Anarchistbanjo's World

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

The student looked across, she always looked good, this old,
well-formed lady. He believed she really had all the adventures that
she related. At one time she had been the fiery Diva of Europe. Now
she lived in this city that was still stuck back in the fourth century in
her little villa. She took long walks through her gardens every
evening, put flowers on the graves of her dead hounds and cried for a
half-hour.
Now she sang. She had lost her magnificent voice years ago, but
there was still a rare magic in her performance, out of the old school.
The smile of the conqueror lay on her rouged lips and the thick face
paint attempted to capture the former sweetness of her features. Her
thick sweaty hands played with her ivory fan and her eyes searched
the room as if trying to scratch and pull the applause out of the
audience.
Oh yes, she certainly fit in here, Madame Marion Vère de Vère,
fit in this house, like all the others that were guests. Frank Braun
looked around. There sat his dear uncle with the princess and behind
them leaning against the door stood Attorney Manasse and Chaplain
Schöder. The long, gaunt, dark chaplain was the best wine
connoisseur on the Mosel and the Saar. It was nearly impossible to
find a wine cellar that he had not gone into and sampled. Schröder
had written a never-ending clever book about the abstruse philosophy
of Plotinus and at the same time had written the skits for the Puppet
Theater in Cologne. He was particularly enthusiastic about the first
Napoleon. He hated the Prussians and anyone that spoke of the
Kaiser. Every year on the fifth of May he traveled back to Cologne
and the Minority Church where he celebrated a High Mass for the
tormented dead of the “Grand Army”.
There sat large, gold spectacled, Stanislaus Schacht, candidate
for a degree in Philosophy, in his sixteenth semester, too fat, too lazy
to get off his chair. For years he had lived as a lodger at the widow of
Professor Dr. von Dollinger’s house. For a long time now he had been
installed as the new master of the house. She was that little, ugly, over
thin woman sitting beside him, always filling his glass and loading his
plate with heaping portions of food. She didn’t eat anything–but she
drank as much as he did and with every new glass her ardor grew. She
laughingly caressed his huge meaty arm with her bony finger.
Near her stood Karl Mohnen, Dr. jur and Dr. phil. He was a
schoolmate and chess player. It was through chess that they had met
and become great friends. By now he had studied almost as long as
Stanislaus, only he was always taking exams, always changing his
major. At the moment it was Philosophy and he was studying for his
third exam. He looked like a clerk in a department store, quick,
hurried and always moving.
Frank Braun always thought that he should go into business as a
merchant. He would certainly be happy running a confectionery
where he would have women to serve him. He was always looking for
a rich party–on the street–large window promenades too. He had an
aptitude for meeting new people and making new friends, especially
traveling English women. He clutched onto them gladly–but sadly
they had no money.
There was still another person there, the small Hussar lieutenant
with the little black mustache that was chatting with the girls. He, the
young Count Geroldingen, could always be found back stage in every
theater performance. He painted the sets, was talented with the violin
and the best horse racer in the regiment. He was now telling Olga and
Frieda something about Beethoven that was horribly boring. They
were only listening because he was such a handsome little lieutenant.
Oh yes, they all belonged here without exception. They all had a
little gypsy blood–despite titles and orders, despite tonsures and
uniforms, despite diamonds and golden spectacles, despite all the
civilized posturing. Some were devouring food; others were making
small detours away from the path of civilized decency.
A roar resounded and merged with Frau Marion’s singing. It was
the Gontram rascals fighting on the stairs. Their mother went up to
quiet them down. Then Wölfchen screamed in the next room and the
girls had to carry the child up into the attic. They took Cyclops along,
putting both to bed in the narrow child’s wagon.
Frau Marion began her second song, “The Dance of Shadows”
from the opera “Dinorah”.
The princess asked the Privy Councilor about his latest
endeavors and if she could come once more to see the remarkable
frogs, amphibians and cute monkeys. Yes, she could certainly come.
There was a new species of rose that she should really see. It was at
his Mehlemer castle. He also had large white camellias that his
gardener had planted; she would be interested in them as well.
But the princess was more interested in the frogs and monkeys
than the roses and camellias so he related his endeavors to transfer
eggs from one frog to another and artificially inseminate them. He
told her that he had already produced a beautiful female frog with two
heads and another with fourteen eyes on its back.
He would dissect one and remove the eggs from it and fertilize
them before transferring the little tadpoles to another frog and just like
that, the cells would merrily divide and develop into new life with
heads and tails, eyes and legs.
Then he told her about his efforts with monkeys, relating that he
had two young long tailed monkeys that were being suckled by their
virgin mother–She had never even seen a male monkey!
