Hanns Heinz Ewers Alraune (41 page)

Slowly, step by step, she strode over the
meadow

Bianca carried the pale girl diagonally
across the field and then back around. The white donkey stepped
deeply through the silver ocean; the wind made light waves that
kissed her hoofs.

He stood on the border and watched her, drank
in the sweet colors until he was sated. Then she rode up to
him.

“Isn’t it beautiful, my love?” she asked.

And he said sincerely, “–It is very
beautiful–ride some more.”

She answered, “I am happy.”

Lightly she laid her hand behind the clever
animal’s ears and it stepped out, slowly, slowly, through shining
silver–

“Why are you laughing?” she asked.

They sat on the terrace at the breakfast
table and he was reading his mail. There was a letter from Herr
Manasse, who wrote him about the Burberger mining shares.

“You have read in the newspapers about the
gold strike in the Hocheifel,” said the attorney. For the greatest
part the gold has been found on territory owned by the Burberger
Association. It appears very doubtful to me that these small veins
of ore will be worth the very considerable cost of refining it.
Nevertheless, your shares that were completely worthless four weeks
ago, now, with the help of the Association’s skillful press release
have rapidly climbed in value and have been at par for a week
already.

Today, I heard through bank director Baller
that they are prepared to quote them at two hundred fourteen.
Therefore I have given your stocks over to my friend and asked him
to sell them immediately. That will happen tomorrow, perhaps they
will obtain an even higher rate of exchange.”

He handed the letter over to Alraune.

“Uncle Jakob himself, would have never
dreamed of that,” he laughed. “Otherwise he would have certainly
left my mother and me some different shares!”

She took the letter, carefully read it
through to the end. Then she let it sink, stared straight ahead
into space. Her face was wax pale.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Yes he did–He did know it,” she said slowly.
“He knew exactly what he was doing!”

Then she turned to him.

“If you want to make money–don’t sell the
shares,” she continued and her voice rang with conviction.

“They will find still more gold–Your shares
will climb still higher–much higher.”

“It’s too late,” he said lightly. “By this
hour the shares have probably already been sold! Besides, are you
all that certain?”

“Certain?” she repeated. “Certain? Who could
be more certain that I?”

She let her head sink down onto the table,
sobbed out loud, “So it begins–so–”

He stood up, laid his arm around her
shoulder.

“Nonsense,” he said. “Beat that depression
out of your brain!–Come Alraune, we will go swimming. The fresh
water will wash the foolish cobwebs away. Chat with your mermaid
sisters–they will confirm that Melusine can bring no more harm once
she has kissed her lover.”

She pushed him away, sprang up, stood facing
him, and looked him straight in the eyes.

“I love you,” she cried. “Yes, I do–But it is
not true–the magic does not go away! I am no Melusine, am not the
fresh water’s child! I come out of the earth–and the night created
me.”

Shrill tones rang from her lips–and he didn’t
know if it was a sob or a laugh–

He grabbed her in his strong arms, paid no
attention to her struggling and hitting. He held her like a wild
child, carried her down the steps and into the garden, carried her
screaming over to the pool, threw her in, as far as he could with
all her clothes on.

She got up and stood for a moment in
amazement, dazed and confused. Then he let the cascades play and a
splashing rain surrounded her. She laughed loudly at that.

“Come,” she cried. “Come in too!”

She undressed and in high spirits threw her
wet clothes at his head.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” she urged. “Hurry
up!”

When he was standing beside her she saw that
he was bleeding. The drops fell from his cheek, from his neck and
left ear.

“I bit you,” she whispered.

He nodded. Then she raised herself up high,
encircled his neck, and drank the red blood with ardent lips.

“Now it is better,” she said.

They swam around–Then he went into the house,
brought her a cloak. And when they turned to go back, hand in hand,
under the copper beeches she said:

“I thank you, my love!”

They lay naked in the red afterglow. Their
bodies, that had been one through the hot afternoon hours, fell
apart–Broken and crushed by their caresses, their fondling and
sweet words, like the flowers, like the tender grass, over which
their love storm had broken. The firebrand lay dead, had devoured
itself with greedy teeth. Out of the ashes grew a cruel, steel hard
hatred.

