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Ascension

By Hanns Heinz Ewers

Ten years of mountain air, ten years of loneliness.

— His calves tightened against the leather, his nail shoes could almost make tracks in the stone. When he picked up the rifle, he had to hold it quietly so as not to give in to the desire to bend the barrel. His mighty lungs heaved in his chest, and his cry made the rock walls tremble so that they threatened to burst.

At dusk he walked through the heather as if through blood. The sun cast no more rays, only colors, such red colors, over the sea, over the fjord, over its treeless heights. A light wind played in his hair, waking his slumbering dreams. He lifted his cupped hand and looked down; then backwards over the heath and again to the sea.

And he felt his height and his immense loneliness. A strange consciousness of strength came over him, a feeling of his kingly power, which struggled violently for a release.

A bear! With his fists he swung to smash its skull.

He looked around. Oh, that somewhere up here was a steep rocky ridge he could climb! Even higher up!

But this heath was the highest in the high mountains.

Suddenly he came to his senses. He smiled — down into the gorge! Into the heavy, yawning darkness, from out of his bright realm, which the midnight sun could no longer darken.

With mighty strides he hurried towards the crevice. He stopped at the edge and looked in. But he saw nothing. He threw a stone down. He heard the banging on the ledges and walls — the bouncing again

— clatter — clatter — ever quieter — clatter — clatter — ever more muffled and distant. He could no longer hear the fall to the bottom. It must be that deep, his eyes shone as he thought of the danger!         ‘

Once more he turned his eyes to the sun.

“Goodbye at midnight!” he called, and then he descended. He knew the way down to the next ledge, from where he had once fetched a harrier, which his shot had hit above the ravine. Now onwards. He climbed carefully sideways, feeling and feeling with his hands and feet for support points. He came to a platform with a steep drop on one side. He stumbled and his foot fell into a hole. He examined the opening — perhaps he could squeeze through — then climbed into the rock chimney with his legs. If only his chest wasn’t so broad! He let out all his breath, pushed, pushed down. At one point it seemed to him that he would have to remain miserably stuck, buried alive between the stones.

And he thought of the Papist knights in Germany, those proud iron-armored men the history teacher had told him about at school. They wanted to throw down the peasants who, inspired by Hutten’s and Luther’s words, had revolted and were now scorching and burning across the land, and wanted to dye their blue steel armor red. But in the beginning the peasants won and beat the knights to death with flails and clubs. And the knights fled, and in fear of death, one or the other hid in a hollow tree to escape the ignominious death. So well were they hidden there, so well that no one found them for many hundreds of years. Only when the later descendants of the peasants felled such a tree with an axe did they find the armor and in it the skeleton of the knight, who had suffocated miserably and starved to death. And that had been the boy’s image of Germany: large, wide arable fields with scattered old willows and alders and ash trees in between. They were all hollow and in all of them was a skeleton in iron armor.

What if he too had to share the fate of the proud knights? — Or could he slip through the rock, as Odin did when Gundlada handed him the potion in Luftung’s cave? The god turned into a small worm and jumped out through the hole, escaping with the rain the giant’s daughter whom he had loved and cheated on. He quietly spoke Odin’s words from the Havanäl:

“The drill I let gnaw at the rock side,

Let it gain me passage.

Above me, below me, the caves of the Goths:

So I risk life and limb.    

I hold the witty disguise of the figure —

Little fails the witty —

For thus the rain makes visible

The earth that shelters man!”

Like a worm, he nestled and writhed between the stones, slowly pushing himself inch by inch deeper. Finally, he pushed his feet into the open: the rock chimney had come to an end. Carefully he squeezed himself out, legs, body, chest, but nowhere could he find a foothold on the smooth rock. So he let himself fall at random, pressing himself as tightly as possible against the rock. The fall was not deep; he soon stood on a narrow ledge, which he quickly clung to. Then he groped to either side: he found himself on an irregular gallery about two shoes wide, which ran gradually downwards. He crawled along it for a while until it stopped; then he found another ledge and another — — and so he climbed deeper and deeper into the night. From time to time, he would break a stone loose and throw it down to see how far he still was from the path.

He tried to look down from a small protruding stone on which he could only stand with one foot. He couldn’t see anything, and he couldn’t find a ledge to step on or a crack to press his hands into. But the sound of a stone being thrown down soon struck his ear; it sounded muffled, as if it had fallen on soft ground. So he dared and jumped down with a powerful leap.

