Anarchistbanjo's World

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Fourteen
Describes how Frank Braun played with fire and how Alraune
awoke.
THAT evening the Fräulein didn’t come to dinner, only
allowed Frieda Gontram to bring in a little tea and a few
cakes. Frank Braun waited awhile for her, hoping that
perhaps later she would come down. Then he went to the
library and reluctantly took up the documents from the writing desk.
But he couldn’t bring himself to read them, put them down again and
decided to drive into the city.
Before he left he took the last little mementos from out of the
desk drawer, the piece of silk curtain cord, the card and four-leaf
clover with the bullet holes through them and finally the alraune
manikin. He packed everything together, sealed the brown paper
package and had it sent up to the Fräulein. He attached no written
explanation to it–
Everything would be explained to her inside the leather bound
volume that bore her initials.
Then he rang for the chauffeur and drove into the city. As he
expected, he met Herr Manasse in the little wine pub on Cathedral
Square. Stanislaus Schacht was with him. He sat down with them and
began to chat.
He got into a deep discussion with the attorney about legal
questions, debating the pros and cons of this and that lawsuit. They
decided to turn a few of the doubtful cases over to the Legal
Councilor for him alone. He would bring them to some acceptable
compromise. Manasse believed that a victorious settlement could be
reached with the others.
In some of the cases Frank Braun calmly suggested they simply
acknowledge the claim, but Manasse refused.
“Never acknowledge–even if the opponent’s demands are as
clear as day and justified a hundred-fold!”
He was the straightest and most honest attorney in the county
courthouse, one that always told his clients the truth, right to their
face. In front of the bar he might remain completely quiet but he
would never lie–and yet he was way too much a lawyer not to have an
innate hatred of recognizing an opponent’s claim.
“It only costs us more,” Frank Braun objected.
“So what!” barked the attorney. “What does that have to do with
it?–I tell you, one never knows–there is always a chance…”
“A legal one–perhaps–” answered Frank Braun. “–but–”
He fell silent. There was no other way for the attorney. The
Court determined justice–what ever it said was just, even how it
decided. Today it would be just–and totally different after a couple of
months in the higher courts. Nevertheless, the Court gave the final
decision and it was sacred–not the parties involved.
To recognize a claim yourself, without such a decision, was
usurping the right of the Court. As an attorney Manasse was partial to
his own clients. He desired the judge to be impartial, so it was an
abomination to him to make such a decision for his own party.
Frank Braun smiled.
“As you wish,” he said.
He spoke with Stanislaus Schacht, listened as this friend of Dr.
Mohnen talked of all the others that had been there as students with
him.
“Yes, Joseph Theyssen has been a Government Advisor for some
time now and Klingel Hőffer is a professor at Halle–he will be the
new chair for Anatomy, and Fritz langen–and Bastian–and–”
Frank Braun listened, turned the pages of this living directory of
German nobility that knew everyone.
“Are you still enrolled?” he asked.
Stanislaus fell silent, a little offended.
But the attorney barked, “What! Didn’t you know? He passed his
doctoral exam–five years ago.”
“Really–five years ago!”
Frank Braun calculated backward, that must have been in his
forty-fifth, no, forty-sixth semester.
“Well,” he said.
He stood up and reached out his hand, which the other heartily
shook.
“Allow me to congratulate you, Herr Doctor!” he continued.
“But–tell me–what are you doing now?”
“Yes, if he only knew!” cried the attorney.
Then chaplain Schrőder came. Frank Braun stood up to greet
him–
“Back in the country again?” cried the black suited priest. “We
must celebrate!”
“I am the host,” declared Stanislaus Schacht. “He must drink to
my doctor’s degree.”
“And with me to my newly becoming a vicar,” laughed the
priest. “Let’s share the honor then, if it’s alright with you, Dr.
Schacht.”
They agreed and the white haired vicar ordered a 93
Scharzhofberger, which the wine pub had placed in stock on his
recommendation. He tested the wine, nodded with satisfaction and
toasted with Frank Braun.
“You have it good,” he said, “sticking your nose into every
unknown place on land and sea. Yes, we can read about them in the
newspapers–but we must sit at home and console ourselves with the
fact that the Mosel still always produces a good wine–You certainly
can’t get this label out there!”
“We can get the label,” he said, “but not the wine– Now Herr
Reverend, what have you been up to?”
“What should I be up to?” replied the priest. “One just gets
themselves angry. Our old Rhine is always becoming more Prussian.
But for relaxation one can write rotten pieces for the Tűnnes,
Bestavader, Schâl, Speumanes and the Marizzebill. I have already
plundered Plautus and Terence in their entirety for Peter
Millowwitsch’s puppet theater in Cologne–Now I’m doing it to
Holberg. And just think, that fellow–Herr Director, he calls himself
today–now pays me royalties–Another one of those Prussian
inventions.”
“Be happy about it!” growled Attorney Manasse. “By the way,
he’s also published on Iamblicos.”
