the air. Then her glance fell on the open drawer. She saw the necklace that she had once given her Godchild, a gold chain with pearls and set with diamonds around the fiery lock of the mother’s hair. A triumphant look of hatred flew over her bloated features. She quickly tore the necklace out of the drawer. “Do you know what this is?” she screamed. “No,” said Alraune calmly. “I’ve never seen it before.” The princess stepped up right in front of her. “So that scoundrel of a Privy Councilor embezzled it from you– just like him! It was my present to you, Alraune, as my god-child!” “Thank you,” said the Fräulein. “The pearls are very pretty, and the diamonds too–if they are real.” “They are real,” screamed the princess. “Like this hair that I cut from your mother!” She threw the necklace into the Fräulein’s lap. Alraune took the unusual piece of jewelry, weighed it thoughtfully in her hand. “My–mother?” she said slowly. “It appears that my mother had very beautiful hair.” The princess placed herself solidly in front of her, putting both hands solidly on her hips. She was matter of fact, like a washerwoman. “Very beautiful hair,” she laughed. “Very beautiful! So beautiful that all the men ran after her and paid an entire Mark for one night’s sleep with her beautiful hair!” The Fräulein sprang up. The blood drained out of her face in an instant, but she quickly laughed again and said calmly and scornfully: “You are getting old, your Highness, old and childish.” That was the end. Now there was no going back for the princess. She broke loose with ordinary, infinitely vulgar language like a drunken Bordello Madam. She screamed, howled and obscene filth poured out of her mouth. Alraune’s mother was a whore, one of the lowest kind, who gave herself away for a Mark and her father was a miserable rapist and murderer whose name was Noerrissen. She knew all about it. The Privy Councilor had paid the prostitute money and purchased her for his vile experiment, had inseminated her with the semen of the executed criminal. That was how Alraune had been created and she, herself, had injected the loathsome semen into Alraune’s mother. She, Alraune, the stinking fruit of that experiment, was sitting there now–right in front of her!–A murderer’s daughter and a prostitute’s child! That was her revenge. She went out triumphant, with light steps, swollen with the pride of a victory that made her ten years younger. She slammed the door loudly as she closed it. Now it was quiet in the large library. Alraune sat in her chair, a little pale. Her hands played nervously with the necklace, faint movements played around the corners of her mouth. Finally she stood up. “Stupid stuff,” she whispered. She took a few steps, then calmed herself and stepped back up to her cousin. “Is it true, Frank Braun?” she asked. He hesitated a moment, stood up and said slowly: “I believe that it is true.” He stepped over to the writing desk, took up the leather bound volume and handed it to her. “Read this,” he said. She didn’t speak a word, turned to go. “Take this too,” he cried after her and handed her the dice cup that had been fashioned out of her mother’s skull and the dice that had been created out of her father’s bones.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Waking in a glorious resolve, sweat-soaked, he heard fists pounding his door. He stood in the doorway, shirt flapping, blinded by a lantern’s glare. Someone ordered him to rise quickly, speaking of a ladder, ropes, a pickaxe, and a shovel from the tool shed behind the house. It might’ve been Schiereisen. He had to dress; it seemed urgent. When Rotrehl was ready and Schiereisen explained the task, he wasn’t overly surprised. It felt like a continuation of his adventurous dreams, his mind brimming with Cossacks and battle scenes, making him eager to follow. Soon, they descended the hill, armed with ladder, ropes, pickaxe, and shovel, like treasure hunters or conjurers, cloaked in night’s mantle. Stars began to adorn that mantle. Clouds had cleared, and the night grew bright. Warm mist rose from wet grass, spreading a thin, white fog over the meadows. Midnight had long passed; in the east, night’s veils thinned, stars peering large and anxious through dawn’s weave. Light welled from the earth. At her bedroom window, Helmina stood in a gray travel dress, a small handbag ready. She sometimes brushed her forehead, turning to check if the sounds she heard were in her ears and blood or from outside. At times, she thought someone approached along the corridor, pausing at her door. Then she heard breathing—the breath of sleepers, a whole castle asleep while she alone watched, ready to flee. Short, quick breaths stood out, those of children in their beds. For a moment, Helmina distinguished them, then they merged back into the collective slumber’s weave. She made no effort to hear them again. Motherly tenderness was alien to her; her soul knew nothing of it. She preferred solitude, connected to others only through her senses. She stared into a new world, seeking the extraordinary. Was it power, a searing, ruinous, blissful passion? She didn’t know. It flowed darkly within her, driving her, and she yielded without resistance. Sometimes, she felt not herself but part of a cruel force spilling over the world… She stood thus for two hours, staring at the bridge deep in shadow, awaiting the signal. Her mocking lips grew thinner, pressed tighter. Perhaps Fritz Gegely wouldn’t come. Maybe he’d only boasted, shirking the deed, and she’d have to leave without him. He was merely a bridge, but if he failed her, after so many defeats, she’d be utterly crushed. This waiting was unbearable. Lorenz would be furious. Time slipped away; they could’ve been far gone. Half an hour more. Then Helmina must leave, with or without Gegely. But the signal came. On the bridge, an electric lighter flashed thrice, three seconds each, like a firefly. Helmina grabbed her bag, glancing around the room. She left not as a victor… only her hate remained. Cautiously, she stepped out, unlocked a secret door in the corridor, and descended a narrow, musty staircase to the forecourt. It was safer; someone might be on the main stairs. She crept across the courtyard to the gate tower, opening the small door in the large gate. It wouldn’t budge at first, rarely used and swollen. She yanked the lock with all her strength, tearing her delicate gloves. Finally, she slipped out, leaving the door ajar. Gegely stood under the chestnut trees. “Where were you so long?” she asked, furious. “Forgive me… she couldn’t sleep… I had to wait… only a quarter-hour ago…” “Forward!” They were halfway down the castle hill when the gate was flung open. Schiereisen leapt out, followed by Jérome Rotrehl, clutching rope and spade as if someone had thrust them into his hands and fled. Both men’s faces, hands, and clothes were smeared with mud, crusted with clay, speckled with white patches of lime or mortar. Schiereisen saw the two figures vanish into the early morning’s dusk at the chestnut alley’s end. They ran along the road, and soon he heard a sound—a nerve-shredding, whipping