He fell to his knees, then forward. But although he had jumped many man-heights, he had not lost his footing; the ground was soft and swampy. He wiped the numbness from his forehead and looked around him. Darkness everywhere, on all sides, only back there — or was he mistaken? — he saw a gleam of dull light.

He walked towards it

Sure enough, it was a light, a dull yellow light that shone out from behind a broad cliff edge. Now he turned the sharp corner. Then he stopped.

A woman was crouching by a small silver pool. The half-burnt pine torch stuck in the rock cast restless floods on her white robe. It hung loosely over her body, leaving her neck, arms and neck exposed. Heavy, black strands of hair fell over it.

She half-turned towards him, barely looking at him. Then she stood up, took a shallow bowl and filled it to the brim with water. She approached him and handed him the drink.

Still half blinded by the sudden brightness after the deep darkness, he took the bowl and quickly brought it to his lips.

There — a cry! — — She leapt at him before he had drunk, had snatched the bowl from his hand and smashed it on the rock.

“You?”

He looked at her — — and understood nothing. And only slowly, slowly, did the memory take birth in him, grew, took shape and clawed its way with sharp nails into all his nerves. He answered, barely audible:

“You?”

“Yes,” she said, “do you recognize me?”

He nodded.

His eyes had become accustomed to the light again and he was now able to distinguish better. The water, which at first seemed to shine like silver, was swampy, a dirty pool covered in a shiny slime. He also took a closer look at the woman: her robe was tattered, her hair covered in excrement. On her neck and arms he saw fresh bloodshot welts, as well as old, encrusted brown and blue ones.

Her eyes looked back and forth impassively.     

She began again:

“That was a long time ago”

He remained silent. She was dreaming and brooding.

“Probably ten years now?”

When he still didn’t answer, she asked him:

“Where are you from?”

“From the heights.”

She repeated slowly, as if she understood the words: “From — the — heights —.”

Then she continued:

“From the heights? — Once I was also very high, very — high — with you! Do you remember?”

“Yes.” — .

“Then you came to me and spoke to me. You said so much, but I can’t remember what it was. But I understood you then. I did what you wanted — because you said you would take me with you — even higher up! So I gave you everything I had and you took it. Then you told me to follow you. And you climbed up and I followed you. Higher and higher, and you walked so fast. My legs staggered and my feet hurt. But you said I had to follow you. So I bit my lips and overcame the pain and walked on. My nails broke on the rocks and my ankles bruised bloody on the stones. When evening came again, I felt as if I had lead in my limbs and could go no further.

But you said I had to follow you. So I dragged myself further — higher — up until I reached the moss and sank. Then you came and told me not to rest, you pulled me up. Oh, there was no time and the path was still so far, so far. And I staggered a few more steps in the height, then I collapsed again. But you saw that I could take no more. And when I begged you to let me rest a little and to rest with me, you shouted: “No! — No! I must not rest!” and you took me up in your arms and threw me down into the ravine!”

Her chest heaved — she was silent. Then he asked:

“And then you fell here?”

She looked at him wide-eyed and made a loud noise.

“Oh, no!”

“I fell, fell down. But not far. Someone caught me, up on a ledge, and he took me, kept me, for as long as he liked. Then he pushed me down, like — you — did.

And a little lower another one caught me. Greeted me with kisses and pushed me away — — with kicks. So many had me and all pushed me deeper, deeper and deeper. Until I fell down here!”

She looked at him full on:

“Now I can’t fall any lower!”

He turned his gaze, then asked:

“And you’re lonely here now?”

She laughed uproariously in his face:

“Lonely?! — I’m never alone here! Out there” —— she pointed back with her hand — — “is the country road — just a stone’s throw away. Ha—ha! I’m never alone! — Come the wanderers, ha, ha, miserable wanderers with crooked backs and sore feet, hollow-eyed, ugly and greedy and everyone wants to drink.  Everyone just pays for the drink and I give it to everyone, you see — — everyone!”

Her voice was passionately excited. Suddenly she broke off, walked towards him, put her hands on his shoulders.

“Only — not — you!”

They were both silent. But he held her gaze, and she felt her insult slide off him. She trembled and lowered her arms. Then he said:

“Come with me!”

 “Where to?”

“To the heights!”

She stared at him, not understanding. He repeated it again: —

“Come with me!”

She felt as if she was waking up from a long stupor. Or: as if she were falling into a new one.

She fell down before him, embraced his knees:

“My Lord!”

He lifted her up in his arms and walked forward with her. Behind the edge of the cliff, the gorge opened up and there lay the country road. Slowly the mountain descended towards them.