That interested the princess the most and she asked for all the
details. She had read something about it but didn’t understand all the
Greek and Latin words. Maybe he could explain it to her in perfect
German so she could understand?
The obscene cliches and behaviors dripped out of the Privy
Councilor as he explained in anatomical detail just what he did.
Spittle drooled down from the corners of his mouth and ran down his
heavy, hanging lower lip.
He enjoyed this game, this obscene chatter, watching her
voluptuously slurp up every shameful word. Then when he was close
to saying an especially repulsive word, he would throw in “Your
Highness” and savor with delight the titillation of the delicious
contrast.
And how she listened to him! Her face was becoming flushed,
excited, almost trembling, sucking this Bordello atmosphere in with
all of her pores, as he unveiled what really went on behind the thin
scientific banner.
“Do you only inseminate monkeys, Herr Privy Councilor?” she
asked breathlessly.
“No,” he said, “also rats and Guinea pigs. Would you like to
watch, Your Highness, when I–”
He lowered his voice, almost whispered.
She cried, “Yes, yes! I must see it! Gladly, very gladly! When?”
Then she added with a slow, almost evil dignity. “Did you know,
Herr Privy Councilor, that nothing interests me more than the study of
medicine. I believe I would have been a very talented doctor.”
He looked at her and grinned widely, “No doubt, Your
Highness.”
And he thought, that she certainly would have been a much
better Bordello Mother. But he was satisfied; he had his little fish
hooked safely on his line.
Then he continued again about his new breed of rose and the
camellias at his castle on the Rhine. It was so troublesome for him,
and he had only taken possession of it as a favor. The location was
such an excellent one and the view–Perhaps when her Highness
finally decided to buy a place she might–
Princess Wolkonski decided herself, without any hesitation at all.
“Yes, certainly Herr Privy Councillor, yes, certainly, naturally I
will take your castle!”
She saw Frank Braun going past and called out to him, “Hey,
Herr Studious! Herr Studious! Come over here! Your uncle has
promised that I can observe one of his experiments. Isn’t that
delightfully charming? Have you already seen what he does?”
“No,” said Frank Braun. “I’m not at all interested.”
He turned to go away but she grabbed him by the arm and
stopped him.
“Give me a cigarette! Oh, and, yes, a glass of champagne
please.”
She shivered in hot desire, beads of sweat crept over her massive
flesh. Her crude senses had been whipped to a frenzy from her
shameless talk with the old man. Her passion needed a goal, a target,
and it broke over the young fellow like a huge wave.
“Tell me, Herr Studious,” her breath panted, her mighty breasts
threatened to leap out of her dress. “Tell me, do you believe that–
that–Herr Privy Councilor–his science–his experiments with artificial
insemination–does he do it with people as well?”
She knew very well that he didn’t, but she needed to say it before
she could get to what she really wanted with this young, fresh and
handsome student.
Frank Braun laughed, instinctively understanding what she had
in mind.
“But of course, Your Highness,” he said lightly. “Most certainly!
Uncle is already working on it, has discovered a new procedure so
refined that the poor woman in question is not even aware of it. Not at
all–until she wakes up one beautiful day and discovers that she is
pregnant, probably in the fourth or fifth month!
Be very careful Your Highness, keep a watchful eye on Herr
Privy Councilor. Who knows, you might already be–”
“Heaven Forbid!” screamed the princess.
“Yes, it could happen,” he cried. “Wouldn’t it be very
unpleasant? When you have done absolutely nothing to make it
happen!”
Crash! Something fell off the wall, fell on Sophia, hitting the
housemaid right on the head. The maid screamed out loud and in her
fright dropped the silver tray she had been serving coffee on.
“A shame about the beautiful silver service,” said Frau Gontram
calmly. “What happened?”
Dr. Mohnen immediately took a quick look at the crying
housemaid, cut a strand of hair away, washed the gaping edges of the
wound and stopped the bleeding with a yellow Iron Chloride wad. He
didn’t forget to pat the beautiful girl on the cheeks and furtively
squeeze one of her firm breasts. Then he gave her some wine to drink,
spoke to her, lightly in her ear.
The Hussar lieutenant stooped, picked up the thing that had
caused the damage, raised it high and looked at it from all sides.
There were all kinds of remarkable things hanging on the wall.
There was a Kaneka Idol, half male and half female, colorfully
painted with yellow and red stripes. Two old heavy and deformed
riding boots hung there complete with impressive Spanish spurs.
There were all sorts of rusty weapons as well.
