Anarchistbanjo's World

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

Ruprecht stood pensively in the dark, then climbed
the stairs, where Jana waited at the top. Sleep was
impossible. First, another glass of wine to calm
himself. The news had shaken him. So much had
surfaced—radiant youth, a blonde girl’s face… it
gleamed like treasure unearthed from a barrow. One
more glass…
“You can go, Jana,” he said.
But Jana stood in the room’s center, staring at his
master.
“What is it?”
“Master… you must come to the cellar. I need to
show you something.”
“Another secret? I’m exhausted. But fine, if you
insist.”
“Not by the stairs,” Jana said. “Better no one
knows you went with me. Over there…”
Beside the heavy cabinet with armored men was a
hidden panel door, so well-concealed Ruprecht had
only found it after careful search. Even Helmina
claimed ignorance. “This old castle may hold more
such secrets,” she’d said. Indeed, Ruprecht had found
similar features in other rooms—secret doors,
pivoting paintings, hollow walls, the full medieval
romantic apparatus spared by the imaginative Count
Erwin Moreno during renovations. It was the era of
Grillparzer’s The Ancestress. Such things were a
point of pride. “I find it almost eerie,” Helmina had
remarked. “Eerie? No!” Ruprecht smiled. “Feudal,
high feudal! Pity we don’t have a white lady
heralding the owners’ deaths.” At the flash in
Helmina’s eyes, he’d added, “It’s odd no one’s
noticed… shows how little we heed our
surroundings.”
The castle was a fox’s den, but these secrets were
harmless. Dark stairways led to passages, doors to
hidden chambers, pivoting paintings to empty niches.
If they once held purpose, they were now mere
mood-setters.
Behind the study’s panel door, a narrow spiral
staircase descended past a lightless chamber to a
ground-floor corridor, ending behind old oak
paneling near a garden glass door.
Jana led with a lamp. The steps creaked under
their tread. From the staircase’s end, it was a short
walk to the cellar entrance. Jana hadn’t locked the
rusty iron door, opening it silently, plunging ahead
into the damp dark.
The cellar held many rooms. The first were
stocked with provisions, then wood and coal stores.
At the back, behind a wooden gate, lay the wine,
entrusted to Lorenz’s care. Each barrel bore a neat
label noting vintage and origin. In the rear, bottled
wines nestled in sand, dusty bottles aligned in orderly
groups, their patina-covered labels facing up.
A faint trickling guided Ruprecht through the
bottle rows to the cellar’s end.
Jana raised the lamp, pointing to a dark patch on
the wall. Water had broken through, spurting between
stones, carving a path in the sand. Bottles here were
jumbled, half-submerged in sodden ground. At the far
end, a dark opening gaped. Clearly, water had cleared
a blocked hole in the wall, now cascading in small
falls, widening it as it carried soft muck away. “Have
you been down there?” Ruprecht asked.
“No, Master, but I think we should see where it
leads.” Without hesitation, Jana knelt and crawled
into the hole, lamp in hand. Ruprecht lit his way, arm
extended. He wanted to smile at his servant’s
suspicion and this adventurous probe into the castle’s
depths, but he was strangely tense. As Jana slid
halfway down, he found footing, taking the lamp.
Ruprecht followed swiftly.
They entered a lower, empty cellar, its walls
arching close overhead. Water stood ankle-deep, with
no drain. Ruprecht felt dampness seep through his
shoes.
Jana shone the light around. Nothing. Opposite
was another low doorway, steps leading up.
“Onward,” Ruprecht said, seized by explorer’s
zeal.
The next room was empty too, its air stifling, the
lamp dim. They searched the vault, squeezing
through a narrow gap into another chamber.
More vaults followed—some up, some down, a
passage, then more rooms.
Finally, they descended slick steps deep below.
Ruprecht tested the walls. “We must be near the
tower. These stones are giant-laid.”
Jana stood by a small wall opening, too narrow to
crawl through. He thrust his arm with the lamp into
the dark, casting wary glances like harpoons.
“Nothing,” Ruprecht said. “Let’s turn back. I’m
soaked.”
Jana turned, horror in his gaze. “Master,” he said,
“look here.”
Ruprecht approached, craning past Jana’s
outstretched arm. The lamp’s light didn’t reach far.
Nothing was visible in its glow. Beyond the lit circle,
something seemed to emerge—a yellowish shape,
like a rotting pumpkin… a human face, grimacing in
distortion.
Ruprecht recoiled. “Jana,” he said, gripping the
Malay’s arm, “there’s a corpse.”
“I see three dead men,” Jana nodded.
“Jana—Jana!” Ruprecht leaned against the wall,
staring into the Malay’s face.
“Yes… Master!”
Only their breathing and the lamp’s faint, anxious
hum broke the deep silence.
“It could be from long ago…” Ruprecht said
finally. “Castles like this didn’t coddle prisoners.
Bodies can preserve for centuries in cellar air. I’ve
seen it often.”
Jana peered through the opening again. “Master,”
he said, “their clothes are like yours. The people in
the yellow hall’s paintings wear different ones.”
“We can’t get in,” Ruprecht said, eyeing the
massive, unyielding stones. “Impossible without
tools.”
“Leave the dead in peace, Master! It’s enough you
know three corpses lie under this thick tower. You
should leave this castle.”
“It’s Helmina’s castle, Jana! Helmina’s castle! I
see you think she knows.”
“Yes! She’ll kill you, Master! Come away. Return
to India.”
“No, Jana, I can’t. I must see if you’re right. This
adventure must be faced.”
“You’ll be careless… you’ll betray yourself…
then you’re lost.”
Ruprecht straightened. “Haven’t I proven I can
keep silent? You’ll see! It’s good I know this… Let’s
go back. Take my wet suit, erase all traces, Jana…
No one must know we were here tonight… Besides, I
can’t believe you’re right. Helmina knows nothing of
this… it’s nonsense. People don’t just vanish
nowadays.”
Jana met his master’s gaze. Horror gave way to
iron resolve. Ruprecht’s face was taut but calm, as
Jana knew from Indian jungle hunts.

