Anarchistbanjo's World

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Sixteen
Proclaims how Alraune came to an end.
HE slowly went up to his room, washed his wound,
bandaged it and laughed at the girl’s shooting ability.
“She will learn soon enough,” he thought. “We just
need a little target practice.”
Then he remembered her look as she ran away. She was all
broken up, full of wild despair, as if she had committed a crime. And
it had only been an unlucky coincidence–which fortunately had turned
out all right–He hesitated–A coincidence? Ah, that was it. She didn’t
take it as a coincidence–took it as–fate.
He considered–
That was certainly it. That was why she was frightened–that was
why she ran away–When she looked into his eyes she saw her own
image there. That’s what she was afraid of–death, who scattered his
flowers where ever her feet trod–
The little attorney had warned him, “Now it is your turn.” Hadn’t
Alraune herself told him the same thing when she asked him to leave?
Wasn’t the old magick working on him just like it had on all the
others? His uncle had left him worthless paper–Now they were
digging gold out of the rocks! Alraune brought riches–and she
brought death.
Suddenly he was frightened–now for the first time. He bared his
wound once again–Oh yes, there it was. His heart beat right under the
tear. It had only been the little movement of his body as he turned, as
he pointed to the squirrel with his arm that had saved him. Otherwise–
otherwise–
No, he didn’t want to die, especially right now because of his
mother, he thought. Yes, because of her–but even if she wasn’t there,
he wanted to live for himself as well. It had taken many long years to
learn how to live, but now he had mastered that great art, which now
gave him more than many thousands of others. He lived fully and
strongly, stood on the summit and really enjoyed the world and all of
its delights.
“Fate loves me,” he thought. “It’s pointing with its finger–much
more clearly than the words of the attorney. There is still time.”
He pulled out his suitcase, tore the lid open and began to pack–
How had Uncle Jakob ended his leather bound volume?
“Try your luck! It’s too bad that I won’t be there when your turn
comes. I would have dearly loved to see it.”
He shook his head.
“No, Uncle Jakob,” he murmured. “You will get no satisfaction
out of me this time, not this time.”
He threw his boots together, grabbed a pair of stockings, and laid
out a shirt and suit that he wanted to wear. His glance fell on the deep
blue kimono that hung over the back of a chair. He picked it up,
contemplated the scorched hole that the bullet had made.
“I should leave it here,” he said. “A momento for Alraune. She
can put it with the other momentos.”
A deep sigh sounded behind him. He turned around–She stood in
the middle of the room, in a thin silk negligee, looking at him with
large open eyes.
“You are packing?” she whispered. “You are leaving–I thought
so.”
A lump rose in his throat but he choked it back down and pulled
himself together.
“Yes, Alraune, I’m going on a journey,” he said.
She threw herself down onto a chair, didn’t answer, just looked
at him quietly. He went to the wash basin, took up one thing after
another, comb, brush, soap and sponge. Finally he threw the lid shut
and locked the suitcase.
“Well,” he said forcefully. “Now I’m ready.”
He stepped up to her, reached out his hand. She didn’t move,
didn’t raise her arm and her pale lips remained shut. Only her eyes
spoke.
“Don’t go,” they pleaded. “Don’t leave me. Stay with me.”
“Alraune,” he murmured and it sounded like a reproach, like a
plea even, to let him go.
But she didn’t let him go, held him solidly with her eyes, “Don’t
leave me.”
It felt like his will was melting and he forcefully turned his eyes
away from her. But then her lips moved.
“Don’t go,” she insisted. “Stay with me.”
“No,” he screamed. “I don’t want to. You will put me in the
ground like all the others!”
He turned his back on her, went to the table, and tore a couple
pieces of cotton from the bandage wadding that he had brought for his
wound. He moistened them with oil and plugged them solidly into his
ears.
“Now you can talk,” he cried. “If you like. I can’t hear you. I
can’t see you–I must go and you know it. Let me go.”
She softly said, “Then you will feel me.”
She stepped up to him, lightly laid her hand on his arm and her
fingers trembled and spoke – “Stay with me!–Don’t abandon me.”