noise, the sputter of a car readying to drive. It drummed into the dawn’s silence, like handfuls of peas hurled against this glassy hour. Schiereisen gauged the distance from the alley’s mouth. He sprinted down the hill, first driven to pursue, to halt the fugitives. Near the bottom, he stopped abruptly, planting his feet, fists in his pockets. No—she should flee. The car’s starting roar sounded. Good… it’s right… He finished his descent slowly, regulating his breath with closed lips. On the bridge, the car was gone. He broke into a trot, wanting to confirm who Helmina fled with. The road stretched through the valley, rising in wide curves to the highlands. A steep, direct climb could cut off its loops. Schiereisen plunged into the woods, scrambling between trees, hooking from one to another at steep spots. His lungs expanded, filling his chest, pushing his heart to his throat. Sweat poured from his brow, carving furrows through mud and grime, mixing a sticky paste that tightened his skin. Several times, he felt he couldn’t go on. But his immense resilience drove him, making the impossible possible. He reached the forest’s edge, where he’d first met Helmina, standing in dense shrubs, their dampness cloaking his steaming body. For a moment, all was still, branches swaying softly. Seconds passed. Then the car’s sputter burst in, sudden, as it rounded a sound-catching forest bend. Schiereisen knew he could’ve stopped it— stepping into the road, Browning raised, an effective warrant. But he stayed hidden. The car roared up, shooting around the final curve, snorting, racing uphill at full power… gone ten heartbeats later. Schiereisen saw its occupants clearly: Helmina, Herr Gegely—husband of the sick woman—and Lorenz at the wheel. The detective began his return. Near the house, he met Rotrehl, lugging the gear alone. Seeing his summer guest, the violin-maker stopped, staring. His mind was saturated with the past hours’ events, unable to grasp more. Bewilderment wrapped him in soft veils. He could only shake his head. “Come, Napoleon,” Schiereisen said, taking the ladder. “Don’t think we’ve lost the battle. We’ll sleep a little now. Later, I’ll explain everything.”
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
What should Ruprecht reply? Her words didn’t wound him, for he knew Hedwig was on the path to health. That was a secret for him alone. So he only nodded to Helmina and left the room. Schiereisen had spent the afternoon on the small bench outside Rotrehl’s house. He’d spread out all his notes, reviewing his reasoning. When the rain began, he gathered his papers and wrapped himself in his waterproof loden coat. He let the water stream down, only retreating to his room when the coat’s hems grew heavy with damp. What would happen now? The decision loomed. If Ruprecht spoke, all efforts might be for naught. It was almost certain he would. Lorenz had already slipped away; Helmina would likely try to escape too. Could he allow that? His duty was to detain her, but he lacked direct evidence against her. Still, this night must be used. He wrote a detailed letter to Herr Peter Franz von Zaugg, delivered it to the post himself that evening, and sent two coded telegrams—one to the prosecutor’s office, one to his agency. Then he dined at the Red Ox. The landlady mentioned Fritz Gegely and his wife had been invited to the castle. That was the poet with the sick wife, whose connection to the castle lords he’d observed before leaving. Pensively picking his teeth, he walked the village street. The ground was soft from rain. At a large puddle, Mathes Dreiseidel stood with the head teacher, discussing politics sagely. Schiereisen saw Dreiseidel’s urge to draw him in and kept to this side of the water. He crossed the bridge and climbed the castle hill under the deep shade of chestnut trees. The rain had stopped, but drops fell from the branches, some sliding coldly down his collar, jarring his nerves. The castle windows still glowed. Schiereisen decided to wait. He wore his yellow overcoat, the winter one being damp, and buttoned up, leaning against a tree trunk. Two hours passed. Schiereisen waited calmly, unsure what for. At career peaks, after completing preparations, he surrendered to intuition. A voice must call, a light must flare, illuminating his path. Impatience was foreign to him. When voices and a carriage’s rumble sounded in the courtyard, he retreated deeper into shadow. The heavy gate opened, clanging against the wall. A carriage emerged, brakes grinding down the hill. Three people sat within—the Gegelys and another, perhaps the Major, part of their circle. The gate closed, but Schiereisen didn’t hear it lock. The sleepy gatekeeper, loath to rise again when the carriage returned, left the task to the driver. Schiereisen waited, then opened the gate a crack and slipped inside. The outbuildings were dark; only the overseer’s apartment showed light, now extinguished. Only the main building stayed awake. Above dark roofs, the sky slowly brightened. Schiereisen crossed the courtyard silently, senses sharp, each impression vivid and swiftly processed. Sleeping and waking people, stone blocks, courtyard walls—they merged into his being, parts of his skin. He passed under the main building’s archway to the inner courtyard. Below were the servants’ quarters. There was Lorenz’s former room. Opposite, a dim light burned where old Marianne, the madwoman who spent nights praying and singing, was housed. She was awake. A murmur crept across the courtyard, simmering around Schiereisen’s ears. He decided to see what the old woman was doing. Suddenly, he froze. How could all his cunning, experience, and caution have overlooked this? How far was he from mastery in his craft, neglecting such a crucial detail? He’d searched everywhere, yet ignored this old woman. Now, intuition struck. Hadn’t Johann said she was a Moreno heirloom, inherited by Helmina’s first husband? She’d lived here since Helmina arrived, witnessing all events. Her madness emerged under Dankwardt. How had Schiereisen failed to probe its roots? She’d once been quiet, content with small chores for the modest keep the last Moreno secured her. What if her simple mind was later shattered by something horrific, a dread, an unwitting knowledge of a secret too heavy? A shrill scream burst from the window, followed by babbling clamor. Schiereisen hurried over. Red curtains covered the lower window, but on tiptoe, he could peer inside. Old Marianne knelt before her table, her headscarf slipped back, gray-yellow hair tangled, strands writhing like battling snakes. She struck her forehead against the table’s edge, crying, “Oh, Lamb of God, who takes away the world’s sins!” On the table stood a crucifix and three burning candles, their flames flinching and flaring with each forehead strike. “Oh, Lamb of God, who takes away the world’s sins!” she repeated countless times. Then she calmed, murmuring softly. Her forehead rested on the table’s edge, her arms, once flailing beneath, now crossed over her chest. She rose, lifting one knee, then the other, pulling herself up