They looked at each other–now they knew that
they were mortal enemies. The long red lines on her thighs now
seemed disgusting and unseemly to him, the spittle ran in his mouth
as if he had sucked a bitter poison out of her lips. The little
wounds that her teeth and her nails had torn hurt and burned,
swelling up–

“She has poisoned me,” he thought. “Like she
once did Dr. Petersen.”

Her green gaze smiled over at him, provoking,
mocking and impudent. He closed his eyes, bit his lips together,
and curled his fingers into fists. Then she stood up, turned around
and kicked him with her foot, carelessly and contemptuously.

He sprang up at that, stood in front of her,
their glances crossed–Not one word came out of her mouth, but she
pouted her lips, raised her arm, spit at him, slapped him in the
face with her hand.

Then he threw himself at her, shook her body,
whirled her around by her hair, flung her to the ground, kicked
her, beat her, choked her tightly by the neck. She defended herself
well. Her nails shredded his face, her teeth bit into his arm and
his chest. And with blood foaming at their mouths, their lips
searched and found each other, took each other in a rutting frenzy
of burning desire and pain–

Then he seized her, flung her several meters
away, so that she fainted, sinking down onto the lawn. He staggered
a few steps further, sank down and stared up into the blue heavens,
without desire, without will–listening to his temples pound–until
his eyelids sank–

When he awoke, she was kneeling at his feet,
drying the blood out of his wounds with her hair, ripping her shift
into long strips, bandaging him skillfully–

“Let’s go, my love,” she said. “Evening
falls.”

Little blue eggshells lay on the path. He
searched in the bushes, found the plundered nest of a
crossbill.

“Those pesky squirrels,” he cried. “There are
far too many in the park. They will drive out all of our song
birds.”

“What should we do?” she asked.

He said, “Shoot a few.”

She clapped her hands.

“Yes, yes,” she laughed. “We will go on a
hunt!”

“Do you have some kind of a gun?” he
asked.

She considered, “No, –I believe there are
none, at least none that we can use–We must buy one–But wait,” she
interrupted herself, “The old coachman has one. Sometimes he shoots
the stray cats when they poach.”

He went to the stables.

“Hello Froitsheim,” he cried. “Do you have a
gun?”

“Yes,” replied the old man. “Should I go get
it?”

He nodded, then he asked, “ Tell me old man.
Do you still want to let your great-grandchildren ride on Bianca?
They were here last Sunday–but I didn’t see you setting them on the
donkey.”

The old man growled, went into his room, took
a rifle down from the wall, came back, sat down quietly, cleaning
it and getting it ready.

“Well?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to answer
me?”

Froitsheim chewed with dry lips.

“I don’t want to,” he grumbled.

Frank Braun laid a hand on his shoulder, “Be
reasonable old man, say what is on your heart. I think you can
speak freely with me!”

Then the coachman said, “I will accept
nothing from the Fräulein–don’t want any gifts from her. I receive
my bread and wages–for that I work. I don’t want any more than
that.”

Frank Braun felt that no persuasion would
help getting through his hard skull. Then he hit upon an idea,
threw in a little bait that the old man could chew on–

“If the Fräulein asked something special of
you, would you do it?”

“No,” said the stubborn old man. “No more
than my duty.”

“But if she paid you extra,” he continued.
“Then would you do it?”

The coachman still didn’t want to agree.

“That would depend–” he chewed.

“Don’t be pig headed, Froitsheim!” laughed
Frank Braun. “The Fräulein–not I–wants to borrow your gun to shoot
squirrels–That has absolutely nothing to do with your duty, and
because of that–do you understand, in return–she will allow you to
let the children ride on the donkey–It is a trade. Will you do
it?”

“Yes,” said the old man grinning. “I
will.”

He handed the rifle over to him, took a box
of cartridges out of a drawer.

“I will throw these in as well!” he spoke.
“That way I’ve paid well and am not in her debt–Are you going out
riding this afternoon, young Master?” he continued.

