Anarchistbanjo's World

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Revenge,” she replied promptly.
He clapped her approvingly on the shoulder.
“That’s right Alma. I see you have read all the right books. So he
is determined to get revenge on his treacherous family and the only
way to do it was to cut them off from his inheritance. You understand
everything so far don’t you?”
“Naturally I understand,” she declared. “It would serve them
right.”
“But how to do it,” he continued. “That was the question. After
long deliberation he found the only possible way. The only way he
could prevent his millions to be taken was if he had a child of his
own!”
“Does the prince have one?” she asked.
“No,” he answered. “Unfortunately he has none. But he still
lives. There is still time–”
Her breath flew and her breasts heaved quickly, “I understand,”
she cried. “I can have the prince’s child.”
“That’s right,” he said. “Will you?”
And she screamed, “Yes I will.”
She threw herself back in the lounge chair, spread out her legs
and opened her arms wide. A heavy lock of red hair fell down onto
her neck. Then she sprang up, emptied her glass again.
“It’s hot in here,” she said. “–Very hot!”
She tore her blouse off and fanned herself with a handkerchief.
He held her glass out to her. “Would you like some more? Come,
we will drink to the prince!”
Their glasses clinked together.
“A nice robber story you tell there,” hissed the Privy Councilor
to his nephew. “I am curious how it comes out.”
“Have no fear, Uncle Jakob,” he came back. “There is still
another chapter.”
Then he turned again to the red haired prostitute.
“Well then, that is what it’s all about Alma. That’s how you can
help us. But there is still a problem that I must explain to you. As you
know, the baron–”
“She interrupted him, “The baron? I thought he was a prince?”
“Naturally he is a prince,” confirmed Frank Braun. “But when he
is incognito he calls himself baron– That’s the way it is with princes.
Now then, his Highness, the prince–”
“His Highness?” she whispered.
“Certainly,” he cried. “Highness like King or Kaiser! But you
must swear that you will not talk about it–not to any one–So then, the
prince is in disgrace now in a dungeon and heavily guarded at all
times. No one is permitted to see him except his attorney. It is highly
unlikely that he will be able to be with a woman before his last hour.”
“Oh,” she sighed.
Her interest in the unlucky prince was visibly less but Frank
Braun paid no attention.
“There,”–he declaimed totally unperturbed in a voice ringing
with pathos–, “deep in his heart, in his terrible need, in his dreadful
despair and unquenchable thirst for revenge he suddenly thought
about the strange experiments of his Excellency, the genuine Privy
Councilor, Professor, Doctor, ten Brinken, the shining light of
science.
The young handsome prince, now in the spring of his life, still
remembered well his golden boyhood and the good old gentleman
that looked after him when he had whooping cough and that sent him
bon-bons when he was sick–There he sits, Alma. Look at him, the
instrument of the unlucky prince’s revenge!”
He waved with grand gestures toward his uncle.
“That worthy Gentleman there,” he continued, “has in his time
advanced medical knowledge many miles. You know how children
come into the world Alma, and you also know how they are created.
But you don’t know the secret mysteries of life that this benefactor of
humanity has discovered! He knows how to create children without
the mother and father ever seeing each other! The noble prince would
be at peace in his dungeon or at rest in his fresh grave knowing that
you, dear girl, with the good help of this old gentleman and under the
expert care of this good Doctor Petersen will become the mother of
his child.”
Alma looked across over at the Privy Councilor. She didn’t like
this sudden shift, this weird transformation of turning a handsome
134ALRAUNE—the story of a living creature
wellborn prince into an old and very ugly professor. It didn’t appeal to
her at all.
Frank Braun noticed as well and began a new line of persuasion,
trying to get her to think of something else.
“Naturally the prince’s child, Anna, your child, must remain
hidden after it comes into this world. He must remain hidden until he
is fully-grown to protect him from the persecution and intrigue of his
evil family–Naturally he would be a prince, just like his father.”
“My child would be a prince?” she whispered.