On the gray wall was also pressed the Doctorate Diploma of
some old Gontram from a Jesuit College in Seville. Near it hung a
wonderful ivory crucifix inlaid with gold. On the other side was a
large heavy Buddhist cross with a rose in the center carved out of
green Jade. Right above that you could see the large tear in the
wallpaper where a nail had torn its way out of the brittle plaster.

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Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Before, I was a worker in the Simplon Tunnel.”
“Not bad, but grueling.”
“One must do something for one’s health.”
“You made a dazzling entrance yesterday. You’re
the darling of Abbazia’s young ladies. If the fervor
grows, you’ll get a torchlight parade tonight. That
lasso throw was magnificent.”
“Why else would I have spent two years in South
America if not to learn such tricks?”
Hugo settled at the small table between the
petrified rolls, tipping his chair on two legs toward
Boschan, arm draped over his friend’s seat. “Listen,”
he said, “you owe me a favor. You won’t refuse me
in the joy of our reunion. You’re moved, I can see it.
How long has it been? Shameful, isn’t it? Not even a
postcard from the Himalayas.”
“It must be something dire you want,” Ruprecht
said, “with such a preamble.”
“Don’t say no, don’t break your friend’s hopeful
heart. Here’s the deal: I’m organizing an Emperor’s
celebration tomorrow, August 18. Can’t skip it. If I
don’t do it, someone else will. Better me, since I’ve
got taste. Big program: Isolde Lenz will sing, Bergler
will sing, Walterskirchen will play. I’ve got a court
concertmaster too. Andresen from the Burgtheater
will recite modern poems. A retired general will play
flute, thinking he owes it to Frederick the Great’s
memory, as fine a soldier as he. But this program
lacks a cornerstone.”
“I’m the cornerstone?”
“Yes! The World-Tree Ygdrasil of my program.
Peter, the rock on which… and so forth. Please, no
refusals. The other acts are solid, but you’re
something unique, a rare spectacle. I’d be a poor
planner to let you slip.”
“I’m not keen, my dear.”
Ernst Hugo laid a hand on Ruprecht’s knee,
overflowing with charm, dripping eloquence,
weaving wreaths of flattery. “I won’t let you go till
you bless me. If you’re stumped on what to do, I’ll
tell them about your Himalayan treks or whatever.
Just take the stage. Success is guaranteed. I promise
every girl and young woman will fall for you.”
“You know that doesn’t tempt me. Women are
usually dull.”
“Still an ascetic desert saint? Still St. Anthony
resisting all temptations?”
“Ridiculous—you don’t think I practice
abstinence for glory. I had a serious affair with a
Japanese girl for a while. And as a Simplon Tunnel
worker, I lived with an Italian woman, fighting knife
duels over her every other day. That’s something. But
your society ladies…! You must slog through flirting
first. Flirting’s endlessly tedious.”
“If women won’t sway you, do it for me. Years
apart, we finally meet, and I’m shamed if my friend
denies a small request. Truly, it’s an insult.”
“Would it really mean so much if I agree?”
“An extraordinary favor.” Hugo paused, eyeing a
woman passing below on the promenade. He leaned
over the balustrade, clearly trying to catch her notice.
“A regal woman,” he murmured, “look at that attire.
A little Paris on her. Good Lord! Know her?”
“No,” Boschan said, finishing his morning cognac.
“She’s a widow, fabulously rich. Half Abbazia’s
in love with her. Born to conquer, her specialty’s the
demonic, or so say those lucky enough to know her.
I’m not among them yet. But back to business: you’d
do me a huge favor by joining. There’s a
Statthaltereirat from Graz with big ambitions, my
serious rival. He nearly beat me to hosting the
celebration. You’ll see, that won’t do. I’m up for
promotion. Patriotic efforts impress higher-ups. So I
outmaneuvered him. But he’ll be a harsh critic. If it’s
not tip-top, he’ll flash his ironic smile… make witty
jabs… that sarcastic fool!”
Before Ruprecht’s eyes, the sea spun, rising in the
sun’s climbing glare, shimmering like a vast
turquoise, magically binding souls, drawing them in,
dissolving petty drives and miseries into great joy.
But this planner of patriotic fêtes felt none of it.
Ruprecht leaned against a pillar, turning from Hugo.
“What a dire conflict,” he said, “what a dramatic
tangle! Oh, clashing forces—a struggle for lofty
prizes! And all the while, you have the sea before
you, in its full splendor, blessed by its beauty.”
“How do you mean?” Hugo asked, fixing his
water-blue eyes on the sea in surprise.
“Well—you’ve invoked our friendship. I suppose
I must help you skewer this hostile Statthaltereirat.”

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Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

First Chapter
Police Commissioner Mirko Bovacs was at a loss.