by the table. Schiereisen saw her face for the first time. It wasn’t contorted but wholly consumed by one thought. This poor, muddled mind held room for nothing else. She took the three candles and moved to the door. Schiereisen hurried behind a pillar to hide. He watched her emerge and cross the courtyard, carrying the candles in her left hand, her right shielding the flames. Silently, he followed through the archway, along the main building’s wall to the park gate. The rusty grille creaked like night birds with sharp beaks eyeing living prey. The candles’ glow dazzled, revealing only path fragments. They passed rubble and wet shrubs. Schiereisen couldn’t avoid rustling bushes or snapping twigs, but the old woman seemed deaf, pressing forward. Massive stone blocks loomed from the dark. The tower… Schiereisen thought. She stopped, shone the light up the wall, and crouched before a flat stone, fixing her candles to it. She poured melted wax onto a smooth spot, pressing each candle’s base into it. Clumps of wax showed this stone had often served this strange rite. She knelt before the burning candles, seeming to pray. Her back hunched, head bowed low, the dirty yellow-brown pattern of her jacket lit by the glow. Schiereisen stood behind her, part of the darkness—formless, chaotic, lingering in torpid waiting, indifferent to time and space. But the old woman stayed motionless; nothing more happened. He spurred himself; the night couldn’t be wasted. Stepping forward, he touched her shoulder. “What’re you doing, little mother?” She turned, unstartled, only peeved at the interruption. “Be quiet… the three are inside. They don’t sleep. They wander, banging their heads on the wall. Three candles: one for each. Three candles for the poor souls in purgatory.” “Who’s inside?” Schiereisen asked kindly, patting her back. “Oh, no, I won’t tell you,” she replied earnestly. “No one must know who they are. If I speak, they’ll come out, eat and drink as if nothing happened, and live again. That mustn’t be. She won’t allow it.” “Yes, the gracious lady is strict. We mustn’t do what she forbids.” With a look of great fear, the old woman spread her thin arms. “No… no… she won’t allow it, they must stay there. Otherwise, Lorenz comes and beats me. He has a rubber stick; he hits my head with it. I must watch and pray.” “You’re right,” Schiereisen said. “Keep praying.” “Prayer can do all. Prayer seals the hole so they can’t get out. Prayer is the wax of the pious, sealing entrance and exit.” She lifted her head, gazing at the damp stone blocks. Schiereisen saw, above, between treetops at the edge of the candlelight, a dark hole in the tower. Good, he thought, this night must be used. The old woman had lowered her head again, resuming her prayers. Schiereisen left her undisturbed, crashing through the bushes. He followed the garden wall until he reached a spot where elderberry shrubs and rubble made climbing possible. He slid down the outer side, heedless of his yellow overcoat, its buttons tearing off. Then he raced down the castle hill, across the bridge, and up the slope to Rotrehl’s house. Rotrehl was dreaming of crossing the Beresina, fleeing in a sleigh from a horde of Cossacks with long lances and blood-red tongues lolling like hunting dogs. His sleigh wouldn’t budge; leaning forward, he saw its runners were cardboard, softened and collapsing in the snow. Cannon booms thundered ahead—boom, boom, boom! The enemy had cut him off, guns ready. Nothing remained but to die a hero.
Somehow Tobal didn’t feel that optimistic about the planned expedition but didn’t have any right or authority to stop them. Perhaps Crow was right. Perhaps the village did need some form of protection. He was feeling moody as he walked away from the group. Becca came with him.
“I’m not very good company right now,” he warned.
“I’ll risk it,” she said.
Neither one said much as they watched the preparations for the three newbies that were going to be initiated that evening and got something to eat. It was so cold windbreaks had been set up around the fires to bounce the heat back. Most people seemed to either stay inside or near the fire pits used for cooking. They ate by one of the cooking pits.
“May I ask something?” He finally said.
“Sure,” Becca answered through a mouthful of tasty stew.
“Why last month?” He asked. “Why did you come to me like that?”
“Was it wrong?” She asked wiping her mouth clean with her hand and looking up at him with those green eyes.
“No,” he whispered. “It was exactly right. I just don’t know if I could have ever come to you that way. I was too messed up or afraid or something.”
“I was afraid too,” she said thoughtfully. “Then when we kissed it was so good and later you gave me that present. Look,” she said. “I’m still wearing it. She pulled the carved owl out from where it had been hiding within her parka. It was Anne that really helped. She read my palm that day and told me I would loose the one I loved unless I acted immediately to keep him from leaving.”
“Really?” He asked curiously. “Where would I have gone?”
“To Fiona,” was her simple reply. “This has been kind of hard on her cause she really likes you too.”
Tobal flushed, “You and Fiona talk about this stuff?”
She put her bowl down and came over to him, pinning him back against a windbreak. She laughed.
“We women talk about everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything!”
“Well then, I’m going to keep my mouth shut around all of you.”
She set his bowl down and kissed him. “It won’t do any good. We’ll just tell stories then.”
“What kind of stories,” he undid some of the buttons on her parka and reached inside. She gasped in pleasure and their embrace was much longer than the last one. No thought of continuing the conversation. They were lost in the moment and in each other.
“Hey, some of us are trying to eat around here.” Nikki and Fiona had brought their own bowls of stew to eat by the fire.
“Becca, are you saving any for us?” Nikki quipped.
Tobal flushed.
Becca just nuzzled closer, “No, you’ve got to get your own.”
Together all four cleaned the dishes and moved toward the circle where the initiations were about to begin. It was cold and they took up positions next to a windbreak that shielded one of the signal fires. As long as they stayed out of the wind it was all right.
Misty was High Priestess that night and both she and the High Priest wore furs. The circle seemed much smaller than usual. There was a strong wind with drifting snow even in the sheltered valley and no one seemed anxious to dance around the fire clothed or not.
Tobal felt sorry for the new initiates that had to stand blindfolded in such a wind with shortened tunics even if they were right next to the bon fire. To his relief they were wrapped in blankets to prevent over exposure to the bitter cold. In all things safety was the over riding concern of the medics and Masters. Living in harsh conditions made one strong. Being foolish killed you.
They watched together as Nikki’s, Fiona’s, and Becca’s newbies were initiated. Afterward Tobal was introduced to Cheryl, Loki, and Bran, the new initiates.
