Hanns Heinz Ewers Alraune (32 page)

He smiled grimly, now he had to pay the
price.

Pay the price? Oh yes, but in what coin?

He looked at the clock–it was past twelve.
The people would come with the warrant around seven o’clock at the
latest–he still had over six hours. They would be very considerate,
very polite–they would even bring him into custody in his own car.
Then–then the battle would begin. That would not be too bad–he
would defend himself through several months, dispute every move his
opponents made.

But finally–in the main case–he would lose
anyway. Manasse had that right. Then it would be–prison–or flee–but
alone. Entirely alone? Without her? In that moment he felt how he
hated her, but he also knew as well that he could think of nothing
else any more, only her. He could run around the world aimlessly,
without purpose, not seeing, not hearing anything but her bright
twittering voice, her slender swinging red leg.

Oh, he would starve, out there or in
prison–either way. Her leg–her sweet slender boy’s leg! Oh how
could he live without that red leg?

The game was lost–he must pay the bill,
better to pay it quickly, this very night–with the only thing of
value he had left–with his life. And since it wasn’t worth anything
any more, perhaps he could bring someone else down with him.

That did him good, now he brooded about whom
to take down with him. Someone that would give him a little
satisfaction to give one final last kick.

He took his last will and testament out of
the desk, which named Alraune as his heir, read through it, then
carefully tore it into small pieces.

“I must make a new one,” he whispered. “Only
for whom?–for whom?”

There was his sister–was her son, Frank
Braun, his nephew–

He hesitated, him–him? Wasn’t it him that had
brought this poisonous gift into his house, this strange creature
that had now ruined him?

He–just like the others! Oh, he should pay,
even more than Alraune.

“You will tempt God,” the fellow had said.
“You will put a question to him, so audacious that He must
answer.”

Oh yes, now he had his answer! But if he
inexorably had to go down, the youth should share his fate. He,
Frank Braun, who had engendered this thought, given him the
idea.

Now he had a bright shiny weapon, her, his
little daughter, Alraune ten Brinken. She would bring him as well
to the point where he was today. He considered, rocked his head and
grinned in satisfaction at this certain final victory.

Then he wrote his will without pausing, in
swift, ugly strokes. Alraune remained his heir, her alone. But he
secured a legacy for his sister and another for his nephew, whom he
appointed as executor and guardian of the girl until she came of
age. That way he needed to come here, be near her, breathe the
sultry air from her lips, and it would happen, like it had happened
with all the others!

Like it had with the Count and with Dr.
Mohnen, like it had with Wolf Gontram, like with the chauffeur–and
finally, like it had happened with he, himself, as well.

He laughed out loud, made still another
entry, that the university would inherit if Alraune died without an
heir. That way his nephew would be shut out in any case. Then he
signed the document and dated it.

He took the leather bound volume, read
further, wrote the early history and conscientiously brought
everything up to date. He ended it with a little note to his
nephew, dripping with derision.

“Try your luck,” he wrote. “To bad that I
won’t be there when your turn comes. I would have been very glad to
see it!”

He carefully blotted the wet ink, closed the
book and laid it back in the drawer with the other momentos, the
necklace of the Princess, the alraune of the Gontrams, the dice
cup, the white card with a hole shot through it that he had taken
out of the count’s vest pocket. “Mascot” was written on it. Near it
lay a four leaf clover–several black drops of clotted blood still
clung to it–

He stepped up to the curtain and untied the
silk cord. With a long scissors he cut the end off and threw it
into the drawer with the others. “Mascot’, he laughed. “Luck for
the house!”

He searched around the walls, climbed onto a
chair and with great difficulty took down a mighty iron cross from
a heavy hook, laid it carefully on the divan.

“Excuse me,” he grinned, “for moving you out
of your place–it will only be for a short time–only for a few
hours–you will have a worthy replacement!”

He knotted the cord, threw it high over the
hook, pulled on it, considered it, that it would hold–and he
climbed for a second time onto the chair–

The police found him early the next morning.
The chair was pushed over; nevertheless the dead man stood on it
with the tip of one toe. It appeared as if he had regretted the
deed and at the last moment tried to save himself. His right eye
stood wide open, squinting out toward the door and his thick blue
tongue protruded out–he looked very ugly.

Perhaps your quiet days, my blonde little
sister, will also drop like silver bells that ring softly with
slumbering sins.

Laburnums now throw their poisonous yellow
where the pale snow of the acacias once lay. Ardent clematis show
their deep blue where the devout clusters of wisteria once
peacefully resounded.

Sweet is the gentle game of lustful desire;
yet sweeter to me are all the cruel raging passions of the
nighttime. Yet sweeter than any of these to me now is sweet
sleeping sin on a hot summer afternoon.

–
She slumbers lightly, my gentle
companion, and I dare not awaken her. She is never more beautiful
than when she is sleeping like this. In the mirror my darling sin
rests, near enough, resting in her thin silken shift on white
linen.

Your hand, little sister, falls over the edge
of the bed. Your slender finger that carries my gold band is gently
curling. Your transparent rosy nails glow like the first light of
morning. Fanny, your black maid, manicured them. It was she that
created these little marvels.