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

The professor laughed and said, “She brings money into the
house.”
He knew very well that these things happened in a natural way,
that it was only the result of his intense occupation with these things
of the earth. But still there was some connection with the little
creature and he played with the thought.
He took a very risky speculation and bought enormous properties
along the broad path of Villen Street. He had the earth dug up and
every handful of dirt searched. He did business taking great calculated
risks, putting a mortgage bank back on a sound financial basis when
everyone else thought it would go bankrupt in a very short time. The
bank held together. Whatever he touched went the right way.
Then through a coincidence he found a mineral water spring on
one of his properties in the mountains. He had it barreled and hauled
away. That is how he came into the mineral water line buying up
whatever was available in the Rhineland until he almost had a
monopoly in that industry. He formed a little company, hung a
nationalistic cloak around it, declaring that a person had to make a
stand against the foreigners, the English that owned Apollonaris.
The little owners flocked around this new leader, swore by “His
Excellency”, and when he formed a joint company gladly allowed
him to reserve the controlling shares for himself. It was a good thing
they did, the Privy Councilor doubled their dividends and dealt
sharply with the outsiders that had not wanted to go along.
He pursued a multitude of things one right after the other–they
had only one thing in common–they all had something to do with the
earth. It was just a whim of his, this thought that Alraune drew gold
out of the earth and so he stayed with those things that had something
to do with the earth. He didn’t really believe it for a second, but he
still entered into even the wildest speculation with the certain
confidence that it would succeed as long as it dealt with the earth.
He refused to deal with anything else without even looking into
it, even highly profitable stock market opportunities that appeared
with scarcely the slightest risk. Instead he bought huge quantities of
extremely rotten mining concerns, buying into ore as well as coal,
then trading them in a series of shady deals. He always came out–
“Alraune does it,” he said laughing.
Then the day came when this thought became more than a joke
to him. Wölfchen was digging in the garden, behind the stables under
the large mulberry tree. That was where Alraune wanted to have her
subterranean palace. He dug day after day and once in awhile one of
the gardener’s boys would help.
The child sat close by; she didn’t speak, didn’t laugh, just sat
there quietly and watched. Then one evening the boy’s shovel gave a
loud clang. The gardener’s boy helped and they carefully dug the
brown earth out from between the roots with their bare hands. They
brought the professor a sword belt, a buckle and a handful of coins.
Then he had the place thoroughly dug up and found a small treasure –
genuine Gaelic pieces, rare and valuable. It was not really
supernatural. Farmers all around sooner or later found something,
why shouldn’t there be something hidden in his garden as well?
But that was the point. He asked the boy why he had dug in that
particular spot under the mulberry tree and Wölfchen said the little
one wanted him to dig there and nowhere else. Then he asked Alraune
but she remained silent.
The Privy Councilor thought she was a divining rod, that she
could feel where the earth held its treasure. He laughed about it. Yes,
he still laughed. Sometimes he took her along out to the Rhine along
Villen Street and over to the ground where his men were digging.
Then he would ask dryly enough,” Where should they dig?”
He observed her carefully as she went over the field to see if her
sensitive body would give some sign, some indication, anything that
might suggest–
But she remained quiet and her little body said nothing, later
when she understood what he wanted she would remain standing on
one spot and say, “Dig.”
They would dig and find nothing. Then she would laugh lightly.
The professor thought, “She’s making fools of us.” But he always dug
again where she commanded. Once or twice they found something, a
Roman grave, then a large urn filled with ancient silver coins.
Now the Privy Councilor said, “It is coincidence.”
But he thought, “It could also be coincidence.”
One afternoon as the Privy Councilor stepped out of the library
he saw the boy standing under the pump. He was half-naked with his
body bent forward. The old coachman pumped, letting the cold stream
pour over his head and neck, over his back and both arms. His skin
was blazing red and covered with small blisters.
“What did you do Wölfchen?” He asked.
The boy remained quiet, biting his teeth together, but his dark
eyes were full of tears.
The coachman said, “It’s stinging nettles. The little girl beat him
with stinging nettles.”
Then the boy defended himself, “No, no. She didn’t beat me. I
did it myself. I threw myself into them.”
The Privy Councilor questioned him carefully yet only with the
help of the coachman was he able to get the truth out of the boy. It
went like this:
He had undressed himself down to his hips, thrown himself into
the nettles and rolled around in them, but–at the wish of his little
sister. She had noticed how his hand burned when he accidentally
touched the weed, had seen how it became red and blistered. Then she
had persuaded him to touch them with his other hand and finally to
roll around in them with his naked breast.
“Crazy fool!” The Privy Councilor scolded him. Then he asked if
Alraune had also touched the stinging nettles.
“Yes,” answered the boy, but she didn’t get burned.
The professor went out into the garden, searched and finally
found his foster-child. She was in the back by a huge wall tearing up
huge bunches of stinging nettles. She carried them in her naked arms
across the way to the wisteria arbor where she laid them out on the
ground. She was making a bed.
“Who is that for?” he asked.
The little girl looked at him and said earnestly, “For Wölfchen!”
He took her hands, examined her thin arms. There was not the
slightest sign of any rash.
“Come with me,” he said.
He led her into a greenhouse where Japanese primroses grew in
long rows.
“Pick some flowers,” he cried.