No, he wasn’t merely at a loss—he was utterly
despairing. In all his years of service, nothing like
this had ever happened. With an extraordinary—
charitably, one might say superhuman—keenness of
mind, he had identified, among Abbazia’s
international crowd, the long-sought Innesvar bank
robber in an unassuming Mr. Müller. And now, Mr.
Müller refused to be arrested, perched instead on the
roof of his small house, firing wildly with two
Brownings.
This defied all precedent. Once discovered, a
criminal was supposed to concede defeat and submit.
That, at least, was what any respectable crook was
expected to do. No serious trouble was to be caused
for the police; one simply vowed to play more
cautiously next time.
Initially, news of the bank robber’s unmasking
spread fear and horror among the spa guests. To think
they were exposed to such dangers! Patrons of the
Hotel Royal, where Mr. Müller had dined several
times, were beside themselves with agitation. “You
really don’t know who you’re sitting with anymore,”
said Hofrätin Kundersdorf. The young poet
Bystritzky, who consorted only with elderly ladies
and spared young girls not a glance, added dutifully,
“This Müller… a man of the world… who’d have
thought!”
But when word got out that the bank robber was
defending his stone cottage up in the vineyards,
refusing to let any policeman near, the mood shifted
to amusement. Soon, the beach and promenade lay
deserted. The public had flocked to the vineyards as
if to a fair, keeping a safe distance, of course, and
seeking cover behind walls and houses. It was
5immensely entertaining to watch the police and
gendarmes at a loss, and to see Mirko Bovacs darting
about behind a gamekeeper’s hut, wringing his hands.
Whenever a policeman or gendarme peeked to
check if Mr. Müller was still on the roof, a shot rang
out. The head ducked back faster than a seal’s. “What
am I to do? What am I to do?” wailed the
commissioner. “I’m becoming a laughingstock. This
rogue is humiliating me before all of Europe. Damn
him… he must come down. I’m ruined if we don’t
get him. What crook will respect me then? Every
lousy Italian pickpocket will laugh in my face.
They’ll spit on my boots.” He roared at his men:
“You scoundrels, you cowards, go hide behind your
wives’ skirts, you bastards, you toads! You’re truly
made of clay God forgot to fire. Get moving… it’s
your duty… I’ll report you all!”
But Constable Kristic, unshaken by anything,
replied, “Commissioner, it’s our lives at stake. What
do you expect? Duty’s duty. But where’s it written
we must let ourselves be killed when we can just wait
until hunger drives him down?”
“So, you’d starve him out?” the commissioner
shouted. “We could wait forever. Do you know if
he’s got supplies for a year? Or two? We might all be
dead—or pensioned—by then. If we could at least
reach the neighboring house, fifteen paces away…”
“Sir, what good’s that?” Kristic countered. “If we
show ourselves, he shoots. He’s capable of picking us
off. He’s already hit one gendarme in the foot. And
Schusterschic got two holes in his cap for not
ducking fast enough.”
The commissioner peered cautiously around the
corner. “What’s he doing? What’s he doing?” he
stammered. “He’s mocking us. He’s pulled out a ham
sandwich and is eating calmly. I’ll have a stroke,
6Kristic… has anyone seen such a thing? He’s eating a
sandwich right in front of us.”
Mr. Müller’s composure won the spa guests’
admiration. Even Hofrätin Kundersdorf couldn’t
withhold praise for his cool-headedness, and
Bystritzky chimed in with aphorisms on masculinity
and the grandeur of criminal characters.
As the day passed without change, bets were
placed on how long Mr. Müller would hold out. The
English dove into the wagering with zeal. Lord
Stanhope bet a hundred pounds that the splendid
bank robber wouldn’t be brought down for three
days. No one took the bet, knowing Stanhope’s
uncanny luck.
“You can safely take the wager,” said an elegant
man of about thirty-five to the hesitant group. “Go
on, dare it. This Mr. Müller will be in police hands by
tonight.”
Lord Stanhope eyed the stranger calmly. “How
can you claim that?” he asked slowly. “And if you’re
so sure, why not bet yourself?”
“I don’t bet,” the stranger replied, “when I know
the outcome for certain.”
“How can you know the outcome?”
“How? Because I’ll bring that man down myself.”
With a polite, curt bow, he descended toward the
beach.
Half an hour later, the stranger approached
Commissioner Mirko Bovacs with a greeting. “Sir,
what do you want here?” Bovacs shouted. “There’s
shooting. Don’t cause trouble.”
“I’m here to end the shooting,” the elegant
stranger replied.
Bovacs’s jaw dropped. His mind stalled. Clinging
to the one remaining faculty—that a commissioner
7must never lose composure—he rubbed his hands
together. But they felt like someone else’s hands.
