The Sufferings of Prince Sternenhoch: A Grotesque Tale of Horror Read online

  Ladislav Klima

  The Sufferings of Prince Sternenhoch

  A Grotesque Tale of Horror

  Translated from the Czech by Carleton Bulkin

  Twisted Spoon Press

  Prague

  Contents

  Foreword

  I

  II

  III

  My Autobiography

  A Prince Longing for the Stars

  by Josef Zumr

  Note on the Translation

  Notes

  About the Contributors

  Colophon

  FOREWORD

  From the effects of Prince Sternenhoch,* one of the foremost magnates of the German Empire at the beginning of this century, who certainly would have become Bismarck’s successor as Chancellor if Fate had not thrown the powerful person of Helga-Daemoness onto his path, we have come into possession of a part of his diary. We do not hesitate to make it public, for the story it tells is one of the most terrible and, at the same time, comic of any we know.

  We give the events up to August 19, 1912 only in their main outlines, as a brief rendition, not in diary form: as they are only a prologue to the real story. But we have allowed ourselves considerable license elsewhere as well. Mainly, we have somewhat intellectualized our gallant hero. It was necessary. His Excellency was rather inept with a pen ... At any rate, if the reader wishes to form an impression of what kind of person the prince was and what his handwriting looked like, let him read pp. 161, 162, 190: our hero was not a hair better than his brother, the general. Since the least offense against empirical reality necessarily leads to many others, we have taken the liberty, but only inasmuch as it concerns the prince’s intelligence, to proceed quite laxly and instinctively, meddlesomely and foolishly, arbitrarily and grandiosely. And we are convinced that by this the heart of the matter not only does not suffer, but gains. What do a few somersaults, paradoxes, errors, absurdities matter? The world itself is a somersault and a paradox, an error and an absurdity. For an author fearful of slip-ups is like someone who has fallen headlong into a cesspool being afraid of getting a little dirty.

  And now we present the reader the following amalgam, without further unnecessary apologies, convinced that, as Goethe says of Werther, “neither admiration for the spirit of our hero nor tears for his fate shall be withheld.”

  I

  I first laid eyes on Helga at a certain ball; I was 33, she was 17 years old. My first impression was that this was a downright ugly girl. A spindly figure, so slender you were frightened of it; a face disgracefully pale, almost white, terribly thin; a Jewish nose; all her features, otherwise not bad, somehow withered, somnolent, hypnotic; she looked like a corpse animated by some mechanism – and just like her face, even her movements were terribly sluggish and feeble. She had eyes that were constantly downcast like a bashful little five-year-old girl. Better yet, she had bulky hair, black as soot ... I was absolutely ill when my glance first fell upon her; and when Count M., a dabbler in painting, said: “That young lady has the most intéressante, classically beautiful face,” – I could not hold back a laugh. I have no idea how all those artists and people of “refined taste” can have no taste at all – evidently they have refined it until there is nothing left of it; whatever I like, they go out of their way not to like, and whatever I dislike, they like as if on purpose. For example, I wouldn’t give the chubby face of any girl from Berlin for the heads of all the Greek stone goddesses, and almost every infantry soldier is better-looking to me than any big-nosed Schiller or Goethe, about whose handsomeness people jaw so much.

  But in spite of this, would you believe it? I had to look at her again and again ... And once, when dancing closely beside me, she happened to lift her eyes while not even looking at me, it was as if she sent a full electric charge through me ...

  And since that day I had to think of her quite often. For whole months. At last I started to forget, then I caught sight of her again; at another aristocrats’ ball.

  I was most strangely agitated; I could hear the beating of my heart. For a long time I felt as if I were on pins and needles – until finally I asked her for a dance. I made mental excuses to myself: “This from me, the foremost aristocrat of Germany, the owner of 500 million marks, the first advisor and favorite of Wilhelm, an act of magnanimity, noblesse, and grand courtoisie, to offer a dance to the descendant of a family, distinguished centuries ago, now obscure, impoverished, nearly beggarly,” as I informed myself directly; “almost no one dances with her, everyone shall praise my deed – and she – how happy she will be!”

  But she did not display the least happiness. She stood up mechanically, danced like a wooden doll. Rather unusually confused, I spoke little and stupidly. I don’t know what it was from that bony body that penetrated me so narcotically. She didn’t lift her eyes once during the whole dance and uttered only two, three words in a gray, almost raspy voice. When the dance was over, I pressed her to myself more firmly and made some kind of mildly lewd witticism. She lightly pushed me away, lifted her eyes. And now they were no longer covered by her upper eyelids – they opened suddenly, unbelievably, until they were like a cat’s eyes – just as green, just as wild, predatory, uncanny. Her lips, previously lying sluggishly one on top of the other or slightly parted, closed tightly, became sharp as a razor, her nose became narrow, her nostrils distended and undulated wildly ... It lasted no longer than a flash of lightning; then she left without a word – a fury again become a corpse – to her old, quite shabby-looking chaperone. I think in that moment I was just as pale as she. What were these sensations fluttering through me? Were they not the mystical apprehension of a horrible future? ... I tell you: never before had I seen a face even remotely so frightening and eerie, and never would I have believed a face so cadaverously inexpressive, such as I had not seen before or afterward, could become enflamed, like a bolt of lightning from a dark cloud.

