Hanns Heinz Ewers Alraune (38 page)

Everything would be explained to her inside
the leather bound volume that bore her initials.

Then he rang for the chauffeur and drove into
the city. As he expected, he met Herr Manasse in the little wine
pub on Cathedral Square. Stanislaus Schacht was with him. He sat
down with them and began to chat.

He got into a deep discussion with the
attorney about legal questions, debating the pros and cons of this
and that lawsuit. They decided to turn a few of the doubtful cases
over to the Legal Councilor for him alone. He would bring them to
some acceptable compromise. Manasse believed that a victorious
settlement could be reached with the others.

In some of the cases Frank Braun calmly
suggested they simply acknowledge the claim, but Manasse
refused.

“Never acknowledge–even if the opponent’s
demands are as clear as day and justified a hundred-fold!”

He was the straightest and most honest
attorney in the county courthouse, one that always told his clients
the truth, right to their face. In front of the bar he might remain
completely quiet but he would never lie–and yet he was way too much
a lawyer not to have an innate hatred of recognizing an opponent’s
claim.

“It only costs us more,” Frank Braun
objected.

“So what!” barked the attorney. “What does
that have to do with it?–I tell you, one never knows–there is
always a chance…”

“A legal one–perhaps–” answered Frank Braun.
“–but–”

He fell silent. There was no other way for
the attorney. The Court determined justice–what ever it said was
just, even how it decided. Today it would be just–and totally
different after a couple of months in the higher courts.
Nevertheless, the Court gave the final decision and it was
sacred–not the parties involved.

To recognize a claim yourself, without such a
decision, was usurping the right of the Court. As an attorney
Manasse was partial to his own clients. He desired the judge to be
impartial, so it was an abomination to him to make such a decision
for his own party.

Frank Braun smiled.

“As you wish,” he said.

He spoke with Stanislaus Schacht, listened as
this friend of Dr. Mohnen talked of all the others that had been
there as students with him.

“Yes, Joseph Theyssen has been a Government
Advisor for some time now and Klingel Hőffer is a professor at
Halle–he will be the new chair for Anatomy, and Fritz langen–and
Bastian–and–”

Frank Braun listened, turned the pages of
this living directory of German nobility that knew everyone.

“Are you still enrolled?” he asked.

Stanislaus fell silent, a little
offended.

But the attorney barked, “What! Didn’t you
know? He passed his doctoral exam–five years ago.”

“Really–five years ago!”

Frank Braun calculated backward, that must
have been in his forty-fifth, no, forty-sixth semester.

“Well,” he said.

He stood up and reached out his hand, which
the other heartily shook.

“Allow me to congratulate you, Herr Doctor!”
he continued. “But–tell me–what are you doing now?”

“Yes, if he only knew!” cried the
attorney.

Then chaplain Schrőder came. Frank Braun
stood up to greet him–

“Back in the country again?” cried the black
suited priest. “We must celebrate!”

“I am the host,” declared Stanislaus Schacht.
“He must drink to my doctor’s degree.”

“And with me to my newly becoming a vicar,”
laughed the priest. “Let’s share the honor then, if it’s alright
with you, Dr. Schacht.”

They agreed and the white haired vicar
ordered a 93 Scharzhofberger, which the wine pub had placed in
stock on his recommendation. He tested the wine, nodded with
satisfaction and toasted with Frank Braun.

“You have it good,” he said, “sticking your
nose into every unknown place on land and sea. Yes, we can read
about them in the newspapers–but we must sit at home and console
ourselves with the fact that the Mosel still always produces a good
wine–You certainly can’t get this label out there!”

“We can get the label,” he said, “but not the
wine– ow Herr Reverend, what have you been up to?”

“What should I be up to?” replied the priest.
“One just gets themselves angry. Our old Rhine is always becoming
more Prussian. But for relaxation one can write rotten pieces for
the Tűnnes, Bestavader, Schâl, Speumanes and the Marizzebill. I
have already plundered Plautus and Terence in their entirety for
Peter Millowwitsch’s puppet theater in Cologne–Now I’m doing it to
Holberg. And just think, that fellow–Herr Director, he calls
himself today–now pays me royalties–Another one of those Prussian
inventions.”