“Sir…” he said, “how will you…”
“That’s my concern, once you permit me to
assist.”
“I warn you, don’t rely on the night. We saw that
scoundrel has a barrel of pitch on the roof. He’ll
likely light it when it’s dark.”
“I won’t wait that long. In twenty minutes, it’s
over. Be ready to seize him when I have him.”
Shaking his head, Bovacs watched the stranger
step from the gamekeeper’s hut. A shot rang out from
the roof, but the man was already behind a garden
wall. Bovacs marveled at the transformation. The
polished gentleman, master of decorum, became an
Indian. His body stretched like a lithe animal’s, limbs
propelling him in an almost impossible crouch, half-
lying, always concealed by stones, moving swiftly
and surely once he found his path.
After minutes, he vanished into a pile of rocks
above. For Bovacs, an agonizing wait began. It galled
him to owe a volunteer, but it beat prolonging the
siege. “A blessed candle for Saint Joseph in Fiume,”
he vowed silently, “if this works.” Kneeling, he
watched the enemy. Beyond the two houses, a green
evening sky spread, bottle-glass clear, sharpening
every outline. Mr. Müller sat at the roof’s edge,
smoking. A tiny light gleamed, a blue-pink cloud
around his head.
Suddenly, a figure shot from the neighboring
house’s horizon—like a devil in a puppet show.
Müller flinched, raising his Browning, but a thin
snake whipped across, coiling around him, biting
fast. No shot fired…
Bovacs saw Müller leap up, but the snake
tightened. Bovacs sprang, dancing, shouting, drawing
8his saber, striking stones. The rooftop struggle
thrilled him, maddening, a beauty like a falcon’s
flight or a heron’s strike. But the puppet play against
the glass-green sky ended. Müller staggered, arms
pinned, and vanished.
“Go, go!” Bovacs roared, charging up the hill with
his men. Below his stronghold, Müller lay, bound in
tough coils, immobile, face blue-red. The lasso’s end
was in the stranger’s hand, peering over the roof’s
edge.
The policemen and gendarmes pounced on the
criminal, hauling him from the ground, eager to
display their zeal. Mirko Bovacs approached the
stranger as he descended from the roof. “Sir,” he
panted, exhilarated, “ask anything of me. I’m entirely
at your service.”
“Then, please, give me a light,” the stranger
replied. He’s not as young as he looks, Bovacs
thought, as the match flared near the man’s face. The
stranger took two puffs on his cigarette, coiled his
lasso, tucked it into his pocket, and slipped sideways
into the darkness of the now-fallen night, nodding a
brief farewell to the commissioner.
That same evening, news of these events swept
through Abbazia. Those who hadn’t witnessed the
spectacle borrowed their friends’ eyes to catch a
fleeting glimpse. The authorities were irredeemably
ridiculous, Mr. Müller earned sympathies, and a halo
crowned the stranger. To Bystritzky’s chagrin,
Hofrätin Kundersdorf declared him a most interesting
young man. Bystritzky bristled when his elderly
ladies found other young men intriguing.
At ten o’clock, Court Secretary Ernst Hugo
returned from a sailing trip in the Quarnero,
ravenous. As he devoured his beefsteak, Franz,
standing respectfully behind his guest’s chair,
9recounted the day’s events. Suddenly, Hugo stopped
eating. He raised his napkin as if to wipe his mouth,
let it fall, brushed his mustache with the back of his
hand, and turned to Franz. His eyes were wide.
“Good Lord!” he muttered, “that’s none other than
my friend Ruprecht. It can only be Ruprecht.”
It was indeed Ruprecht von Boschan, confirmed
the next morning when Hugo arrived for breakfast at
the Hotel Kaiser von Österreich. The hero of the
previous evening sat on the terrace between two stout
pillars resembling petrified prehistoric rolls. He
stirred his coffee with a silver spoon, a Times before
him, but he didn’t read, gazing instead at the sea, blue
and silver-embroidered, swelling beyond the terrace.
“Ruprecht!” Hugo cried, striking his famous embrace
pose, Roman One, capital A. He performed it twice—
first with the right arm, then the left atop—looking
like a two-winged windmill, his massive hands
poised to spin.
“You’re still a mad hen,” Boschan murmured,
yielding to the hearty embrace.
“Where’ve you come from?” Hugo asked.
“From down there,” Ruprecht replied, gesturing at
the blue sea.
“From the water? Are you Venus Anadyomene?
Or posing as a sea god?”
“I’ve been testing a submarine.”
“Dangerous?”