Alraune picked one flower after another. She had to stretch high
to reach them and her arms were in constant contact with the
poisonous leaves. But there was no sign of a burning rash.
“She must be immune,” murmured the professor and wrote a
concise thesis in the brown leather volume about the appearance of
skin rashes through contact with stinging nettles and poison primrose.
He proposed that the reaction was purely a chemical one, that the
little hairs on the stems and leaves wounded the skin by secreting an
acid, which set up a local reaction at the place of contact.
He attempted to discover a connection as to whether and to what
extent the scarcely found immunity against these primroses and
stinging nettles had to do with the known insensibility of witches and
those possessed. He also wanted to know whether the cause of both
phenomenon and this immunity could be explained on an auto-
suggestive or hysterical basis.
Now that he had once seen something strange in the little girl he
searched methodically for things that would validate this thought. It
was mentioned at this spot as an addendum that Dr. Petersen thought
it was completely trivial and disregarded the fact in his report that the
actual birth of the child took place at the midnight hour.
“Alraune, was thus brought into this life in the time honored
manner,” concluded the Privy Councilor.
Old Brambach had come down from the hills; it had taken four
hours to come from beyond the hamlet of Filip. He was a semi-invalid
that went through the hamlets in the hill country selling church raffle
tickets, pictures of saints and cheap rosaries. He limped into the
courtyard and informed the Privy Councilor that he had brought some
Roman artifacts with him that a farmer had found in his field.
The professor had the servants tell him that he was busy and to
wait, so old Brambach waited there sitting on a stone bench in the
yard smoking his pipe. After two hours the Privy Councilor had him
called in. He always had people wait even when he had nothing else
to do. Nothing lowered the price like letting people wait, he always
said.
But this time he really had been busy. The director of the
Germanic museum in Nuremburg was there and was purchasing items
for a beautiful exhibit called “Gaelic finds in the Rhineland”.
The Privy Councilor did not let Brambach into the library but
met with him in the little front room instead.
“Now, you old crippled rascal, let’s see what you have!” he
cried.
The invalid untied a large red handkerchief and carefully laid out
the contents on a fragile cane chair. There were many coins, a couple
of helmet shards, a shield pommel and an exquisite tear vial. The
Privy Councilor scarcely turned to give a quick squinting glance at the
tear vial.
“Is this all, Brambach?” he asked reproachfully and when the old
man nodded he began to heartily upbraid him. He was so old now and
still as stupid as a snotty nosed youngster! It had taken him four hours
to get here and would take him four hours to go back. Then he had to
wait a couple hours as well. He had frittered the entire day away on
that trash there! The rubbish wasn’t worth anything. He could pack it
back up and take it with him. He wouldn’t give a penny for the lot!
How often did he have to tell people again and again, “Don’t run
to Lendenich with every bit of trash?”
It was stupid! It was better to wait until they had a nice
collection and then bring everything in at one time! Or maybe he
enjoyed the walk in the hot sun all the way here and back from Filip?
He should be ashamed of himself.
The invalid scratched behind his ear and then turned his brown
cap in his fingers very ill at ease. He wanted to say something to the
professor, most of the time he was very good at haggling a higher
price for his wares. But he couldn’t think of a single thing, only the
four miles that he had just come–exactly what the professor was now
berating him for. He was completely contrite and comprehended
thoroughly just how stupid he had been so he made no response at all.
He requested only that he be allowed to leave the artifacts there so he
wouldn’t have to haul them back. The Privy Councilor nodded and
then gave him half a Mark.

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

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

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

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

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

Why? He doesn’t know that. 

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

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

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

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

Cute pictures, what? 

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

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

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

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

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

Falk screamed. 

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

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

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

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

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

He had probably fallen asleep. 

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

He listened tensely. 

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

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

He jumped up. 

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

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

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

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

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

She will naturally go. 

He tried to imagine it to himself. 

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

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

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

Then suddenly a thought shot through his head. 

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

That he hadn’t thought of that earlier! 

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

Suddenly he started. Now he hated her again. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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