“Be happy about it!” growled Attorney
Manasse. “By the way, he’s also published on Iamblicos.”

He turned to Frank Braun, “And I tell you, it
is a very exceptional book.”

“Not worth talking about,” cried the old
vicar. “Only a little attempt–”

Stanislaus Schacht interrupted him.

“Go on!” he said. “Your work lays out the
foundation of the very essence of the Alexandrian school. Your
hypothesis about the Emanation Doctrine of the Neo-Platonists–”

He went on, lecturing like an argumentative
Bishop at the high council. Here and there he made of few
considerations, gave his opinion, that it wasn’t right the author
based his entire work on the three cosmic principles that had been
previously established. Couldn’t he have just as well successfully
included the “Spirit” of Pophyrs?”

Manasse joined in and finally the vicar as
well. They argued as if there was nothing more important in the
entire world than this strange monism of Alexander, which was based
on nothing other than a mystical annihilation of self, of the “I”,
through ecstasy, asceticism and theurgy.

Frank Braun listened silently.

“This is Germany,” he thought. “This is my
country–”

It occurred to him that a year ago he had
been sitting in a bar somewhere in Melbourne or Sidney–with him had
been a Justice of the Supreme Court, a Bishop of the High Church
and a famous doctor. They had disputed and argued no less ardently
than these three that were now sitting with him–But it had been
about whom was the better boxer, Jimmy Walsh of Tasmania or slender
Fred Costa, the champion of New-South Wales.

But here sat a little attorney, who was still
being passed over for promotion to Legal Councilor, a priest that
wrote foolish pieces for a puppet theater, that had a few titles of
his own, but never a parish, and finally the eternal student
Stanislaus Schacht, who after some fourteen years was happy to have
his doctor’s degree and now didn’t know what to do with
himself.

And these three little poor wretches spoke
about the most abstract, far-fetched things that had nothing at all
to do with their occupations. And they spoke so easily, with the
same familiarity as the gentlemen in Melbourne had conversed about
a boxing match. Oh, you could sift through all of America and
Australia, even nine-tenths of Europe–and you would not find such
an abundance of knowledge–only–it was dead.

He sighed, it was long dead and reeked of
decay–really, the gentlemen didn’t even notice!

He asked the vicar how it was going with his
foster son, young Gontram. Immediately Attorney Manasse interrupted
himself.

“Yes, tell us Herr Reverend–that’s why I came
here. What does he write?”

Vicar Schröder unbuttoned his jacket, pulled
out his wallet and took a letter out of it.

“Here, read for yourself,” he said. “It
doesn’t sound very encouraging!”

He handed the envelope to the attorney. Frank
Braun threw a quick glance at the postmark.

“From Davos?” he asked. “Did he inherit his
mother’s fate as well?”

“Unfortunately,” sighed the old priest. “And
he was such a fresh, good boy, that Josef. Absolutely not meant for
the priesthood though. God only knows what he would have studied,
or I would have allowed him to study if I didn’t wear the black
robe. But I promised his mother on her deathbed. By the way, he has
already gone as far in his studies as I have–I tell you–he passed
his doctoral exam–summa cum laude! I obtained a special
dispensation for him through the ArchBishop, who has always been
very benevolent towards me personally.

He helped me a lot with the work about
Iamblichos–yes, he could really become something!
Only–unfortunately–”

He hesitated and slowly emptied his
glass.

“Did it come so suddenly, Herr Reverend?”
asked Frank Braun.

“You could say that,” answered the priest.
“It first started with the psychological shock of the sudden death
of his brother, Wolf. You should have seen him outside, at the
cemetery. He never moved from my side while I gave my sermon,
stared at the enormous garland of blood red roses that lay on the
coffin. He held himself upright until the ceremony was ended, but
then he felt so weak that Schacht and I had to downright carry
him.