“Yes, of course,” he confirmed. “Or maybe a princess. That is
something we can not know. It will inherit the castle, the grounds and
several millions in money. But you will not be permitted to force
yourself on him and compromise everything.”
That did it. Fat tears ran down her cheeks. She was already in her
role, feeling the grief and sorrow of having to give up her beloved
child. She was a prostitute, but her child would be a prince! She
couldn’t be in his life. She would have to remain quiet, suffer and
endure everything–for her child. It would never know who its mother
was.
A heavy sob seized her, shook her entire body. She threw herself
over the table, buried her head in her arms and wept bitterly.
Tenderly, almost lovingly he laid his hand on her neck softly
stroking her wild loose hair. He could taste the sugar water in the
lemonade that he had mixed as well and took her very seriously in this
moment.
“Magdalena,” he whispered to her. “Magdalena–”
She righted herself, stuck her hand out to him.
“I promise you that I will never press myself on him. He will
never hear me or see me, but–but–”
“What is it girl?” he asked softly.
She grabbed his arm, fell onto her knees in front of him and
buried her head in his lap.
“Only once–only once!” she cried. “Can’t I see him just one
time? From a distance–perhaps out of a window?”
“Will you finish this trashy comedy,” the Privy Councilor threw
at him.
Frank Braun looked wildly at him–and knew his uncle was right
but something in his blood rebelled and he hissed back:
“Quiet you old fool! Don’t you see how beautiful this is?”
He bent back down over the prostitute, “Yes, girl. You shall see
him, your young prince. I will take you along when he leads his
soldiers for the first time, or to the theater when he is sitting above in
the box–You can see him then–”
She didn’t answer, but she squeezed his hand and tears mixed in
with her kisses. Then he slowly straightened her up, carefully set her
back in the chair and gave her some more to drink. It was a large glass
half full of cognac.
“Will you do it?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said softly. “I will–What should I do?”
He reflected a moment, “First–first–we will draw up a little
contract.”
He turned to the assistant doctor.
“Do you have some paper, doctor? And a quill? Good! Then you
can write. Write everything twice, if you please.”
He dictated, said that the undersigned of her own free will would
agree to be at the disposal of his Excellency ten Brinken for the
purpose of this experiment. She would solemnly promise to faithfully
obey all the orders of this gentleman. And further, that after the birth
of the child she would completely renounce all claim to it.
In return his Excellency would immediately place fifteen
thousand Marks into a savings account in the name of the undersigned
and turn this account over to her upon the delivery of the child. He
would further provide for her maintenance and support up to that time
and carry all costs as well as giving her a monthly allowance of one
hundred Marks to use as she pleased.
He took the paper and read it out loud one time.
“It doesn’t say anything about the prince!” she said.
“Naturally it doesn’t,” he declared. “That must remain highly
secret.”
She could see that, but there was still something that bothered
her.
“Why–” she asked. “Why did you pick me? Any woman would
gladly do what she could for the poor prince.”
He hesitated. This question was a little unexpected but he found
an answer.
“Well, you know,” he began. “it is like this–The prince’s
childhood sweetheart was a very beautiful duchess. He loved her with
all his heart as only a real prince can love and she loved the handsome
young noble just as much. But she died.”
“How did she die?” Alma asked.
“She died of–of the measles. The prince’s beloved had golden
red hair just like yours. She looked exactly like you. The prince’s last
wish is that the mother of his child look like the beloved of his youth.
He gave us her picture and described her to us exactly. We searched
all over Europe and never found the right one–until tonight when we
saw you.”
She was flattered and laughed. “Do I really look like the
beautiful duchess?”
He cried, “You could have been sisters!–By the way, can we take
your photograph? It would make the prince very happy to see your
picture!”
He handed the writing quill over to her, “Now sign, child!”
She took the paper and wrote “Al–” Then she stopped.
“There is a fat hair in the quill.”
She took a napkin and cleaned the quill with it.
