Hanns Heinz Ewers Alraune (29 page)

“We are going,” insisted Alraune.

“Then go,” he barked. “It doesn’t matter to
me what you do Fräulein–I will only stop the boy, Wolf Gontram, him
alone.”

Alraune measured him from head to foot. She
pulled the key out of the lock, opened the door wide.

“Well then,” she said.

She stepped outside onto the balcony, raised
her hand and beckoned to her Rosalinde.

“Will you come out into the winter night with
me?” she cried. “Or will you stay inside the hall?”

Wolf Gontram pushed the attorney to the side,
stepped quickly through the door. Little Manasse grabbed at him,
clamped tightly onto his arm. But the boy pushed him back again,
silently, so that he fell awkwardly against the curtain.

“Don’t go Wolf!” screamed the attorney.
“Don’t go!”

He looked wretched, his hoarse voice
broke.

But Alraune laughed out loud, “Adieu,
faithful Eckart! Stay pretty in there and guard our audience!”

She slammed the door in his face, stuck the
key in the lock and turned it twice. The little attorney tried to
see through the frosted window. He tore at the latch and in a rage
stamped both feet on the floor. Then he slowly calmed himself, came
out from behind the curtain and stepped back into the hall.

“So it is fate,” he growled.

He bit his strong, tangled teeth together,
went back to his Excellency’s table, let himself fall heavily into
a chair.

“What’s wrong, Herr Manasse?” asked Frieda
Gontram. “You look like seven days of rainy weather!”

“Nothing,” he barked. “Absolutely nothing–by
the way, your brother is an ass! Herr Colleague, don’t drink all of
that alone! Save some of it for me!”

The Legal Councilor poured his glass
full.

But Frieda Gontram said quite convinced,
“Yes, I believe that too. He is an ass.”

The two walked through the snow, leaned over
the balustrade, Rosalinde and the Chevalier de Maupin. The full
moon fell over the wide street, threw its sweet light on the
baroque shape of the university, then the old palace of the
Archbishop. It played on the wide white expanses down below,
throwing fantastic shadows diagonally over the sidewalk.

Wolf Gontram drank in the icy air.

“That is beautiful,” he whispered, waving
with his hand down at the white street where there was not the
slightest sound to disturb the deep silence.

But Alraune ten Brinken was looking at him,
saw how his white shoulders glowed in the moonlight, saw his large
deep eyes shining like opals.

“You are beautiful,” she said to him. “You
are more beautiful than the moonlit night.”

He let go of the stone balustrade, reached
out for her and embraced her.

“
Alraune,” he cried,
“Alraune.”

“Alraune,” he cried. “Alraune.”

She endured this for a moment, then freed
herself, and patted him lightly on the hand.

“No,” she laughed, “No! You are Rosalinde–and
I am the boy, so I will court you.”

She looked around, grabbed a chair out of the
corner, dragged it over, beat off the snow with her sword-cane.

“Here, sit down my beautiful Fräulein.
Unfortunately you are a little too tall for me! That’s better–now
we are just right!”

She bowed gracefully, then went down on one
knee.

“Rosalinde,” she chirped. “Rosalinde! Permit
a knight errant to steal a kiss–”

“Alraune,” he began.

But she sprang up, clapped her hand over his
lips. “You must say ‘Mein Herr!’” she cried.

“Now then, will you permit me to steal a kiss
Rosalinde?”

“Yes, Mein Herr,” he stammered.

Then she stepped behind him, took his head in
both arms and she began, hesitated.

“First the ears,” she laughed. “The right and
now the left, and the cheeks, both of them–and your stupid nose
that I have so often kissed. Finally–lookout Rosalinde, your
beautiful mouth.”

She bent lower, pressed her curly head
against his shoulder under his hat. But she pulled back again.

“No, no, beautiful maiden, leave your hands!
They must rest quietly in your lap.”

He laid his shivering hands on his knee and
closed his eyes. Then she kissed him, slowly and passionately. At
the end her small teeth sought his lip, bit it quickly so that
heavy drops of red blood fell down onto the snow.

She tore herself loose, stood in front of
him, staring blankly at the moon with wide-open eyes. A sudden
chill seized her, threw a shiver over her slender limbs.

“I’m freezing,” she whispered.

She raised one foot up and then the
other.

“The stupid snow is everywhere inside my
dance slippers!”

She pulled a slipper off and shook it
out.

“Put my shoes on,” he cried. “They are bigger
and warmer.”

He quickly slipped them off and let her step
into them.

“Is that better?”

“Yes,” she laughed. “I feel good again. For
that I will give you another kiss, Rosalinde.”

And she kissed him again–and again she bit
him. Then they both laughed at how the moon lit up the red stains
on the white ground.

“Do you love me, Wolf Gontram?” she
asked.

He said, “I think of nothing else but
you.”

She hesitated a moment, then asked again–“If
I wanted it–would you jump from the balcony?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Even from the roof?”

He nodded.

“Even from the tower of the Münster
Cathedral?”

He nodded again.

“Would you do anything for me, Wölfchen?” she
asked.

“Yes, Alraune,” he said, “if you loved
me.”

She pursed her lips, rocked her hips
lightly.

“I don’t know whether I love you,” she said
slowly. “Would you do it even if I didn’t love you?”

