Hanns Heinz Ewers Alraune (44 page)

He saw her lips move, saw how she reached
her arms up into the starry night.

But he stifled the cry. To warn her, to call
her name–that would mean her death! She was asleep, was safe–as
long as she slept and wandered in her sleep. But if he cried out to
her, if she woke up–then, then she would fall down!

Something inside him demanded, “Call out!
Then you will be saved. Just one little word, just her
name–Alraune! You carry her life on the tip of your tongue and your
own as well! Call out! Call out!”

His teeth clenched together, his eyes closed;
he clasped his hands tightly together. But he sensed that it had to
happen now, right now. There was no going back; he had to do it!
All his thoughts fused together forming themselves into one long,
sharp, murderous dagger, “Alraune–”

Then a clear, shrill, wild and despairing cry
sounded out through the night–“Alraune–Alraune!”

He tore his eyes open, stared upward. He saw
how she let her raised arms drop, how a sudden shudder went through
her limbs, how she turned and looked back terrified at the large
black figure that crept out of the dormer window. He saw how Frieda
Gontram opened her arms wide and stumbled forward–heard once more
her frightened cry,

“Alraune”.

Then he saw nothing more. A whirling fog
covered his eyes; he only heard a hollow thud and then a second one
right after it. Then he heard a weak, clear cry, only one. The old
coachman grabbed his arm and pulled him up. He swayed, almost
fell–then sprang up and ran with quick steps across the courtyard,
toward the house.

He knelt at her side, cradled her sweet body
in his arms. Blood, so much blood covered the short curls. He laid
his ear to her heart and heard a faint beating.

“She still lives,” he whispered. “Oh, she
still lives.”

He kissed her pale forehead. He looked over
to the side where the old coachman was examining Frieda Gontram. He
saw him shake his head and stand up with difficulty.

“Her neck is broken,” he said.

What was that to him? Alraune still lived–she
lived.

“Come old man,” he cried. “We will carry her
inside.”

He raised her shoulders a little–then she
opened her eyes, but she didn’t recognize him.

“I’m coming,” she whispered. “I’m
coming–”

Then her head fell back–

He sprang up. His sudden, raging and wild
scream echoed from the houses and flowed with many voices across
the garden.

“Alraune, Alraune! It was me–I did it!”

The old coachman laid a gnarled hand on his
shoulder and shook his head.

“No, young Master,” he said. “Fräulein
Gontram called out to her.”

He laughed shrilly, “But I wanted to.”

The old face became dark, his voice rang
harshly, “I wanted to.”

The servants came out of their houses, came
with lights and with noise, screaming and talking until they filled
the entire courtyard. Staggering like a drunk he swayed toward the
house, supporting himself on the old man’s arm.

“I want to go home,” he whispered. “Mother is
waiting.”

It is late in the summer, the hollyhocks now
raise their heads away from the stalks. The mallows scatter their
dull tones in tired colors, pale yellow, lilac and soft pink. When
you knocked my love, the spring was young. When you entered through
the narrow gate into my dream garden the swift little swallows were
singing their welcome to the daffodils and the yellow primrose.

Your eyes were blue and kind and your days
were like heavy clusters of light blue wisteria dropping down to
form a soft carpet. My feet walked lightly there through the sun
glistening pathways of your arbor–Then the shadows fell and in the
night eternal sin climbed out of the ocean, coming here from the
south, created out of the glowing fires of the desert sands.

She spewed forth her pestilent breath in my
garden strewing her rutting passion beneath her veil of beauty.
Wild sister, that’s when your hot soul awoke, shameless, full of
every poison. You drank my blood, exulted and screamed out from
painful tortures and from passionate kisses.

Your marvelous sweet nails that your little
maid, Fanny, manicured grew into wild claws. Your smooth teeth,
glowing like milky opals, grew into mighty fangs. Your sweet
childish breasts, little snow-white kittens, turned into the rigid
tits of a murderous whore. Your golden curls hissed like
impassioned vipers and the lightning that unleashed all madness
reposed in your soft jeweled eyes which caught the light like the
glowing sapphire in the forehead of my golden Buddha.

But gold lotus grew in the pool of my soul,
extended themselves with broad leaves upon the vast shallows and
covered the deep horrors of the whirling maelstrom. The silver
tears that the clouds wept lay like large pearls upon their green
leaves, shining through the afternoons like polished
moonstones.

Where the acacia’s pale snow once lay the
laburnum now throws its poisonous yellows–There, little sister, I
found the great beauty of your chaste sins and I understood the
pleasures of the saints.

I sat in front of the mirror, my love, drank
out of it the over abundance of your sins while you slept on summer
afternoons, in your thin silk shift on white linen. You were a
different person, my dear, when the sun laughed in the splendor of
my garden–sweet little sister of my dream filled days. You were an
entirely different person, my dear, when it sank into the sea, when
the horrors of darkness softly crept out of the bushes–wild, sinful
sister of my passionate nights–But I could see by the light of day
all the sins of the night in your naked beauty.

Understanding came to me from out of the
mirror, the ancient gold framed mirror, which saw so many games of
love in that wide turret room in the castle of San Costanzo. The
truth, which I had only glimpsed in the pages of the leather bound
volume, came to me from out of that mirror. Sweetest of all are the
chaste sins of the innocent.

That there are creatures–not animal–strange
creatures, that originate out of villainous desires and absurd
thoughts–that you will not deny, my love, not you.

Good is the law; good are all the strict
rules. Good is the God that created them and good is the man that
carefully observes them.

But there is the child of Satan who with
arrogant hands brazenly rips the eternal laws from their appointed
place. The Evil One, who is a mighty Lord, helps him–that he might
create out of his own proud will–against all nature.

His work towers into the heavens– nd yet
falls apart and in its collapse buries the arrogant fool that
conceived it–

Now I write this for you, sister, this book–I
ripped open old, long forgotten scars, mixed their dark blood with
the bright and fresh blood of my latest torments. Beautiful flowers
grow out of such soil, fertilized by blood.

All that I have told you, my love, is very
true–yet I take it from the mirror, drink out of its glass the
realizations of my latest experiences and apply them to earlier
memories and original events.

Take this book sister. Take it from a wild
adventurer who was an arrogant fool–and a quiet dreamer as
well–Take if from one, little sister, that has run closely
alongside such a life–

Miramar–Lesina–Brion

April–October 1911

The End