“If you are not careful we will catch up to you,” Fiona warned. “Cheryl, Loki and Bran make three newbies apiece for each of us. You have only trained one more than us.”
“I know.” Tobal frowned. “Why rub it in?”
The girls laughed and hugged him. “We’re just teasing. Don’t be so serious all the time.”
Tobal had gotten his fourth chevron that morning and was eager to get training. He had tried working on the meditations and exercises Crow had taught him but it had been hard to focus and concentrate alone. His mind drifted to the cave’s glowing altar, where Ron and Rachel’s voices had urged him onward, a stark contrast to the solitude that muddled his focus. Much of the time his thoughts had kept going back to Becca and their growing involvement with each other. Somehow it seemed to push everything else away. He didn’t know what had happened to his self-discipline.
Immediately after circle things were moved inside one of the permanent shelters and continued out of the bad weather. This had happened a few other times during heavy rain but was unusual. Clansmen believed in having circle outside rain or shine, hell or high water. They spent so much time in the elements it didn’t bother them much and they were dressed for it.
They found a warm corner and started to gather. By the time Ellen got there ten people were sitting around waiting to hear what she had learned. Needless to say, Ellen was not happy with everyone knowing about the rogues or about Crow taking an entire group to the village for a visit.
Finally she gave in and sat with them and talked about what she had found out in her research.
“I was able to tap into the city’s data base and look into the historical archives and records.” She began. ” Ron and Rachel Kane were scientists that lived in the city and developed the sanctuary training system.” She looked around the group. “Those are Tobal’s parents, for those of you that don’t already know.”
The look of surprise on a few faces told Tobal that at least a few hadn’t known.
Ellen continued her story. “The sanctuary program was originally a social experiment designed to create a utopian community of specially trained and competent individuals. It was a personality-modifying program to create physically, emotionally and mentally healthy individuals with strong will power and high creative ability. It was highly successful in creating individuals that seemed to be more highly motivated and competent than the norm found within the Federation itself. The graduates showed scores that were mentally, emotionally and physically superior to non-graduates and it was no surprise when the military got involved and the project became classified. Heliopolis became a natural recruiting ground for highly competent leaders and soldiers. It was a city-state devoted to the development of the Ubermench or super human and the main recruiting ground for Federation Special Forces.
As time went on the graduates gained political power within Heliopolis itself and voted for political changes that challenged the values and life styles of the older citizens that had not participated or agreed with the social experiment. The citizenry split along lines that supported the social experiment and those that were against it.”
Here Ellen stopped and said thoughtfully, “There is a saying that old timers never change their minds, they just die off and the younger generation outlives them. That was not the case in Heliopolis. The changes were so fast and radical there was not enough time for mediation. The hostilities and tensions became so great it resulted in a massacre of several students and families living at the main Apprentice gathering spot and the deaths of Ron and Rachel Kane whose bodies were found floating in the lake nearby.”
Ellen broke off from her story to look around at the group. “It seems not only Tobal lost his parents then but Crow lost both parents and Sarah lost her mother. This was not in the official report but in what I have learned personally.”
Sarah was white faced and her fists were tightened. There were murmurs within the group until Crow stopped them.
“Let her finish.”
“These multiple murders created a military emergency and the entire city fell under martial law directed by the Federation and Tobal’s Uncle Harry Kane who was the commander in charge at the time. It was under his command that any of those connected with the murders were eliminated or deported and Heliopolis became a secret classified program controlled by Federation military.”
Tobal started. His uncle had said he was in charge of security, not that he had been Commander in charge of the entire project. There was obviously a lot his uncle had known about and not shared with him.
Ellen continued, “The military created a new program that allowed no children or elderly unless they were physically fit enough to make it through the three degree system. It was simply a system designed to create recruits for the Federation military. The thought was that it created better soldiers.
The city of Heliopolis became a city of the elite ruled by the military, a city of supermen and superwomen if you will. The graduates were still human but something about the training eliminated dysfunctional areas and built strong healthy individuals that could out compete the average person in all areas.
This continued several years until enough data was available to compare the graduates of the sanctuary program with special military forces. It was here that they showed radical differences. The graduates of the sanctuary program did not do well in the normal military. Studies confirmed that military training suppressed the individual and forced conformance to a rigid authoritarian structure that was simply not endurable to the average graduate. The graduates of the sanctuary program were individuals and not team players.
It was at this point the Federation lost much of its interest in the project and turned it back to civilian control. The Federation continued to recruit graduates for field operative positions and kept a mountain complex manned with military personnel for special training. They also agreed to share medical resources with the medics as they needed them.
Ellen stopped and looked around, “That was when the city was granted the right of self government. But only those that had completed the restructured Sanctuary training were considered citizens with the right to vote. They voted to adopt the military’s program in favor of the earlier program run by Ron and Rachel Kane. The earlier program had consisted of the creation of a village with children and old people as an important part of the social research that was going on. There was no more interest in the creation of another ‘village’ in the wilderness. It was felt there were too many ‘Safety’ concerns.
The Citizens of Heliopolis maximized individual qualities under a loose structure of cooperative effort. The city itself gained in political power and influence even as it remained closed to normal trade and commerce. Its citizenry were active in the outer world owning companies and making directives that influenced world politics. They formed an elite pool of superior resources that fought for its own place in world politics. It was whispered that government research continued at the nearby secret mountain complex where Special Ops field agents were trained.”
“The rest was classified and I couldn’t get into it,” Ellen said. She hesitated as if with an internal struggle.
“Our Medic base is part of the secret mountain complex. We are only allowed to use the emergency room and some nearby areas. It is under high security with lots of armed guards. There are field operatives that come and go from the complex all the time. I shouldn’t be telling you this so please keep it to yourselves.”
“Wow,” you’ve certainly given us something to think about,” Rafe shook his head. “This doesn’t sound good to me. There is something wrong, especially if the rogues are really field operatives. Why would field operatives attack us?”
“And attack the Village,” Crow spoke up. “There have been several incidences of villagers being attacked by rogues and we always believed it was clansmen that attacked us. It is beginning to sound like someone wants the clansmen and the villagers to hate each other. Perhaps someone is trying to provoke conflict between us. We need to go to the village and prove we are not attacking them. Too many people have died already.”