  It had been decided. A week later I went to her father to ask for her hand – – –

  Why did I do so? I don’t know: the only thing I know is that it wasn’t out of reason.

  I did not love her, if love is something beautiful and sweet. However, if what I felt did have something of that emotion, my revulsion toward her was ten times stronger. One thing was certain, that I had loved a dozen women more and it had never occurred to me to accompany one to the altar. And yet something attracted me to her, something dark, something queer, demonic ... Yes, the devil was in it, and no one else! He so enticed me that at times she seemed to me like a ridiculously legendary gem, the owner of which would be considered a lucky man; that finally, unbelievably! her thinness and pallor sometimes seemed positively exciting to me! Great is the devil’s power ...

  And then – I am very susceptible to eccentricities. The thought that I would make her, poor as a church mouse but the offspring of an old and renowned family, out of the clear blue sky, without closer acquaintance, my wife, flattered my vanity. What a sensation it would produce everywhere! I would appear to people as lightning – and selfless, magnanimous, idealistic. And what would His Majesty say to this! And what happiness I would bring to her poor father! Not to mention to her! I had already found out earlier that she was having a very bad time of it with her father; she would certainly worship me as her savior. – I could so easily have married an enormously wealthy girl; but do my 500 million need augmenting? Marry the daughter of an American billionaire who came into his money by selling hogs? I don’t doubt that I would have even gotten a princess from a royal family, graceful, endowed with all the right qualities. Well, leaving
aside my family and wealth, I may boldly say of myself that I am a beau, in spite of certain faults, for example, that I am only 150 centimeters tall and weigh 45 kilograms, that I am almost toothless, hairless, and whiskerless, also a little squint-eyed and have a noticeable hobble; but even the sun has spots.

  I went to her father, a 60-year-old, retired first lieutenant; he couldn’t get any higher than that, and had been made to retire a long time ago, not because he was lacking in bravery, intelligence, or dedication, but there wasn’t a man alive whom he could stand. In his milieu he was famous for his strangeness and eccentricity. Oh, how I looked forward to the impression this marvelous offer would make on him! In spite of this my heart was beating with agitation when I knocked on his door.

  They lived in two tiny rooms in a garret. Helga was not at home; I heaved a sigh of relief, for at that time I was, I don’t know why, terribly afraid of her. The old man lay on the floor, with some kind of box under his head; barefoot, in an undershirt, he was smoking a pipe and spitting at the wall. He left me standing for a while, not replying to my greeting and not looking at me; then he suddenly bounded up so violently that I shrieked and ran for the door, thinking he wanted to strangle me ... Though even his face alone was capable of frightening one: so strange, wild, and yet somehow boyish; deranged, and yet there was something impressive in it. His eyes, black as lumps of coal, burned like embers of coal. They reminded me of his daughter’s eyes when she lifted them to me before, but otherwise there was no similarity between him and her at all.

  I introduced myself to him. He took me by the shoulder, stared into my eyes for what seemed like ages, then without a word pulled me into a chair. I was startled, but not offended: I interpreted this severity and crudeness as an expression of unbounded happiness from such a grand visit. And suddenly, without any introduction, as I had resolved to, I said, having gathered my courage: “Permit me, sir, to ask you for the hand of Miss Helga.”

  But what happened then? Hardly had I uttered these words when everything in my eyes and my soul went dark; I felt as if I had crossed the threshold of the gates of hell, above which is written: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here ...”

  He was silent for a minute, and not a single muscle moved in his face. Then he growled:

  “If you’re really Sternenhoch, the bitch is yours. If you’re not, you’ll be thrown out the door! Prove you are who you say you are!”

  Only now did I feel offended and was about to get up either to leave or give this churl a slap in the face. But I didn’t do the former, sensing how such sudden proposals would have made me a laughingstock, nor the latter, because I was a little afraid of the lunatic. I threw my calling card on the table.

  “Hmm,” he growled, “this isn’t really a regular identification, but you won’t be thrown out the door for now. So you’re Willy’s main advisor and favorite? Well – you look the part, no doubt of that, you identify yourself better by your face than by that scrap of paper. So when will you tie the knot?”

  “That depends on our mutual agreement,” I stammered out, not knowing at all what I should think.

  “The sooner I have that spook off my hands the better.”

  “Ugh!” I finally found the energy to say, “Is that any way for a father to speak of his own blood?”

  The old man broke into laughter – slapped me on both shoulders in such a way it was a wonder I didn’t roll off the chair.

  “Because you’re such a dupe that you want to become her husband and my son-in-law, I want to tell you a little story. Consider my own blood to be a nasty monster? The devil knows what kind of dolt or turtle or swamp thing jumped my old lady.”

  “Ugh, ugh, ugh!”