The light kiss of her little hands was so sweet, so sweet.
“I will tear myself loose,” he thought, “soon, just one second
longer.”
He closed his eyes, and with a deep breath savored the caressing
touch of her fingers. Then she raised her hands and his cheeks
trembled under their gentle touch. She slowly brought her arms
around his neck, bent his head down, raised herself up and brought
her moist lips to his mouth.
“How strange it is,” he thought. “Her nerves speak and mine
understand their language.”
She pulled him one step to the side, pressed him down onto the
bed, sat on his knees and wrapped him in a cloak of tender caresses.
With slender fingers she pulled the cotton out of his ears and
whispered sultry, loving words to him. He didn’t understand because
she spoke so softly, but he sensed the meaning, felt that she was no
longer saying, “Stay!”–That now she was saying, “I’m so glad that
you are staying.”
He kept his eyelids tightly shut over his eyes, yet now he only
heard her lips whisper sweet nothings, only felt the tips of her little
fingers as they ran across his breast and his face. She didn’t pull him,
didn’t urge him–and yet he felt the streaming of her nerves pulling
him down onto the bed. Slowly, slowly, he let himself sink.
Then suddenly she sprang up. He opened his eyes, saw her run to
the door and shut it, then to the window and tightly close the heavy
curtains. A dim twilight still flowed through the room. He wanted to
rise, to stand up, but she was back before he could move a single
limb. She threw off the black negligee and came to him, shut his
eyelids again with gentle fingers and pressed her lips on his.
He felt her little breast in his hand, felt her toe nails play against
the flesh of his legs, felt her hair falling over his cheeks–and he didn’t
resist, gave himself to her, just as she wanted–
“Are you staying?” she asked.
But he sensed it wasn’t a question any more, she only wanted to
hear it from his own lips.
“Yes,” he said softly.
Her kisses fell like the rain in May. Her caresses dropped like a
shower of almond blossoms in the evening wind and her loving words
sprang like the shimmering pearls of the cascade in the park pool.
“You taught me!” she breathed. “You–you showed me what love
is–Now you must stay for my love, which you created!”
She lightly traced her fingers over his wound, kissed it with her
tongue, raised her head and looked at him with crazy, confused eyes.
“I hurt you–”she whispered. “I struck you–right over your heart–
Do you want to beat me? Should I get the whip? Do what you want!–
Tear wounds in me with your teeth–take a knife even. Drink my
blood–Do whatever you want–Anything, anything–I am your slave.”
He closed his eyes again and sighed deeply.
“You are the Mistress,” he thought. “The winner!”

Sometimes when he entered the library it seemed as if a laugh
came from out of the corners somewhere. The first time he heard it he
thought it was Alraune, even though it didn’t sound like her voice. He
searched around and found nothing. When he heard it again he
became frightened.
“That’s Uncle Jakob’s hoarse voice,” he thought. “He is laughing
at me.”
Then he took hold of himself, pulled himself together.
“A hallucination,” he muttered. “And no wonder–my nerves are
over stimulated.”
He moved about as if in a dream, slouching and staggering, with
hanging, drooping movements and listless eyes. But every nerve was
taut and overloaded when he was with her–Then his blood raced,
where before it had been sickly and barely crawled.
He had been her teacher, that was true. He had opened her eyes,
taught her every Persian mystery from the land of the morning, every
game of the ancients that had made love into a fine art. But it was as if
he said nothing strange to her at all, only reawakened her long lost
memories from some other time. Often her swift desire flamed and
broke out like a forest fire in the summer time before he could even
speak. He threw the torch and yet shuddered at the rutting fire that
scorched his flesh, engulfed him in feverish passion, left him withered
and curdled the blood in his veins.
Once as he slunk over the courtyard he met Froitsheim.
“You don’t ride any more, young Master?” asked the old
coachman.
He quickly said, “No, not any more.”
Then his gaze met the old man’s and he saw how the dry lips
opened.
“Don’t speak, old man!” he said quickly. “I know what you want
to say to me! But I can’t–I can’t.”