“Eh—manageable. Not much to it. It wasn’t a
French submarine.”
“And before?”
“Before, I did some high-altitude climbs in the
Himalayas.”
“Sapperment! How high?”
“Between seven and eight thousand…”
“And before?”

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Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 1
Describes the house on the Rhine before the thought of
Alraune came into the world.
THE white house in which Alraune was thought into
existence existed long before she was born–long before she
was even conceived. This house lay on the Rhine a little out
of the city on the large Villa Street leading out to the old
Archbishop’s Palace where the university is today. That is where it
lies and Legal Councilor Sebastian Gontram and his family once lived
there.
You walk in from the street, through the long ugly garden that
has never seen a gardener. You come to the house, from which stucco
is falling, search for a bell and find none. You call and scream and no
one comes. Finally you push the door open and go inside, climb up
the dirty, never washed stair and suddenly a huge cat springs through
the darkness…
Or even better–
The large garden is alive with a thousand monkeys. They are the
Gontram children: Frieda, Philipp, Paulche, Emilche, Josefehe, and
Wülfche. They are everywhere, in the boughs of trees, creeping
through the earth in the mine pits. Then there are the hounds, two
cheeky spitzes and a Bastard Fox terrier. In addition there is a dwarf
pinscher that belongs to Attorney Manasse. He is quite the thing, like
a brown quince sausage, round as a barrel , scarcely larger than a hand
and called Cyclops.
The yard is filled with noises and screams. Wülfche, scarcely a
year old, lies in a child’s wagon and screams high obstinate screams
for hours. Only Cyclops can beat this record and he yelps, hoarse and
broken, incessantly. Wülfche never moves from his place, only
screams, only howls.
The Gontram rogues are resting in the bushes late in the
afternoon. Frieda, the oldest, should be looking out for them, taking
care that her brothers are behaving. But she thinks they are behaving
and sits under the decaying Lilac leaves with her friend, the little
Princess Wolkonski.
The two chatter and argue, thinking that they soon will become
fourteen years old and can get married, or at least have a lover. Right
now they are both forbidden from all this and need to wait a little
longer. It is still fourteen days until their first Holy Communion. Then
they get long dresses, and then they will be grown up. Then they can
have a lover.
She decides to become very virtuous and start going to the May
devotions at church immediately. She needs to gather herself together
in these days, be serious and sensible.
“–and perhaps also because Schmitz will be there,” says Frieda.
The little Princess turns up her nose, “Bah–Schmitz!”
Frieda pinches her under the arm, “–and the Bavarian, the one
with the blue cap!”
Olga Wolkonski laughs, “Him? He is–all air! Frieda, you know
the good boys don’t go to church.”
That is true, the good ones don’t do that. Frieda sighs. She
swiftly gets up and shoves the wagon with the screaming Wülfche to
the side, and steps on Cyclops who is trying to bite her ankles. No, no,
the princess is right. Church is not the answer.
“Let’s stay here!” she decides. The two girls creep back under
the Lilac leaves.
All the Gontram children have an infinite passion for living.
They can’t say how they know but deep inside, they feel in their
blood that they will die young, die fresh. They only have a small
amount of time compared to what others are given and they take this
time in triple, making noise, rushing, eating and drinking until they
are saturated on life.
Wülfche screams in his wagon, screaming for himself alone as
well as for three other babies. His brothers fly through the garden
making themselves numerous, as if they were four dozen and not just
four. They are dirty, red nosed and ragged, always bloody from a cut
on the finger, a scraped knee or some other good scratch.
When the sun sets the Gontram rascals quietly sweep back into
the house, going into the kitchen for heaping sandwiches of buttered
bread laid thick with ham and sausage. The maid gives them water to
drink colored lightly with red wine.
Then the maid washes them. She pulls their clothes off and sticks
them in wooden tubs, takes the black soap, the hard brush and scrubs
them. She scrubs them like a pair of boots and still can’t get them
clean. Then she sticks the wild young ones back in the tubs crying
and raving and scrubs them again.
Dead tired they fall into their beds like sacks of potatoes,
forgetting to be quiet. They also forget to cover up. The maid takes
care of that.
Around this time Attorney Manasse comes into the house, climbs
up the stairs, knocks with his cane on a few doors and receiving no
answer finally moves on.
Frau Gontram moves toward him. She is tall, almost twice the
size of Herr Manasse. He is a dwarf, round as a barrel and looks
exactly like his ugly dog, Cyclops. Short stubble stands out all over
him, out of his cheeks, chin and lips. His nose appears in the middle,
small and round like a radish. When he speaks, he barks as if he is
always snapping.
“Good evening Frau Gontram,” he says. “Is my colleague home
yet?”
