Anarchistbanjo's World

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

The mixed Court of Honor, composed of officers and fraternity
members, were reasonable enough and settled on a single exchange of
bullets at twenty paces. That couldn’t do much mischief and honor
would be served.
Hans Geroldingen smiled as he heard the verdict and bowed in
agreement. But Dr. Mohnen turned very pale. He had calculated that
they would declare the duel unnecessary and demand each side to
apologize to the other. It was only one bullet but it could still strike!
Early the next morning they solemnly traveled out into Kotten
forest in civilian clothes. There were seven carriages, three Hussar
officers and the regiment doctor, then Dr. Mohnen and with him Wolf
Gontram, two Saxonia fraternity brothers, one from the Phalia
fraternity as the impartial guest official who was acting as umpire,
one for Dr. Peerenbohm, the fraternity doctor, an old gentleman from
the hills, along with carriages for the fraternity seconds and the two
officer seconds as well as an assistant for the regimental doctor.
His Excellency ten Brinken was there as well. He had offered his
medical help to his office manager, then searched out his old medical
case and had everything polished up like new.
For two hours they rode through the laughing dawn. Count
Geroldingen was in a very good mood. He had received a little letter
from Lendenich the evening before. There was a four-leaf clover
inside and a slip of paper with one word on it, “Mascot”. He put the
letter in his lower left vest pocket. It made him laugh and dream of all
kinds of good things.
He chatted with his comrades, make jokes about the childish
duel. He was the best pistol shot in the city and joked that he would
like to shoot a button off the doctor’s coat sleeve. But you could never
be sure of these things, especially with a strange pistol. It would be
much better to just shoot into the air. It would be a mean trick if the
good doctor got so much as even a scratch.
But Dr. Mohnen, who sat together in the carriage with the Privy
Councilor and young Gontram, said nothing at all. He had also
received a small letter that carried the large slanting letters of Fräulein
ten Brinken. It contained a dainty golden horseshoe. But he never
once really looked at his mascot, only murmured something about
childish superstition and threw the letter on his writing desk.
He was afraid, truly and horribly afraid. It poured itself like dirty
mop water over the short-lived enthusiasm of his love. He chided
himself for being a complete idiot, getting up this early in the morning
only to go riding out to the slaughter. He had a hot burning desire to
apologize to the cavalry captain and be done with it. This feeling
battled inside him against the feeling of shame that he would feel in
front of the Privy Councilor and perhaps even more in front of Wolf
who had believed all his tales of heroic deeds.
Meanwhile he gave himself a heroic appearance, attempted to
smoke a cigarette and look around calmly. But he was white as chalk
when the carriage stopped in the woods and they set off down a
narrow footpath to a broad clearing.
The doctors prepared their medical instruments. The umpire
opened the pistol case and loaded the murderous weapons. He
carefully weighed the powder so that both rounds were equally
powerful. They were beautiful weapons that belonged to the umpire.
The seconds chose for their clients, drew straws–short looses,
long wins. The cavalry captain smiled at all the solemnity, which no
one was really taking seriously. But Dr. Mohnen turned away and
stared at the ground. Then the umpire stepped out twenty paces taking
such immense leaps that the officers looked with disapproving faces.
It did not seem right to them that the umpire was making a farce of it
and that proper decorum meant so little.
“The clearing is too small!” Major Von der Osten cried out
sarcastically to him.
But the tall umpire answered calmly, “Then the gentlemen can
stand in the woods. That would be even better.”
The seconds led the principals to their places. The umpire once
more challenged them to reconcile, but didn’t even wait for an
answer.
“Since a reconciliation is refused by both sides,” he continued, “I
ask the gentlemen to wait on my command–”
A deep sigh from the doctor interrupted him. Karl Mohnen stood
there with trembling knees, the pistol fell out of his shaking hand, his
face was as pale as a shroud.
“One moment,” cried the fraternity doctor across to the other
side as he hurried with long strides up to him. The Privy Councilor,
Wolf Gontram, and both gentlemen from Saxonia followed.
“What’s wrong?” asked Dr. Peerenbohm.
Dr. Mohnen gave no answer; he was completely undone and
simply stared straight ahead.
“Now what’s wrong with you doctor?” repeated his second,
taking the pistol up from the ground and pressing it back into his
hand.
But Karl Mohnen remained quiet. He looked as if he were drunk.
Then a smile slid over the broad face of the Privy Councilor. He
stepped up to one of the Saxons and whispered into his ear:
“He had an accident.”
The fraternity brother didn’t understand him right away.
“What do you mean, your Excellency?” he asked.
“Can’t you smell!” whispered the old man.
The Saxons gave a quick laugh but kept the seriousness of the
situation. They only took out their handkerchiefs and pressed them
over their noses.
“Incontinentia alvi,” declared Dr. Peerenbohm appreciatively.