And I kiss your marvelous transparent rosy
nails in the mirror.

Only in the mirror–in the mirror only. Only
with loving glances and the light touch of my lips.

They will grow, if sin awakes, they will
grow, become the sharp claws of a tiger, tearing my flesh–

Your head rises out of the pillow, surrounded
by golden locks. They fall around it lightly like flickering golden
flames that awaken at the first breezes of early morning. Your
little teeth smile out from your thin lips, like the milky opals in
the glowing bracelet of the moon Goddess.

And I kiss your golden hair, sister, and your
gleaming teeth–in the mirror–only in the mirror. With the soft
touch of my lips and with loving glances.

For I know that if ardent sin awakes the
milky opals become mighty fangs and the golden locks become fiery
vipers. Then the claws of the tigress tear at my flesh, the sharp
teeth bite dreadful, bloody wounds. Then the flaming vipers hiss
around my head, crawl into my ears, spray their venom into my
brain, whisper and entice with a fairy tale of savage lust–

Your silken shift has fallen down from your
shoulder, your childish breasts smile there, resting, like two
white newborn kittens, lifting their sweet rosy noses into the
air.

I look up at your gentle eyes, jeweled blue
eyes that catch the light, that glow like the sapphire on the
forehead of my golden Buddha figurine.

Do you see, sister, how I kiss them–in the
mirror? No fairy has a lighter touch.

–
For I know well, when she wakes up, my
eternal sin, blue lightening will flash out of her eyes. It will
strike my poor heart, making my blood boil and seethe, melting in
ardent desire the strong chains that restrain me, till all becomes
madness and then surges the entire–

Then hunts, free of her chains, the raging
beast. She overpowers you, sister, in furious frenzy. Your sweet
childish breasts become the giant breasts of a murderous fury–now
that sin has awakened–she rends in joy, bites in fury, exults in
pain and bathes in pools of blood.

But my glances are still silent, like the
tread of nuns at the grave of a saint. Softer yet is the light
touch of my lips, like the kiss of the Holy Ghost at communion that
turns the bread into the body of our Lord.

She should not awaken, should remain
peacefully sleeping–my beautiful sin.

Nothing, my love, is sweeter to me, than pure
sin as you lightly sleep.

Gives an account of how Frank Braun stepped
into Alraune’s world.

F
RANK
Braun had come back to his mother’s house,
somewhere from one of his aimless journeys, from Cashmir in Asia or
from Bolivian Chaco. Or perhaps is was from the West Indies where
he had played revolutionary in some mad republic, or from the South
Seas, where he had dreamed fairytales with the slender daughters of
a dying race. He came back from somewhere.

Slowly he walked through his mother’s house,
up the white staircase upon whose walls was pressed frame upon
frame, old engravings and modern etchings, through his mother’s
wide rooms in which the spring sun fell through yellow curtains.
There his ancestors hung, many Brinkens with sharp and clever
faces, people that knew where they stood in the world.

There was his great-grandfather and
great-grandmother–good portraits from the time of the Emperor, then
one of his beautiful grandmother–sixteen years old, in the earlier
dress of Queen Victoria. His father and mother hung there and his
own portraits as well. There was one of him as a child with a large
ball in his hands and long blonde child locks that fell over his
shoulders. The other was of him as a youth, in the black velvet
dress of a page, reading in a thick, ancient tome.

In the next room were the copies. They came
from everywhere, from the Dresden Gallery, the Cassel and
Braunshweig galleries, from the Palazzo Pitti, the Prado and from
the Reich Museum. There were many Dutch masters, Rembrandt, Frans
Hals, Ostade, Murillo, Titian, Velasquez and Veronese. All were a
little darkened with age, but they glowed reddish gold in the
sunlight that broke through the curtains.

He went further, through the room where the
modernists hung. There were several good paintings and some not as
good. But not one of them was bad and there were no sweet ones.

All around stood old furniture, most of
mahogany–Empire, Directoire or Biedermeir. There were none of oak
but several simpler, modern pieces were scattered in between. There
was no defined style, simply one after another as the years had
brought them. Yet there was a quiet, pervasive harmony that
transformed everything that stood there and made it belong.

He climbed up to the floor that his mother
had given him. Everything was exactly as he had left it the last
time he had departed–two years ago. No paperweight had been moved,
no chair was out of place. Yes, his mother always watched to see
that the maids were careful and respectful–despite all the cleaning
and dusting.

Here, much more than anywhere else in the
house, ruled a chaotic throng of innumerable, abstruse things. They
were on the floors and on the walls. Five continents contributed
strange and bizarre things to this room that were unique to them
only.

There were large masks, savage wooden devil
deities from the Bismarck Archipelago, Chinese and Annamite flags
and many weapons from all regions of the world. Then there were
hunting trophies, stuffed animals, Jaguar and tiger skins, huge
turtle shells, snakes and crocodiles. There were colorful drums
from Luzon, long necked stringed instruments from Raj Putana and
crude castings from Albania.

On one wall hung a mighty, reddish brown
fisherman’s net. It hung down from the ceiling and contained giant
star fish, sea urchins, swords from swordfish, silver shimmering
tarpon scales, mighty ocean spiders, strange deep-sea fish, mussels
and snails.