He stepped out and walked towards the mountain. From the trees it sounded like a mocking shout, then like many—voiced, whinnying laughter. She flinched, but he didn’t even pay attention. He walked on briskly in the bright night, up the mountain.

At first he didn’t feel the weight, he was glad to be able to feel his strength. Her body seemed so light to him, like a feather. When the path lost its way, he strode higher at random, crushed the thorn bushes that tried to obstruct his path, and — —bent back the tree branches that threatened to hit her in the face with his free hand. He often pushed a heavy stone aside to gain a firmer foothold in the screed.

But gradually he felt her heaviness. He stayed beside her for a moment, taking her from his right arm to his left. Especially when he had to climb, when he laboriously clung to protruding stones with one hand, her weight weighed him down. He didn’t give in, clenched his teeth and kept climbing.

She probably noticed how he was panting. But she looked at him — the narrowed forehead, the tightly closed mouth — and she didn’t dare speak. The ascent became more and more difficult and her body hung heavier and heavier on his chest. It seemed to him as if a heavy mill wheel hung around his neck, his muscles threatened to jump. Her heaviness was his weakness and a feeling of boundless rage overcame him, he hated his weakness and hated her for revealing it to him. He could have strangled her! She guessed his thoughts. And suddenly, unmediated, at the most dangerous spot on the smooth wall — his knee rested on a narrow rock, with his right hand he held on to a thorn bush — she straightened up and hit him in the face with her fist.

“Let me go,” she screamed, “I don’t want any more!”

Her resistance revived his strength. He pressed her against him as if he wanted to break her. The pain calmed her instantly, was like a blessing to her. And she asked him softly:

“What do you want from me?”

He didn’t answer.

“Do you love me?”

He wanted her to be silent, her voice tired him. He also felt that she would tear herself away if he said no. He hated her, could have spat at her, and yet he spoke:

“Yes — I love you.”

She knew he was lying, but she bent to his will. She sucked in air to make herself lighter. She also grabbed his hands to make it easier for him to climb. Apathetically, like a machine, he dragged her on: a slave to his will.

At last they were at the top. The red heather glowed and the midnight sun was still over the sea. She stepped lightly towards him and placed her hand on his chest.

“Well?” she asked.

He stood before her, confused, unable to find a word, but she continued to torment him:

“Now — we’re at the top — what do you want to do?”

He was silent, barely able to think.

And once more:

“Do — you love me?”

This time she didn’t even wait for the answer. Her voice suddenly changed, it was as if she was talking to a servant.

“Go, get some brushwood, I’m freezing.”

He left. But she stepped slowly across the heath, straight towards the sea. She stood on the slope, motionless, with her arms folded.

He carried dry wood and leaves and threw them up beside her.

“Much more,” she cried, “much more!”

Then he went to look for more brushwood. He dragged it from all sides and piled it up in an artful manner. She didn’t lift a hand to help him, she kept sending him away:

“More! More and more!”

And the pile grew and grew, it was a small hill above the highest surface.

“Light it!” she called.

So he took a long pine span and lit a fire. The dry leaves crackled and the wood bent and broke. The fire broke through on all sides.

She stretched out both arms towards it. Stepping forward, she slowly climbed onto the pyre. She stood tall at the top, like a priestess, her upper body leaning back, her arms stretched out wide.

“Bring wood!” she called, “More wood! Light the fire!”

He threw up all the brushwood that was still scattered around, including large lumps of resin, which sent the flames licking upwards. The whole pile was burning, only the center where she stood was still free of fire. Every now and then a flame licked over her feet with a long tongue, but immediately crawled back again. It was as if these red snakes were afraid to scorch their priestess.

Then she called him over and he stepped very close to the fire, right in front of her.

“You — I thank — you.”

She saw his questioning look and added: “Because — I’m – on the top, — on high ground. —”

Then she pulled out a long pin that held her robe together over her shoulder. The cloth fell down, exposing her breasts; then she struck, the needle penetrating her heart as far as the button. Silently she sank into the flames.

And as if the snakes had now lost their fear of their mistress, they suddenly licked greedily from all sides. They teased each other and licked up to the sky like a great torch.

But he stood and listened to the red music of the flames, which sang to him of eternal salvation. And he felt as if the soul of this trampled woman was lifting him up with her, far away, to distant heights he had never dreamed of.

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038 What does it take to drive a person insane? For Dr. Baumann it was the unfortunate death of his wife and unborn child.

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