In the carriage he seemed better, but at home
with me he once more became entirely apathetic–The only thing I
could get out of him at all that entire evening was that now he was
the last of the Gontram boys and it was his turn next. This apathy
would not yield and from that hour he remained convinced that his
days were numbered, even though a very thorough medical examination
gave me a lot of hope in the beginning. But then it went rapidly.
From day to day you could see his decline–now we have sent him to
Davos–but it appears that his song will soon be over.”

He fell silent, fat tears stood in his
eyes–

“His mother was tougher,” growled the
attorney. “She laughed in the Reaper’s face for six long
years.”

“God grant her soul eternal peace,” said the
vicar and he filled the glasses. “We will drink a silent toast to
her–in her memory.”

They raised the glasses and emptied them.

“The old Legal Councilor will soon be
entirely alone,” observed Dr. Schacht. “Only his daughter appears
to be completely healthy–She is the only one that will survive
him.”

“The attorney grumbled, “Frieda?–No, I don’t
believe it.”

“And why not?” asked Frank Braun.

“Because–because–” he began, “–well, why
shouldn’t I say it?”

He looked straight at Frank Braun, cutting,
enraged, as if he wanted to take him by the throat.

“You want to know why Frieda Gontram will
never grow old?–I will tell you. Because she is now completely
caught in the claws–of that damned witch out there!–That’s why–Now
you know!”

“Witch,” thought Frank Braun. “He calls her a
witch, just like Uncle Jakob did in his leather bound volume.”

“What do you mean by that, Herr Attorney?” he
asked.

Manasse barked, “Exactly what I said.
“Whoever gets to close to the Fräulein ten Brinken–gets stuck, like
a fly in syrup. And whoever is once caught by her–stays there and
no amount of struggling will do any good!

Be careful, Herr Doctor, I’m warning you! It
is thankless enough–to give warnings like this. I have already done
it once–without any success–with Wölfchen–now it is you–flee while
there is still time. What do you still want here?–It seems to me
exactly as if you are already licking at the honey!”

Frank Braun laughed–but it sounded a little
forced.

“Have no fear on my account, Herr Attorney,”
he cried–But he didn’t convince the other–and even less,
himself.

They sat and drank, drank to Schacht’s
doctoral degree and to the Priest’s becoming a vicar. They drank as
well to the health of Karl Mohnen, of whom no one had heard since
he had left the city.

“He is lost,” said Stanislaus Schacht.

Then he became sentimental and sang
melancholy songs. Frank Braun took his leave, went out on foot back
to Lendenich–through the fragrant trees of spring – like in the old
times.

He came across the courtyard, then saw a
light in the library. He went in–Alraune sat on the divan.

“You here, little cousin?” he greeted.

She didn’t answer, waved to him to take a
place. He sat across from her, waiting. But she remained silent and
he didn’t press her.

Finally she said, “I wanted to speak with
you.”

He nodded, but she fell silent again.

“So,” he began, “did you read the leather
bound volume?”

“Yes,” she said.

She took a deep breath, looked at him.

“So, am I only a joke that you once made,
Frank Braun?”

“A joke?” he returned. “–An–idea, if you
will–”

“And I suppose it was funny enough,” she
laughed out loud. But that’s not why I waited here for you. I want
to know something entirely different. Tell me. Do you believe
it?”

“Do I believe what?” he answered. “If
everything happened like Uncle relates in the leather bound volume?
Yes, I believe that.”

She shook her head impatiently. “No, that’s
not what I mean. Naturally that is true–why would he lie in his
book?–I want to know whether you also believe–like my–my–that
is–your uncle did–That I am a different type of creature, different
from other people, that I–am now, that I am, what my name
implies?”

“How shall I reply to your question?” he
said. “Ask any medical doctor–he will certainly say that you are
just as good a human being as anyone else in the world, even if
your first appearance was a little unusual–He would add, that all
the other details are pure coincidence and unimportant, the–”

“That means nothing to me,” she
interrupted.

“For your uncle these little details were
most important. Basically it doesn’t matter if they are or not. I
want to know if you share his opinion? Do you believe as well that
I am a strange creature?”

He remained silent, searched for a reply,
didn’t know how he should respond. He did believe it–and then again
he didn’t–

“You see–” he began finally.