“Yeah, and my parents were right in the middle of it,” Tobal said bitterly. “It killed them and it might kill us if we are not careful. He turned to Crow who had been listening intently to Ellen’s story.
“What can you tell us about any of this? It sounds like your grandfather, Howling Wolf was as much in the middle of this as my parents and he is the only one still alive that I know of except Sarah’s father.”
“This is all new to me,” he said. But I will talk with him about it. I will return with any information I feel is important. More than ever I feel there is danger to my village and they need to be warned.”
Tobal was thankful Crow never mentioned the special training on bi-location and the secret meeting place under the waterfall. He was certain that Ellen was too.
“I’m concerned about Apprentices leaving the area and visiting the village.” Ellen told them. “We will be ordered to stop you from going there even though there are no specific guidelines preventing it. Crow seems to have found a loophole in the system only because he is from the village himself and because it is within our area of coverage. Our orders don’t contemplate such unlikely scenarios. You need to travel as fast as you can.”
She continued, “As long as the air sleds continue to monitor your med-alert bracelets you should be alright.” She paused, “That does mean we will need to patrol further to the west then we have in the past,” she looked straight at Crow. “They are going to try to stop you from reaching the village you know.”
“I know,” he said. “It will be alright. Grandfather is expecting us.”
They left things at that and the conversation moved on. The group gradually broke up and began talking about other things. Tobal and Becca stayed together holding hands as they wandered around the group chatting with other clansmen. They slowly made their way to the beer keg where Rafe had rejoined Dirk.
Rafe and Dirk were both still on the beer task force and grumbling because they had twice the beer to brew since the reserves had been consumed at the Yule party last month. Still they were good-natured about it and said they were trying a new recipe that should be quite interesting. It was just as well there was only a small group that month though. They wouldn’t be drinking that much.
Becca hadn’t heard about the special brew Dirk and Rafe were cooking up and didn’t know what to think.
“When will this new beer be ready to drink?” She asked doubtfully.
“Sometime this April probably,” said Dirk chuckling. “Rafe and I both plan on being medics by then. We can administer first aid to anyone that needs it. Pump their stomach or something.”
Tobal snorted and blew beer all over.
“Hey, watch it,” Rafe complained. “It’s not that funny.”
Tobal turned to Dirk, “How did that sure thing match go?”
Dirk turned red, “Not so well.”
“He got his ass kicked.” Rafe chuckled and proudly displayed his own fifth chevron. “Some people actually win once in a while.”
Rafe ducked a playful fist that Dirk threw at him. “Now we get to see who the best man is. We’ve got a bet going on who is going to get their sixth chevron first.”
“You still fighting the girls,” Becca kidded, “or have you gotten to the big boys yet?”
Dirk got a little red but Rafe took it in stride. “I don’t have to worry about it. Everyone is still challenging me. I haven’t gotten to challenge anyone yet.” He grinned at Becca, “I would challenge you if you hurry up and train some more newbies.”
She grinned back. “Perhaps we can always arrange something unofficial.”
This was a side to Becca that Tobal hadn’t really seen before, it interested him and disturbed him at the same time. They filled their mugs and rejoined the crowd. There was a drum circle forming and the sound was deafening in the small building.
Tobal and Becca slept together that night. They cuddled for a long time and shared stories about things that they had done and things they wanted to do. The energy between them was different and when Tobal asked about having sex Becca murmured “not tonight. All I really want to do is just hold you and sleep with you.” Her voice trembled slightly, a hint of vulnerability he hadn’t noticed before, as if the weight of their connection pressed on her too.
With that cryptic answer circling in his brain they kissed, embraced and fell asleep entwined in each other.
The next morning was bright and cold and there were sundogs circling the sun promising even colder weather. They joined their friends for breakfast and soon Becca was on her way to base camp to continue training with Loki, her third newbie and Tobal set out on the trail toward Sanctuary.
As he snow-shoed toward Sanctuary and pulled his sled he wondered at the strangeness of how things had been with him and Becca last night. He had certainly not been prepared for it and didn’t really understand it. It seemed things had been all right, but then again it seemed there had been something wrong.
He hoped she hadn’t changed her mind. Perhaps she was sleeping with Loki, the newbie. He instantly crushed that thought. He knew it was not true, but he just didn’t understand and because he didn’t understand he felt a little hurt. He had been expecting something like last month and it had not happened.
As he neared Sanctuary his thoughts turned to the subject at hand. He now had four chevrons with only two more before he was eligible for the Journeyman degree. As he headed toward sanctuary he felt kind of strange because Sarah had really been the last person he had trained and that had been in September and October.
He didn’t really count Crow since Crow had taught him much more than he had taught Crow. That meant he hadn’t been doing much training in four months and he was determined to get going on it again. He wanted to get this training over with and be partnered with Becca more permanently if she was still interested.
He thought of the ways he had changed in the past years and the things he had done. He had gained a reputation as a very good trainer. None of his students had any trouble soloing and their students didn’t seem to have much trouble either. At gathering and circle people came to him with questions on the best way to do things. His opinion was respected. He was also gaining a reputation as someone that kept to himself and was hard to get to know. His closest friends continued to be Rafe, Crow, Ellen, Sarah, Melanie and now of course Becca. People liked him, his friends liked him, he was companionable but in a quiet sort of way. He didn’t have anything to prove and he didn’t show off. He was just comfortable and at ease with the situation, any situation. People respected that.
Tyrone was Tobal’s fifth trainee and the month of late January and early February went by fairly fast and uneventfully. Tyrone was a tall, wiry farm boy from the Appalachian Mountains of all places, a real honest to God hillbilly complete with a Southern accent and an engaging smile that would drive the girls wild at circle. His drawl carried the scent of pine and coal smoke as he unpacked a worn satchel, a grin breaking through like sunlight on frost. The training came easy to him since he was already an accomplished hunter and trapper.
The nights were long and Tyrone spent many evenings carving a fiddle and later practicing with it. He had learned the skill from his grandfather back home and Tobal watched in fascination at the precision with which the fiddle was created piece by piece and then lashed together and sealed with pitch. He had never seen anything like it and was appalled at the terrible noise it made, at least until he got used to it.
