Anarchistbanjo's World

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

“How do you like it?” she asked him.
“Why should the little man be there?” he retorted.
She said, “He belongs there!–I didn’t like the golden Cupid–That
is for all the other people–I want to have Galeotto, my root manikin.”
“Why do you call it that?” he asked.
“Galeotto!” she replied. “Wasn’t it him that brought us
together?–Now I want him to hang there, to watch over us through the
night.”
Sometimes they went out riding in the evenings or also during
the night if the moon was shining. They rode through the Sieben
Gerberge mountain range or to Rolandseck and into the wilderness
beyond.
Once they found a she-donkey at the foot of Dragon’s Rock in
the Sieben Geberge mountain range. People there used the animal for
riding up to the castle at the top. He bought her. She was a young
animal, well cared for and glistened like fresh snow. Her name was
Bianca. They took her with them, behind the horses on a long rope,
but the animal just stood there, planting her forelegs like a stubborn
mule, allowing herself to be choked and dragged along. Finally they
found a way to persuade her. In Kőnigswinter he bought a large bag
full of sugar, took the rope off Bianca and let her run free. He threw
her one piece of sugar after the other from out of the saddle. Soon the
she-donkey ran after them, keeping itself tight to his stirrup, snuffling
at his boots.
Old Froitsheim took the pipe out of his mouth as they came up,
spit thoughtfully and grinned agreeably.
“An ass,” he chewed. “A young ass! It’s been almost thirty years
since we’ve had one here in the stable. You know, young Master, how
I used to let you ride old gray Jonathan?” He got a bunch of carrots
and gave them to the animal, stroking her shaggy fur.
“What’s her name, young Master?” he asked.
Frank Braun told him her name.
“Come Bianca,” spoke the old man. “You will have it good here
with me. We will be friends.”
Then he turned again to Frank Braun.
“Young Master,” he continued. “I have three great-grandchildren
in the village, two little girls and a boy. They are the cobbler’s
children, on the road to Godesberg. They often come to visit me on
Sunday afternoons. May I let them ride the ass?–Just here in the
yard?”
He nodded, but before he could answer the Fräulein cried out:
“Why don’t you ask me, old man? It is my animal. He gave it to
me!–Now I want to tell you–you are permitted to ride her–even in the
gardens, when we are not home.”
Frank Braun’s glance thanked her–but not the old coachman. He
looked at her, half mistrusting and half surprised, grumbled something
incomprehensible and enticed the donkey into the stable with the
juicy carrots.
He called the stable boy, presented him to Bianca, then the
horses, one after the other–led her around behind the farmyard,
showed her the cow barn with the heavy Hollander cows and the
young calf of black and white Liese. He showed her the hounds, both
sharp pointers, the old guard dog and the cheeky fox terrier that was
sleeping in the stable. Brought her to the pigs, where the enormous
Yorkshire sow suckled her piglets, to the goats and the chicken coop.
Bianca ate carrots and followed him. It appeared that she liked it at
the Brinken’s.
Often in the afternoons the Fräulein’s clear voice rang out from
the garden.
“Bianca!” she cried. “Bianca!”
Then the old coachman opened her stall; swung the door open
wide and the little donkey came into the garden at an easy trot. She
would stop a few times, eat the green juicy leaves, indulge in the high
clover or wander around some more until the enticing call rang out
again, “Bianca!” Then she would search for her mistress.

They lay on the lawn under the ash trees. No table–only a large
platter lay on the grass covered with a white Damascus cloth. There
were many fruits, assorted tid-bits, dainties and sweets among the
roses. The wine stood to the side.
Bianca snuffled, scorned the caviar and no less the oysters,
turned away from the pies. But she took some cake and a piece of ice
out of the cooler, ate a couple of roses in between–
“Undress me!” said Alraune.
Then he loosened the eyes and hooks and opened the snaps.
When she was naked he lifted her onto the donkey. She sat astride on
the white animal’s back and held on lightly to the shaggy mane.
Slowly, step by step, she rode over the meadow. He walked by her
side, lying his right hand on the animal’s head. Bianca was clever,
proud of the slender boy whom she carried, didn’t stop once, but went
lightly with velvet hoofs.
There, where the dahlia bed ended, a narrow path led past the
little brook that fed the marble pool. She didn’t go over the wooden
bridge. Carefully, one foot after the other, Bianca waded through the
clear water. She looked curiously to the side when a green frog
jumped from the bank into the stream. He led the animal over to a
raspberry patch, picked the red berries and divided them with
Alraune, continued through the thick laurel bushes.
There, surrounded by thick elms, lay a large field of carnations.
His grandfather had laid it out for his good friend, Gottfried Kinkel,
who loved these flowers. Every week he had sent the poet a large
bouquet for as long as he lived. There were little feathery carnations,
tens of thousands of them, as far as the eye could see. All the flowers
glowed silver-white and their leaves glowed silvery green. They
gleamed far, far into the evening sun, a silver ground.
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.