Anarchistbanjo's World

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

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.
“Stay here,” he whispered. “I will drive it out to you. Only look
there into those bushes and when you see it, whistle so I will know. It
will turn when you whistle–then shoot!”
He went around in a wide arc, sneaking through the bushes.
Finally he discovered the animal on a low acacia, drove it down, and
chased it into a hazel thicket. He saw that it was going in the right
direction toward Alraune so he backed up a little and waited for her
whistle. But he didn’t hear it. Then he went back in the same arc and
came out on the wide path behind her. There she stood, gun in hand,
staring intently into the bushes and a little off to her left–scarcely
three meters away, the squirrel merrily played in the hazel thicket.
“It’s over there,” he called out softly. “Over there, up a little and
to the left!”
She heard his voice, turned quickly around toward him. He saw
how her lips opened to speak, heard a shot at the same time and felt a
light pain in his side. Then he heard her shrill despairing scream, saw
how she threw the gun away and rushed toward him. She tore open
his kimono, grabbed at the wound with both hands.
He bowed his head, looked down. It was a long, but very light
surface wound that was scarcely bleeding. The skin was only burned,
showing a broad black line.
“Get the hangman!” he laughed. “That was close!–Right over the
heart.”
She stood in front of him, trembling, all of her limbs shaking,
scarcely able to stand up. He supported her, talked to her.
“It’s nothing, child. Nothing at all! We will wash it out with
something, then moisten it with oil–Think nothing of it!”
He pulled the kimono still further back, showed her his naked
chest. With straying fingers she felt the surface wound.
“Right over the heart,” she murmured. “Right over the heart!”
Then suddenly she grabbed her head with both hands. A sudden
fear seized her, she looked at him with a horrified gaze, tore herself
out of his arms, ran to the house, sprang up the stairs–