His gorgeous eyes that his mother had given
him shone, shone fuller and deeper than they had ever done and the
moon above, jealous of those eyes, hid from them, concealing itself
behind the cathedral tower.

“Yes,” said the boy. “Yes, even then.”

She sat on his lap, wrapped her arms around
his neck.

“For that, Rosalinde–for that I will kiss you
for a third time.”

And she kissed him again, still longer and
more passionately and she bit him–more wildly and deeply. But they
couldn’t see the heavy drops in the snow any more because the
jealous moon had hidden its silver torch.

“Come,” she whispered. “Come, we must
go!”

They exchanged shoes, beat the snow off their
clothing, opened the door and stepped back inside, slipped behind
the curtain and into the hall. The arc-lamps overhead were glaring;
the hot and sticky air stifled them.

Wolf Gontram staggered as he let go of the
curtain, grasping quickly at his chest with both hands.

She noticed it. “Wölfchen?” she cried.

He said, “It’s nothing, nothing at all–just a
twinge! But it’s all right now.”

Hand in hand they walked through the
hall.

Wolf Gontram didn’t come into the office the
next day, never got out of bed, lay in a raging fever. He lay like
that for nine days. He was often delirious, called out her name–but
not once during this time did he come back to consciousness.

Then he died. It was pneumonia.

They buried him outside, in the new
cemetery.

Fräulein ten Brinken sent a large garland of
full, dark roses.

Renders to the reader the end of the Privy
Councilor through Alraune.

O
N
leap year night a storm blew in over the Rhine. Coming in from the
south it seized the ice flows, pushing them downstream, piling them
on top of each other and crashing them against the old toll bridge.
It tore the roof off the Jesuit church, blew down ancient linden
trees in the courtyard garden, loosened the moorings of the strong
pontoon boat of the swimming school and dashed it to pieces on the
mighty pillars of the stone bridge.

The storm chased through Lendenich as well.
Three chimneys tumbled down from the community center and the old
Hahnenwirt’s barn was destroyed. But the worst thing it did was to
the house of ten Brinken. It blew out the eternal lamps that burned
at the shrine of St. John of Nepomuk.

That had never been seen before, not in the
several hundred years that the Manor house had stood. The devout
villagers quickly refilled the lamps and lit them again the next
morning, but they said it portended a great misfortune and the end
of the Brinken’s was certain.

That night had proved that the Saint had now
turned his hand away from the Lutheran house. No storm in the world
could have extinguished those lamps unless he allowed it.

It was an omen, that’s what the people said.
But some whispered that it hadn’t been the storm winds at all. The
Fräulein had been outside around midnight–she had extinguished the
lamps.

But it appeared as if the people were wrong
in their prophecies. Large parties were held in the mansion even
though it was lent. All the windows were brightly lit one night
after the other. Music could be heard along with laughter and loud
singing.

The Fräulein demanded it. She needed
distraction, she said, after her bereavement and the Privy
Councilor did as she wished. He crept behind her where ever she
went. It was almost as if he had taken over Wőlfchen’s role.

His squinting glance sought her out when she
stepped into the room and followed her when she left. She noticed
how the hot blood crept through his old veins, laughed brightly and
tossed her head. Her moods became more capricious and her demands
became more exaggerated.

The old man handled it by always demanding
something in return, having her tickle his bald head or play her
quick fingers up and down his arm, demanding that she sit on his
lap or even kiss him. Time after time he urged her to come dressed
as a boy.

came in riding clothes, in her lace clothing
from the Candlemass ball, as a fisher boy with opened shirt and
naked legs, or as an elevator boy in a red, tight fitting uniform
that showed off her hips. She also came as a mountain climber, as
Prince Orlowski, as Nerissa in a court clerk’s gown, as Piccolo in
a black dress suit, as a Rococo page, or as Euphorion in tricots
and blue tunic.

The Privy Councilor would sit on the sofa and
have her walk back and forth in front of him. His moist hands
rubbed across his trousers, his legs slid back and forth on the
carpet and with bated breath he would search for a way to
begin–

She would stand there looking at him,
challenging him, and under her gaze he would back down. He searched
in vain but could not find the words that could cover his
disgusting desires and veil them in a cute little jacket.

Laughing mockingly she would leave–as soon as
the door latch clicked shut, as soon as he heard her clear laughter
on the stairs–the thoughts would come to him. Then it was easy,
then he knew exactly what to say, what he should have said. He
often called out after her–sometimes she even came back.

“Well?” she asked.

But it didn’t work; again it didn’t work.

“Oh, nothing,” he grumbled.

That was it, his confidence had failed him.
He searched around for some other victim just to convince himself
that he was still master of his old skills. He found one, the
little thirteen-year-old daughter of the tinsmith that had been
brought to the house to repair some kettles.

“Come along, little Marie,” he said. “There
is something I want to give you.”

He pulled her into the library. After a half
hour the little one slunk past him in the hall like a sick, wild
animal with wide open, staring eyes, pressing herself tightly
against the wall–

Triumphant, with a broad smile, the Privy
Councilor stepped across the courtyard, back into the mansion. Now
he was confident–but now Alraune avoided him, came up when he
seemed calm but pulled back confused when his eyes flickered.