He used to laugh when Tyrone would pull out the fiddle and start to play because the wolves would start howling to keep company. All in all Tyrone was good company and the month went rapidly. Tyrone was a natural storyteller, knew how to make people laugh and Tobal laughed often. Tyrone was like the brother Tobal had always wanted.
Once Tobal asked him how he had heard of “Heliopolis” way in hillbilly country and Tye had thrown back his head and laughed and laughed. He stretched his long legs and shrugged.
“I never heard of it before,” he admitted. “I was trying for a city named Minneapolis and got my ticket wrong. My head never was that good with names. I knew it was cold there and didn’t give it much thought until we had to start hunting our own meat and making our own clothes. It was so much like back home that I figured something was wrong but thought I’d study on it for awhile.”
Tobal had been drinking tea and it exploded from his mouth and nose as he doubled up in laughter.
“Stop, You’re killing me,” he waved weakly at Tyrone who was doubled over laughing too.
There were melancholy times when Tobal thought back over the past year and how much he had changed. He was more resourceful and inclined to do things by himself or on his own. He didn’t care much about what other people thought. He had learned to judge people not by their appearances, but by what they did and even as important by what they didn’t do.
Almost in spite of himself he found his feelings about Becca were deepening. She down played what she did and seemed to have a quiet competence that went un-remarked. She had just a hint of melancholy that matched his own. There was an emotion in his heart that stirred and sang when he was around her. As spring drew closer he found himself thinking about her more and knew he was in love.
Late February came around as Tobal and Tyrone snowshoed their way to the gathering spot. He dropped Tyrone off with the guards to be prepared for his initiation. There were going to be three initiations that night.
Nikki had proclaimed her newbie, Bran, as ready to solo and he, along with Loki and Cheryl had been examined and approved to solo by the elders. Nikki was ecstatic because the winter training had gone pretty well. She was looking forward to training her next newbie.
“Hey Tobal,” she asked, “Think I can get my six trained by mid summer? This winter training isn’t really that bad.”
“That might be cutting it kind of close,” he considered, “but go for it. I’m hoping to get mine done by May if I can.”
“By May?”
“Yeah, when the weather gets warmer I can speed the training up a bit. Or at least I hope I can. Next month will be one year for me. Rafe was finished in one year. I thought I could too, but I don’t think I will be able to.”
“It’s more important to do a good job and teach properly than get done quickly,” she said.
He nodded, “I did need to spend some extra time before winter with Fiona and Sarah. I will just see how the last one goes.”
“See you later at circle?”
“Sure,” I’ll probably be with Becca if I can find her.”
He waved and headed for the food area. A quick lunch seemed in order and then helping out with some of the shelters. There were a lot more people this month and the weather was milder even though the snow was deeper.
There were some minor frostbite cases for the medics to treat but not as many as last month. It seemed people were learning they had to be careful. On the down side one of the clansmen had fallen through the ice on one of the creeks. He had managed to get out but not been able to get a fire going. He had frozen to death before the medics got to him. Angel had found him and been unable to help. It was already too late. Angel’s tear-streaked face lingered in Tobal’s mind, a silent echo of the Wild’s harsh lessons, stirring a quiet resolve to honor the fallen.
The incident served to remind everyone just how fragile and dangerous it really was in the wilderness even with all the safeguards that were in place. The death put a damper on things and people were quiet. Tobal’s thoughts flickered to Ellen’s words about the mountain complex, wondering if the rogues’ shadow stretched even here, a chill beyond the frost.
Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
XV.
Falk pressed himself even tighter against the wall. He sat on the sofa. The room was completely dark. Fear seized him: he heard voices in the corridor. He listened.
“The gracious lady left with the boy today. The gentleman has been sitting in his room all day. He is probably sick. He wants nothing to eat, and does not answer.”
He heard knocking again.
He did not move. But then he saw the door being opened, a broad strip of light fell into the room, then it became dark again. The door closed.
“Falk!” he heard Olga call. “Pst—quiet, quiet!”
“Where are you?” “Here.”
She groped her way to him.
“What are you doing?” she asked frightened. “Someone died.”
“Who?”
“She, she… Just sit here… here…” “What do you have in your hand?” she asked.
“A letter from her. She is gone. Never coming back. So she is dead.”
They sat very long and held each other’s hands.
The mysterious silence, the darkness confused her head. “Are you mad?” she asked anxiously and softly.
“Now it is over, but I was.” They were silent again very long.
“It is good that you came. I would have gone mad today.” He breathed relieved.
“And now what?”
He did not answer. She did not dare to ask further.
After a long time she wanted to ask him again, then she noticed that he was sleeping.
She did not dare to move, for fear of waking him. Even in sleep he held her hand tight.
So an endless time passed. Suddenly he sat up.
“I will perhaps go to Czerski. Will you come with?” “Yes.”