“Good, the horses will be ready around
five-o’clock.”–Then he called the stable boy, sent him running out
to the cobbler’s wife, his granddaughter, to let her know that she
should send the children up that evening–

Early the next morning Frank Braun stood
under the acacia that kissed the Fräulein’s window, gave his short
whistle. She opened, called down that she would be right there. Her
light steps rang clearly on the flagstones, with a leap she was
down from the terrace, over the steps, into the garden and standing
in front of him.

“Look at you!” she cried. “In a kimono? Do
people go hunting like that?”

He laughed, “Well, it will do just fine for
squirrels– But look at you!”

She was dressed as a Wallenstein hunter.

“Holk Regiment!” she cried. “Do you like
it?”

She wore high yellow riding boots, a green
jerkin and an enormous grayish green hat with waving plumes. An old
pistol was stuck into her belt and a long sabre beat against her
leg.

“Take that off,” he said. “The game will be
terrified of you if you go hunting like that.”

She pouted her lips.

“Aren’t I pretty,” she asked.

He took her into his arms, quickly kissed her
lips.

“You are charming, you vain little monkey,”
he laughed. “And your Holk hunting outfit will do just as well as
my kimono for squirrels.”

He unbuckled the sabre and the long spurs,
laid her flintlock pistol aside and took up the coachman’s
rifle.

“Now come, comrade,” he cried. “Tally
ho!”

They went through the garden walking softly,
peering through the bushes and into the tops of the trees. He
pushed a cartridge into the rifle and cocked it.

“Have you ever shot a gun before?” he
asked.

“Oh yes,” she nodded. “Wőlfchen and I went
together to the big church fair in Pützchen. We practiced there in
the shooting gallery.”

“Good,” he said. “Then you know how you must
hold it and aim it.”

There was a rustling over them in the
branches.

“Shoot,” she whispered. “Shoot! There is one
above us!”

He raised the rifle and looked up, but then
let it down again.

“No, not that one,” he declared. “That is a
young one, scarcely a year old. We will let it live for a while
longer.”

They followed the brook until it came out of
the birch trees into the meadow. Fat June bugs buzzed in the sun,
yellow butterflies swung over the daisies. Whispering sounds were
everywhere, crickets chirping, bees buzzing, grasshoppers jumped at
their feet in giant leaps. Frogs croaked in the water and above–a
little lark rejoiced. They walked across the meadow to the copper
beeches. There, right on the border, they heard a frightened
chirping, saw a little hen flutter out of the bushes.

Frank Braun crept quietly ahead, looking
sharply.

“There is the robber,” he murmured.

“Where?” she asked. “Where?”

But his shot already cracked–a heavy squirrel
fell down from the tree trunk. He raised it up by the tail, showed
her where the bullet had hit.

“It won’t plunder any more nests!” he
said.

They hunted further through the large park.
He shot a second squirrel in the honeysuckle leaves and a third
gray squirrel in the top of a pear tree.

“You always shoot!” she cried. “Let me have
the gun once!”

He gave it to her, showed her how to carry
it, let her shoot into a tree trunk a few times.

“Now come!” he cried. “Let’s see what you can
do!”

He pushed the gun barrel down.

“Like this,” he instructed. “The muzzle
always points toward the ground and not into the air.”

Near the pool he saw a young animal playing
in the path. She wanted to shoot right away, but he called for her
to sneak up a few more steps.

“Now you’re close enough, let him have
it.”

She shot–the squirrel looked around in
astonishment, then quickly sprang up a tree trunk and disappeared
into the thick branches. A second time didn’t go much better–She
was much too far away. But when she tried to get closer, the
animals fled before she could get a shot off.

“The stupid beasts,” she complained. “Why do
they stand still for you?”

She appeared charming to him in her childish
anger.

“Apparently because they think I am their
friend,” he laughed. “You make too much noise in your leather
riding boots, that’s what it is! Just wait, we will get
closer.”

Right by the mansion, where the hazel bushes
pressed against the acacias, he saw another squirrel.