He took a little flask out of his vest pocket, put a couple drops of
tincture of opium on a lump of sugar and handed it to Dr. Mohnen.
“Here, chew on this,” he said and pressed it into the doctor’s
mouth. “Now pull yourself together. Seriously–a duel is a very
frightening thing!”
But the poor doctor heard nothing, saw nothing, and did not
notice the bitter taste of opium on his tongue. He confusedly sensed
that the people were leaving him.
Then he heard the loud voice of the umpire, “One.”
It rang in his ears–Then “Two,”–at the same time he heard a
shot. He closed his eyes, his teeth chattered, his head was spinning.
“Three.”
It sounded from the edge of the woods. Then his own pistol went
off and the loud explosion so close stunned him so that his legs gave
way. He didn’t fall, he collapsed like a dead pig, broadly setting down
on the dew fresh ground.
He sat like that for a minute, although it seemed like an hour.
Then it occurred to him that it was over.
“It’s over,” he murmured with a happy sigh.
He felt himself all over–no, he wasn’t wounded. Only, only his
trousers were ruined. But what was going on? Nobody was paying
any attention to him, so he got up by himself, amazed at the immense
speed with which his vitality returned to him.
With deep gulps he drank in the morning air. Oh how good it
was to be alive!
Over at the other end of the clearing he saw a tight cluster of
people standing together. He polished his Pince-nez and looked
through it. Everyone had their back turned toward him. He slowly
started across, recognized Wolf Gontram who was standing a long
way back. Then he saw two kneeling and someone lying down in the
middle. Was it the cavalry captain? Could he have been shot? Had he
even fired?
He made a little detour through the high fir trees, came out closer
and could now see perfectly. He saw how the count caught sight of
him, saw how he weakly beckoned with his hand. They all made
room for him as he stepped into the circle. Hans Geroldingen
stretched his right hand out to him. He kneeled down and grasped it.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I didn’t really want to–”
The cavalry captain smiled, “I know, old friend. It was a
coincidence. A God damned coincidence!”
Just then a sudden pain seized him; he moaned and groaned
miserably.
“I just wanted to tell you doctor, that I’m not angry at you,” he
continued weakly.
Dr. Mohnen didn’t answer; a violent twitch went around the
corners of his mouth. His eyes filled with tears. Then the doctors
pulled him to the side and occupied themselves once more with the
wounded man.
“Nothing can be done,” whispered the regimental doctor.
“We must try getting him to the clinic as quickly as possible,”
said the Privy Councilor.
“It would not do us any good,” replied Dr. Peerenbohn. “He
would die on us during the transport and only give him unnecessary
misery and pain.”
The bullet was in the abdomen; it had penetrated through all the
intestines and impacted against the spine where it was now lodged. It
was as if it had been drawn there by a mysterious force, straight
through Alraune’s letter, through the four-leaf clover and the beloved
word, “Mascot”.
It was the little attorney Manasse that saved Dr. Mohnen. When
Legal Councilor Gontram showed him the letter he had just received
from Lendenich, he declared that the Privy Councilor was the most
base, low down, scoundrel that he had ever known. He implored his
colleague to not deliver the letter to the District Attorney’s office until
the doctor was safe.
It was not about the duel–The authorities had begun proceedings
for that on the same day. No, it was about the embezzlement at his
Excellency’s office. The attorney himself ran to the delinquent and
hauled him out of bed.
“Get up!” he snapped. “Dress! Pack your suitcase! Take the next
train to Antwerp and board a ship as quickly as possible! You are an
ass! You are a camel! How could you do such a stupid thing?”
Dr. Mohnen rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He couldn’t
understand what all the fuss was about. The way he stood with the
Privy Councilor–
But Herr Manasse didn’t let him finish.
“How you stand with him?” he barked. “Yes, you stand just
splendidly with him! Magnificent! Unsurpassed! You fool–It is his
Excellency himself that has ordered the Legal Councilor to go to the
District Attorney’s office because you have stolen money out of his
cash box!”
At that Karl Mohnen decided to crawl out of bed. It was
Stanislaus Schacht, his old friend, that helped him get away. He
studied the departure schedules, gave him the money that was needed
and hired the taxi that would take him to Cologne.
It was a sad parting. Karl Mohnen had lived for over thirty years
in this city. Every house, almost every stone held a memory for him.
His roots were here; here alone his life had meaning. Now he was
thrust forth, head over heels, out into some strange–
“Write me,” said fat Schacht. “What will you do?”
Karl Mohnen hesitated, everything appeared utterly destroyed,
collapsed and in pieces. His life had become a confused rubbish pile.
He shrugged his shoulders; his good-natured eyes had a forlorn
look.
“I don’t know,” he murmured.
But then the old habit crept across his lips and he smiled through
his tears.
“I will find a wife,” he said. “There are many rich girls over
there–in America.”