“Good evening attorney,” says the tall woman. “Make yourself
comfortable.”
“Why isn’t my colleague home yet?–and shut that kid up! I can’t
understand a single word you are saying.”
“What?” Frau Gontram asks. Then she takes the earplugs out of
her ears. “Oh yes,” she continues. “That Wülfche! You should buy a
pair of these things Attorney. Then you won’t hear him.”
She goes to the door and screams, “Billa, Billa–or Frieda! Can’t
you hear? Make Wülfche quiet!”
She is still in apricot colored pajamas. Her enormous chestnut
brown hair is half-pinned up and half-fallen down. Her black eyes
appear infinitely large, wide, wide, filled with sharp cunning and
scorching unholy fires. But her skeletal face curves in at the temples,
her narrow nose droops and her pale cheeks spread themselves tightly
over her bones. Huge patches burn lividly on–
“Do you have a good cigar Attorney?” she asks.
He takes his case out angrily, almost furiously.
“How many have you already smoked today Frau Gontram?”
“Only twenty,” she laughs. “But you know the filthy things are
four pennies apiece and I could use a good one for a change. Give me
the thick one there! – and you take the dark, almost black Mexican.”
Herr Manasse sighs, “Now how are you doing? How long do you
have?”
“Bah,” she made a rude sound. “Don’t wet yourself. How long?
The other day the doctor figured about six months. But you know how
precise they are in that place. He could just as well have meant two
years. I’m thinking it’s not going at a gallop. It’s going at a pretty trot
along with the galloping consumption.”
“You shouldn’t smoke so much!” The little attorney barks.
She looks at him, her thin blue lips pulling high over gleaming
teeth.
“What? What Manasse? No more smoking? Now stop with the
friendly airs! What am I supposed to do? Bear children all year long?
The brats in this house already drive me crazy. That’s why it’s
galloping–and I’m not supposed to smoke?”
She blows a thick cloud of smoke into his face and makes him
cough.
He looks at her, half-poisoned, half-living, and admires her. He
doesn’t take anything from anyone. When he stands before the bar he
never tells a joke or minces words. He barks, snaps, bites without
respect or the smallest fear.–But here, before this dried up woman
whose body is a skeleton, whose head grins like a death’s head, who
for a year and a day has stood three quarters in the grave and laughed
at herself the last quarter, here he feels afraid.
Her unrestrained shimmering locks are always growing, always
thicker, always fuller as if pulling nourishment from her decaying
body. Her perfect gleaming teeth clamp around a cigar; her eyes are
enormous, without hope, without desire, almost without awareness
but burning with fire–These leave him silent. They leave him feeling
smaller than he really is, almost as small as his hound.
Oh, he is very educated, Attorney Manasse is. She calls him a
veritable conversational encyclopedia. It doesn’t matter what the topic
of conversation, he can give the information in the blink of an eye.
Now he’s thinking, has she given up on finding a cure? Is she in
denial? Does she think that if she ignores death he will not come?
Does she think death is not in this house? That when he does come,
only then will she go?
But he, Manasse, sees very well that death is here even though
she still lives. He has been here all along hiding throughout the house,
playing blind cow with this woman that wears his face, letting her
abandon her numerous children to cry and race in the garden.
Death doesn’t gallop. He goes at a pretty trot. She has that right.
But only out of humor, only because he wants to make a joke, to play
with this woman and her life hungry children like a cat plays with the
fish in a fish bowl.
Only this woman, Frau Gontram, thinks he is not even here. She
lies on the lounge all day long smoking big dark cigars, reading
never-ending books and wearing earplugs so she can’t hear the noise
her children make–He is not here at all?–Not here?
Death grins and laughs out of her withered mask, puffs thick
smoke into his face. Little Manasse sees him perfectly enough. He
stares at him, considers for a long time which great artist has painted
this death. Is it Durer? Or Bocklin? Or some other wild harlequin
death from Bosch, Breughel or a different insane, inexcusable death
from Hogarth, from Goya, from Rowlandson, Rops or Callot?
It is from none of these. Sitting before him is a real death, a death
you can willingly go with. It is a good, proper and therefore romantic
Rhinelander’s death. It is one you can talk with, that sees the comedy
in life, that smokes, drinks wine and laughs. It is good that he smokes
thought Manasse, so very good, then you can’t smell him–
Then Legal Councilor Gontram comes into the room.
“Good evening colleague,” he says. “Here already? That’s
good.”
He begins a long story about all that has happened during the day
at the office and before the court. Purely remarkable things that only
happen to lawyers once in a lifetime happen to Herr Gontram every
day. These strange and often lusty occurrences are sometimes comic,
often bloody and highly tragic.