“Vive l’humanité,” he giggled softly and cheerfully.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Seventeenth Chapter Ruprecht crossed to the dining room. He tried to order his thoughts. After a few steps, he succeeded. The act of walking steadied him. A temptation had been overcome. Good, very good! What next? What could Schiereisen achieve without him? Nothing. His chain of deductions was worthless—mere circumstantial evidence, gaining weight only through Ruprecht’s testimony. What would he do now? Yet despite this firm resolve, despite all defenses, a pull tugged at him: You should have spoken. You’d be on the path to freedom. The horror would be gone, and you’d have severed ties to the tower’s dreadful secret. Lissy and Nelly ran into his arms in the corridor. “We had to eat without you, Papa,” Lissy cried. “Where were you so long? Mama grumbled that you let that boring professor keep you.” Oh, Ruprecht thought, Mama wouldn’t find the professor boring if she knew what I know. Lissy grabbed both his hands, spinning with him in a circle. The corridor walls bore old Morenos— grim Spanish lords in black robes and rigid ruffs. The one above this scene was the grimmest, but seeing the children’s exuberance below, even he couldn’t help smiling. Sunlight no longer slid impotently off his pale cheeks but gathered in hollows, radiating over his high brow like living skin. “Papa, Papa,” Lissy called, “don’t you notice anything?” “What, little one?” “My new hairstyle!” “Sapperment.” Indeed, two large blonde spirals clung to Lissy’s ears. Her braids were tightly twisted, coiled snail-like on both sides of her head—a motif of prehistoric fibulae, sweet and alive in the present. Ruprecht gaped. “How do you like it, Papa?” Lissy pressed impatiently. “Very good! Splendid! You wild imp!” Lissy triumphed. “See, Nelly! See! Papa likes it. A lot, right? Papa likes it a lot! Nelly says she doesn’t, but she’s just saying that.” A faint envy crossed Nelly’s face. “Oh, no! Keep your hairstyle. I don’t care. I’m too big for that. It’s for little kids. And—and Aunt Hedwig said she’ll do my hair tomorrow, a different one… even prettier.” “So Aunt Hedwig did your hair?” “Yes… we were with her this morning. She sends her greetings and says she’ll come this afternoon.” A slender black figure appeared at the corridor’s end. Miss Nelson approached, passing the stern Morenos, and took the children away. At once, the old Spaniard on the wall ceased smiling. Ruprecht watched them go. No shadow should fall on their bloom; no storm should ravage their joyful gardens. Not by his fault or aid. He’d do all in his power to prevent the worst, a catastrophe. But what to do eluded him. Around five, a light rain began. It gurgled in the gutters and pattered across the courtyard. The chestnut treetops on the castle path rustled softly, their leaves twisting in the rain. Ruprecht sent the carriage to the village. It returned with the guests. Hedwig was quiet, blissful. Fritz Gegely flaunted his centrality. Major Zichovic arrived too, full of soldierly grandeur, as the gathering had a semi- official air. “My very best wishes, naturally,” Helmina said, approaching Hedwig and leaning over her, lightly touching her shoulders to suggest an embrace. “I wish you all your dreams fulfilled—at your husband’s side.” Ruprecht stood by. He wanted to tear Helmina away, shield those touches. She shouldn’t dare approach the saintly. Helmina asked about the court secretary. He’d traveled, the Major reported; his leave was ending. Eight days remained, and he wanted to spend them here, so he’d visited his elderly mother in Linz first, as briefly as possible, to return soon. They sat in the balcony room, conversing through various topics. The Major, too, saw his leave’s sad end nearing. Softened, he later rallied with several jokes. They laughed politely. Only Fritz Gegely didn’t crack a smile. “You’re so serious today,” the Major said. “What’s wrong? You can stay as long as you like. Who waits for you? No one commands you. You shouldn’t be so glum.” “I can’t laugh at jokes,” the poet replied coolly. “Forgive me, Herr Major! Anecdotes and such are like money. It’s good to have, as it holds value and pleases company. But it’s dirty, passed through many hands. I’m fastidious in such matters.” The Major was inwardly stung. “Not everyone can be a poet like you, Herr Gegely, crafting their own witty remarks. We poor folk take what comes our way.” But Gegely wasn’t in the mood for a duel with the Major. He raised his drawbridge and fell silent. Soon, the Major asked Ruprecht’s permission to inspect the castle’s old door fittings and cabinet locks. Helmina and Gegely went to the music room. She wanted to sing for him. Thus, Hedwig and Ruprecht were left alone. He wheeled her chair onto the balcony, where she gazed silently into the gentle rain, an early dusk descending. Something approached from afar, drifting closer, softly encircling them. Madonna, Ruprecht thought. He longed to kneel before Hedwig. All heaviness and pain vanished; doubt and turmoil lay far below. He stood as if on a radiant peak above storm clouds. “Thank you so much,” Hedwig said. “You’ve given me great joy. Roses and pearls. There’s a wistful glow in them, just right for me.” “Here’s your dear friend who betrayed you.” He handed her the little calendar. Hedwig looked up, smiling, her eyes joyful. “You’re so kind!” she said. “Now I’ll show you something… but it’s our secret, just for us two… give me your arm.” He spread his arms, a scaffold to carry her through the world. Hedwig gripped them firmly, braced herself, and rose—slowly rose from her wheelchair, by her own strength, nearly to her full, slender height. She stood a moment, trembling slightly, laughing happily, her gaze locked in Ruprecht’s. She barely touched his arm. Then she leaned harder, lowered herself slowly, sank back into her chair, exhausted but radiant, with a soft glow like the pearls Ruprecht had sent. Ruprecht could no longer restrain himself. He dropped to his knees beside her chair, seizing her hand. Her fingers pressed against his; his kisses stormed over the pale smoothness of her hand, reddening the fingertips behind opalescent nails. Meanwhile, her other hand tenderly stroked his hair. There was a spot on his crown where the hair was thin, sparse, gray, and wilted. Her hand lingered there with gentle pressure, a strange feeling washing over her, as if this spot bore the mark of a sorrow somehow tied to her. He felt he must tell her everything, that now was the moment to pour out all—the painful, the sweet— to unburden himself of all terror and secure a bright certainty for his future. Where to begin, where to begin? he stammered inwardly. He could only say that once-invented name: “Silvia.” She bent her head over him, smiling. “Silvia.” The Major returned. His brisk, soldierly steps sounded in the next room. Ruprecht felt pushed aside, tore himself away, and stumbled into confusion. The Major brought a load of questions and remarks, soon enveloping Hedwig and Ruprecht in superfluous, indifferent words, allowing them to regain composure. Later, they sat at a festive meal, Lissy to Hedwig’s left, Nelly to her right, Ruprecht opposite, able to gaze at her. He was elated, full of gratitude. He offered a toast but didn’t know what he said. They drank several bottles of champagne; even Hedwig sipped twice from her glass. The Major slipped into a harmless, boisterous wine-fueled mood, telling Bosnian tales. Gegely drank heartily but stayed silent on his lofty perch, not descending to the lowlands. Hedwig sensed he was bolstering his superior calm, masking a faint unease. Helmina sat, glancing from one to another, her lips never losing a mocking smile all evening. At eleven, they parted. As the guests left and Ruprecht prepared to retire, Helmina approached him. “You had a happy day, didn’t you? You’re still in a trance… it seems Dankwardt’s Indian room infected you: pity’s now the great axis. Well—that’s not my taste! I can’t stand sick people.”
Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
Suddenly he heard her cry and sob, tired, soft, heart-rending like a child.
“How could you do that, how could you only,” she wailed. Falk sank before her. He grasped her hands, held them convulsively to his lips, she felt tears flow over her hands… “How could you do that…”
He spoke no word, but pressed her hands even more convulsively to his lips.