  “What a spindly, mute, white spook that one was. For whole nights she would walk back and forth through the rooms – tap, tap, tap ... Even today, 10 years after she met her end, she still comes to my bed at midnight and whispers: ‘Love Helga, look after her, you don’t know what you have.’ But I fix my eyes on her, fire a pistol at her, and she dissipates like steam. I wanted to have, as is fitting, a son, a real man or, you can’t be too choosy, at least a girl with some genuine spark; and there you go! only this miscarriage that a witch stuck me with, who’s the biggest rotten stinker I’ve ever seen, as if on purpose! Can that be my daughter, mine? ... Well – when she was little she was different – she was so wild that sometimes it was a little much even for me. But I never punished her for it, I praised her; the authorities even called me in a couple of times on her account. I gave her a proper thrashing only once, when she was 10, but not so much to punish her as because I just felt like it. And from that day on she changed completely. All her joy and spirit gone! She stopped speaking and nearly stopped eating. She hung her head – a weeping willow, she wasted away, more and more as time went on. Before, I think she loved me, and having been disappointed in me, she was somehow disappointed in the whole world; so what, because of something so stupid! I didn’t touch her for years, hoping it would pass – but no! it only got worse. Then I thought to myself: maybe what got you into this’ll also get you out, as is usually the case with madmen or deaf-mutes! – and from that time on I’ve thrashed her every single day. It’s all no use, she keeps shrivelling up, maybe she’s gone soft in the head and is getting softer. You can’t make something out of nothing; she doesn’t give two hoots about anything, as if she were somehow lost, a lost soul that doesn’t belong to this world. Perhaps just one time only, praise God, she seemed to recall her old self: I was watching her one night as she stole to my bed with a knife; when she saw that my eyes were open and looking at her calmly, she turned around and walked back into the other room as if nothing had happened. I jumped up and ran after her – she was lying down and sleeping. She gave me no sign the next day that anything had happened, and so to this day I don’t know if she really wanted to do me in or if she was sleepwalking, or if it was a phantom of mine or just a dream ... – That’s the way it is, my idiotic little prince. Do you still want her?”

  “First of all, don’t touch me!” I thundered fearfully, and that out of sheer revulsion, although what I had heard made me reel with horror, and I exclaimed, “And I do! She is certainly a worthy being if one such as you finds her bad, you brute, who have led her to this state by inhuman torment! Shame on you!”

  “What a plucky little pipsqueak! But you’ll be the right man for her. Ha ha! Only careful, careful – who knows how she’ll turn out; perhaps she’ll be a mythical dragon, or a walking corpse – maybe it will be intéressante ... Well, so I can finally be rid of you, go on and run to the priest right away, run, run!”

  And he shoved me out the door. And I – to this day I am ashamed – I inquired quite humbly:

  “And what am I to make of the fact that, although you long to be rid of your daughter, you treat her suitor in such a way that I am altogether inclined to forget the whole thing, if only to avoid the pleasure of having such an agreeable father-in-law?”

  “What should you make of it? That nothing on earth, not even constantly looking at that carcass, could induce me not to treat a rag, a knave, a ragged knave, as is good and proper!”

  But this time I really became enraged. “Look here, you!” I roared with unexpected courage, “is this how you speak to the foremost man of the Empire? Just you wait! First thing tomorrow your pension shall be taken from you, you’ll be locked up and flogged in the jailhouse by the police until you turn black! And I shall no longer spare a thought for the hand of your daughter!”

  And I dashed outside, agitated, but darkly happy that the whole crazy affair had been laid to rest. But hardly had I reached the steps when he ran up behind me and, with terrifying strength, pulled me back inside. Frightened, fearing for the worst, I didn’t even put up any resistance to this obvious madman. But he was like a different person now, and he wailed:

  “Oh, Your Excellency, do not deign to be angry, ever since you pleased to enter my home I have been a bundle of nerves and my spirit has grown dark. A
thousand devils!” he roared, striking his mouth with his fist – but he quickly resumed his wailing: “I esteem Your Excellency most highly, the grandeur of your spirit illuminates your face – ugh! I am boundlessly happy that you have made me, a beggar, a worm unworthy to look upon you, such a wonderful offer! Kindly excuse me!”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I panted, half appeased, half afraid that any recalcitrance on my part could provoke a wild outburst of madness.

  “You do insist on your offer, don’t you?” he implored, with clenched hands.

  “Yes, yes – why wouldn’t I – it will of course depend on your behavior – ”

  “Oh, that will be just splendid! I am so happy, Excellency!”

  “But what if Helga does not love me?” I said, only in order to say something, trying to wrench my hands from the grip of his fists, which had caught me again.

  “Then she will love others, you may set your mind at ease – – but what am I saying, I am an unlucky man, those nerves again ... What woman wouldn’t love you?”

  “But what if she simply does not agree?”

  “Then I’ll whip some sense into her.”

  “Ugh! Do you think I would want a woman who had been forced to marry me?”

  “Of course not! But she will certainly love you, how could she not! There will be no need for the whip, I promise you! If it please Your Excellency to preserve your good favor toward us – well, it would be just splendid good fortune for the bi ... for her! In the highest social circles she will lose her silliness, among boobs like you she’ll be able to make out quite well – but pardon, pardon!”

  “Enough!” I said quickly. “Discuss it with her and inform me of her answer in writing! Adieu!”