“Damn–” murmured Frank Braun. “It occurs to me that she is not
yet an adult. Legally we must also have her father’s signature–Oh
well, this will do for the contract. Just write!–By the way, what is
your father’s name?”
She said, “My father is Master Baker Raune in Halberstadt.”
Then she wrote her father’s name in clumsy slanting letters.
Frank Braun took the paper out of her hand and looked at it. He let it
fall and picked it up again staring at it.
“By all that’s Holy,” he cried out loud. “That–that is–”
“What’s the matter now, Herr Doctor?” asked the assistant
doctor.
He handed the contract over to him, “There–there–look at the
signature.”
Dr. Petersen looked at the sheet of paper.
“So,” he asked puzzled. “I don’t see anything remarkable about
it.”
“No, no, naturally not, you wouldn’t,” cried Frank Braun. “Give
the contract to the Privy Councilor. Now read that, Uncle Jakob!”
The professor examined the signature. The girl had forgotten to
finish writing her first name. “Al Raune” was written on the paper.
“Of all things–A remarkable coincidence,” said the professor.
He folded both sheets carefully together and stuck them in his
breast pocket.
But his nephew cried, “A coincidence?–Well it might be a
coincidence–Everything that is remarkable and mysterious is just a
coincidence to you!”
He rang for the waiter.
“Wine, wine,” he cried. “Give me something to drink– Alma
Raune–Al Raune, if you will.”
He sat down at the table and leaned over toward the Privy
Councilor.
“Uncle Jakob, do you remember old Councilor to the Chamber
of Commerce Brunner from Cologne and his son whom he named
Marco? We had classes together in school even though he was a
couple of years older than I was.
He father named him Marco as a joke and now the boy goes
through life as Marco Brunner! Now here is the coincidence. The old
Councilor to the Chamber of Commerce is the most sober man in the
world and so is his wife. So are all of their children. I believe the only
thing they drank in their house at Neumarkt was water, milk, tea and
coffee.
But Marco drank. He drank a lot even as an upper level student.
We often brought him home drunk. Then he became an ensign and
then a lieutenant–that was it. He drank more and more. He did stupid
things and was put away. Three times his father had him placed into
treatment centers and three times he came out. Within a few weeks he
was drinking more than ever.
Now comes the coincidence. He, Marco Brunner, drank–
Marcobrunner! That was his obsession. He went into all the wine
houses in the city searching for his label. He traveled around on the
Rhine drinking up all that he could find of his wine. He drank up the
sizable fortune that he had received from his grandmother.
‘Hey everyone,’ he screamed in his delirium. ‘Why does Marco
Brunner polish off Marcobrunner? Because Marcobrunner polishes
off Marco Brunner!’
The people laughed over his joke–It was all a joke – all a
coincidence; just like all of life is a joke and a coincidence.
But I know that the old Councilor for the Chamber of Commerce
would have given many hundreds of thousands if he had never made
that joke–I also know that he has never forgiven himself for naming
his poor son Marco and not Hans or Peter.
In spite of all that it is still a coincidence–a very foolish,
grotesque coincidence like this scribbling of the prince’s bride.”
The girl was standing up drunkenly, steadying herself with her
hand on the chair.
“The prince’s bride–” she babbled. “Get me the prince in bed!”
She took the bottle of cognac, poured her glass completely full.
“I want the prince, do you hear me? I want all of him, the sugar
sweet prince!”
“Unfortunately he is not here,” said Dr. Petersen.
“Not here?” She laughed. “Not here? Then it must be someone
else! You–or you–or even you old man–It doesn’t matter as long as
it’s a man!”
She ripped her blouse off, removed her skirt, loosened her bodice
and threw it crashing against the mirror.
“I want a man–I’ll take all three of you! Bring someone in from
the street if you want.”
Her shift slid down and she stood naked in front of the mirror
lifting up her breasts with both hands.
“Who wants me?” she cried loudly. “Let’s play–all together! It
doesn’t cost anything today–because it’s a celebration to help the
children and the soldiers.”