“Stand up! Stand up! Don’t torment me…” she begged pleadingly!
He stood up. He seemed suddenly calm. Only his body twitched. “Don’t go from me,” he stammered suddenly, “I… I loved you too much.”
Then he stopped. No! He must not say that to her, but it came involuntarily over his lips.
“I lost my mind. The man always stood before my eyes. He always stood between us…”
She stared at him frightened, seemed to understand nothing. “What?” “Who?”
“Who?” asked Falk mechanically and recollected himself again.
“No, nothing…” He stepped back a few steps… “Did I say something? No, no! You should not go… You can do with me what you want… Only don’t go!”
His voice failed.
“Nothing helps any more.” She spoke tired and as if absent. “You are a stranger to me. What I loved in you is destroyed. Now you are as ridiculous to me as the others. You are ridiculous to me with your animal desires. You are also only an animal, a beast, like the other men. And I believed… But don’t torment me, go now. I despise you. I have disgust, boundless disgust for you all… Let me go,” she begged, “let me…” she turned to the door.
Falk blocked her way. He got another rage attack.
“You must not go. You must stay with me! You must! I command it of you, I will smash you, crush you if you go.”
He went toward her. She stepped back.
He wanted to seize her. She tore herself loose, she ran around the table in terrible fear.
“Are you mad?” she cried shrilly.
Finally he seized her and pressed her in mad passion to him. She defended herself with all her strength, but he pressed her arms tight; his passion grew beyond his brain, a sick greed, a bestial lust to possess the woman came over him.
“Let me go!” she cried almost unconscious.
But he no longer had control of himself. He dragged her, pressed tight to him…
Then she succeeded in freeing one hand, she arched far back and struck him with her fist in the face.
He let her go. In a moment he felt his interior freeze to ice.
He did not see her. He just stared at something that yawned like a black abyss before his eyes.
When he came to himself, he saw her face and her eyes. He looked at her attentively.
She stood as if petrified, only in her eyes a devouring disgust. She doesn’t love me any more. Now he understood it.
“You don’t love me any more?”
He said it with an icy smile. Actually it was not necessary to ask at all.
“No!” she said cold and determined.
He smiled without knowing it, went to the door, pushed the broken wood pieces aside with his feet and wanted to go out.
Isa suddenly shot up in wild hate.
“And that girl,” she cried after him… He stopped and started.
“That girl,” she began to laugh convulsively… “That little girl who drowned herself… Ha, ha, ha… By chance while bathing… By chance, was that not the official bulletin? —Ah, how pale you are, how you tremble… You did that!”
“You!” she cried suddenly… “One year after our wedding! Ha, ha, ha… what other heroic deeds did you perform, you proud, monogamous man? Do you have a few more girls there? Ha, ha, ha…” She walked around, held her head with both hands and spoke confused to herself.
“Oh, these lies, these lies… Well yes—” she started up… “It is now over. Go, go. It will be good if you take care of the girl a little. She is very miserable, and very thin… Adieu, mon mari… Je n’ai plus rien à te dire… Adieu…”
Falk heard nothing more. He felt nothing either. Only sit somewhere, quite still for himself incessantly still sit…
It rang.
Falk went mechanically to the corridor door and opened it. He looked at the messenger thoughtlessly and waited.
“Are you Herr Falk?” “Yes.”
“A letter for you.”
He took the letter, went into his room, laid the letter on the desk, sat down and looked at it long and thoughtlessly. Finally he stood up and opened it mechanically. It took a long time until he forced himself to understand the content.
It was from Geißler. He wrote him that he would pick him up in the morning at six o’clock. Otherwise everything was in best order.
Falk sat down again and so he sat motionless the whole night. He had lost the consciousness of time. He was also not sleepy. Only now and then, when he felt desire to smoke, he got a cigarette and wondered that he could not think at all; he was chemically purified of thoughts, chemically purified he repeated senselessly.
When Geißler came at the appointed time, he looked at him astonished. “Is it already time?”
“Naturally. But didn’t you sleep?” “No,” said Falk apathetically.
He took his old felt hat.
“But you must take the top hat, it cannot go so formlessly…”
“So, so… For my part I can take the top hat.” Geißler looked at him uneasily.
Falk became furious.
“Why do you look at me so mistrustfully? Do you believe that I am afraid?”
But he fell immediately into his former apathy.
When they arrived, Kunicki was already waiting with his second and a third gentleman.
“The third is probably the doctor,” thought Falk profoundly. All formalities were quickly settled.
Falk looked with a dull calm as Kunicki aimed at his head. Kunicki has the superiority of a person for whom the thing is a kind of sport, it shot through his head. Strange sport… But how does this fit together? Kunicki is after all a social democrat. That is against all principles. Ha, ha… un citoyen cosmopolitique, citoyen du monde entier.
This citoyen du monde fixed itself in his brain, accompanied by a strange cheerfulness.
In this moment he heard the cock click, saw smoke, but the bullet flew past him.
He was now completely possessed by one single, fixed idea: the citoyen cosmopolitique with the limping principles should himself limp… Falk laughed to himself, he had trouble controlling his cheerfulness. At the same time he aimed very calmly and shot: a formal laughing cramp choked him in the throat.
The shot hit Kunicki in the kneecap. He flew up and fell.
“Thunder! give me a cigarette!” he cried furiously.
“Will he limp?” Falk asked Geißler when they came into the city. The idea had taken total possession of his soul.
“Don’t know.”
“Citoyen cosmopolitique with the limping principles… Ha, ha, ha… God’s finger… Now he will limp himself…”
Geißler became very unpleasantly touched. But Falk suddenly fell back into his apathy.
“The satisfaction one gets thereby is after all damned minimal,” said Geißler to break the painful silence.
Falk looked at him.
“We were good friends… He is a sharp head,” he said musingly. “He refuted Rodbertus…”
They were silent again.
“Has Isa already left?” asked Geißler. “Was she supposed to leave?”
“Well, I believed.” Geißler rose uneasily. “You want to go?” asked Falk anxiously.
“I must now.”
Falk suddenly looked up at him and smiled good-naturedly.
“You are uneasy… He, he, he. Just go, go. I will now lie down to sleep.”
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