Not a word is true. The Legal Councilor has an incurable shyness
of telling the truth. Before his morning bath, yes, even before he
washes his face in the basin, from the moment his mouth first opens
wide he lies. When he sleeps, he dreams up new lies. Everyone knows
that he lies, but his stories are so lusty and interesting they want to
hear them anyway. Even when they aren’t that good they are still
entertaining.
He is in his late forties with a short, very sparse beard and
thinning hair. A gold pince-nez with a long black cord always hangs
crookedly over his nose and helps his blue shortsighted eyes see to
read.
He is untidy, disorderly, unwashed, and always has ink spots on
his fingers. He is a bad jurist and very much against doing any work,
always supervising his junior lawyers but not doing anything himself.
On this basis he oversees the office managers and clerks and is often
not seen for weeks at a time. When he is there, he sleeps. If he is
awake, once in awhile he writes a short sentence that reads, “Denied”
and stamps the words “Legal Councilor” underneath.
Nevertheless he has a very good practice, much better than the
knowledgeable and shrewd Manasse. He understands the language of
the people and can chat with them. He is popular with all the judges
and lawyers because he never makes any problems and all his clients
walk. For the accused and for the jury he is worth the gold he is paid,
you can believe that.
Once a Public Prosecutor said, “I ask the accused be denied
extenuating circumstances, Legal Councilor Gontram is defending
him.”
Extenuating circumstances, his clients always get them, but
Manasse seldom receives them despite his scholarly ways and sharp
speeches.
There is still more, Legal Councilor Gontram had a couple of
big, important and provocative cases that created sensations
throughout the land. In both cases he fought through the entire year
and finally won. These cases suddenly awoke in him a strange energy
that up until then had lain sleeping inside of him.
The first was so full of tangles, a six times loser, nearly
impossible case that went from lawyer to lawyer, a case with
complicated international questions that he had no suspicion of when
he took it. He just thought it was interesting and liked it.
The Koschen brothers out of Lennep had been condemned to
death three times. In a fourth resumption he continued on and won
their freedom despite hair splitting circumstantial evidence.
The other was a big million-dollar dispute over Galmeiberg Mfg.
from Neutral-Moresnet that every jurist in three countries knew about.
Certainly Gontram at the least had fought through to the very end and
obtained a victorious verdict.
Since then for three years he handles all the legal casework for
Princess Wolkonski. Remarkably, this man never says a word about
it, about what he really does. Instead he fills the ears of those he
meets with lies, cheeky inventions of his legal heroics. Not a single
syllable comes over his lips of the real events of his day. This makes
it seem like he detests all truth.
Frau Gontram says, “Dinner is just about ready and I’ve already
set out a bowl of fresh Woodruff salad. Should I go get dressed?”
“Stay the way you are woman,” the Legal Councilor decides.
“Manasse won’t mind–” he interrupts himself, “Dear God, how that
child screams! Can’t you hold him?”
She goes past him with long, slow strides, opens the door to the
antechamber where the maid has pushed the child’s wagon. She takes
Wülfche, carries him in and sits him in a highchair.
“No wonder he screams,” she says. He’s completely wet.”
But she does nothing about it, leaving him to dry out by himself.
“Be still, you little devil,” she continues. “Can’t you see I have
company?”
But Wülfche is determined to disturb the entire visit. Manasse
stands up, pats him, strokes his chubby back, and brings him a Jack-
in-the-box to play with. The child pushes the Jack-in-the-box away,
bellows and screams incessantly. Cyclops accompanies him from
under the table.
Then Mama says, “Now wait, sugar drop. I have something for
you.”
She takes the chewed black cigar stub from out between her teeth
and shoves it into the baby’s mouth.
“There Wülfche, how do you like that? Well?”
The child becomes still in the blink of an eye, sucking, pulling
and beams, overjoyed, out of huge laughing eyes.
“Now attorney, you see how you must deal with children?” says
the tall woman. She speaks confidently and quietly, completely
earnest.
“But you men don’t understand anything at all about children.”
The maid comes and announces that dinner is ready. While the
others are going into the dining room she goes with unsteady steps up
to the child.
“Bah,” she says and rips the cigar stub out of his mouth.
Immediately Wülfche starts to howl again. She takes him up, rocks
him back and forth and sings him a melancholy lullaby from her
Wolloonian homeland in Belgium.
She doesn’t have any more luck than Herr Manasse. The child
just screams and screams. She takes the cigar stub again, spits on it
and rubs it against her dirty apron to make sure the fire is completely
out and puts it back in Wülfche’s red mouth.

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