He turned to Frank Braun, “And I tell you, it is a very
exceptional book.”
“Not worth talking about,” cried the old vicar.
“Only a little attempt–”
Stanislaus Schacht interrupted him.
“Go on!” he said. “Your work lays out the foundation of the very
essence of the Alexandrian school. Your hypothesis about the
Emanation Doctrine of the Neo-Platonists–”
He went on, lecturing like an argumentative Bishop at the high
council. Here and there he made of few considerations, gave his
opinion, that it wasn’t right the author based his entire work on the
three cosmic principles that had been previously established. Couldn’t
he have just as well successfully included the ‘Spirit’ of Pophyrs?”
Manasse joined in and finally the vicar as well. They argued as if
there was nothing more important in the entire world than this strange
monism of Alexander, which was based on nothing other than a
mystical annihilation of self, of the “I”, through ecstasy, asceticism
and theurgy.
Frank Braun listened silently.
“This is Germany,” he thought. “This is my country–”
It occurred to him that a year ago he had been sitting in a bar
somewhere in Melbourne or Sidney–with him had been a Justice of
the Supreme Court, a Bishop of the High Church and a famous doctor.
They had disputed and argued no less ardently than these three that
were now sitting with him–But it had been about whom was the better
boxer, Jimmy Walsh of Tasmania or slender Fred Costa, the
champion of New-South Wales.
But here sat a little attorney, who was still being passed over for
promotion to Legal Councilor, a priest that wrote foolish pieces for a
puppet theater, that had a few titles of his own, but never a parish, and
finally the eternal student Stanislaus Schacht, who after some fourteen
years was happy to have his doctor’s degree and now didn’t know
what to do with himself.
And these three little poor wretches spoke about the most
abstract, far-fetched things that had nothing at all to do with their
occupations. And they spoke so easily, with the same familiarity as
the gentlemen in Melbourne had conversed about a boxing match. Oh,
you could sift through all of America and Australia, even nine-tenths
of Europe–and you would not find such an abundance of knowledge–
only–it was dead.
He sighed, it was long dead and reeked of decay–really, the
gentlemen didn’t even notice!
He asked the vicar how it was going with his foster son, young
Gontram. Immediately Attorney Manasse interrupted himself.
“Yes, tell us Herr Reverend–that’s why I came here. What does
he write?”
Vicar Schröder unbuttoned his jacket, pulled out his wallet and
took a letter out of it.
“Here, read for yourself,” he said. “It doesn’t sound very
encouraging!”
He handed the envelope to the attorney. Frank Braun threw a
quick glance at the postmark.
“From Davos?” he asked. “Did he inherit his mother’s fate as
well?”
“Unfortunately,” sighed the old priest. “And he was such a fresh,
good boy, that Josef, absolutely not meant for the priesthood though.
God only knows what he would have studied, or I would have
allowed him to study if I didn’t wear the black robe. But I promised
his mother on her deathbed. By the way, he has already gone as far in
his studies as I have–I tell you–he passed his doctoral exam–summa
cum laude! I obtained a special dispensation for him through the
ArchBishop, who has always been very benevolent towards me
personally.
He helped me a lot with the work about Iamblichos–yes, he
could really become something! Only–unfortunately–”
He hesitated and slowly emptied his glass.
“Did it come so suddenly, Herr Reverend?” asked Frank Braun.
“You could say that,” answered the priest. “It first started with
the psychological shock of the sudden death of his brother, Wolf. You
should have seen him outside, at the cemetery. He never moved from
my side while I gave my sermon, stared at the enormous garland of
blood red roses that lay on the coffin. He held himself upright until
the ceremony was ended, but then he felt so weak that Schacht and I
had to downright carry him.
In the carriage he seemed better, but at home with me he once
more became entirely apathetic–The only thing I could get out of him
at all that entire evening was that now he was the last of the Gontram
boys and it was his turn next. This apathy would not yield and from
that hour he remained convinced that his days were numbered, even
though a very thorough medical examination gave me a lot of hope in
the beginning. But then it went rapidly. From day to day you could
see his decline–now we have sent him to Davos–but it appears that his
song will soon be over.”
He fell silent, fat tears stood in his eyes–
“His mother was tougher,” growled the attorney. “She laughed in
the Reaper’s face for six long years.”
“God grant her soul eternal peace,” said the vicar and he filled
the glasses. “We will drink a silent toast to her–in her memory.”
They raised the glasses and emptied them.
“The old Legal Councilor will soon be entirely alone,” observed
Dr. Schacht. “Only his daughter appears to be completely healthy–
She is the only one that will survive him.”
“The attorney grumbled, “Frieda?–No, I don’t believe it.”
“And why not?” asked Frank Braun.
“Because–because–” he began, “–well, why shouldn’t I say it?”
He looked straight at Frank Braun, cutting, enraged, as if he
wanted to take him by the throat.
“You want to know why Frieda Gontram will never grow old?–I
will tell you. Because she is now completely caught in the claws–of
that damned witch out there!–That’s why–Now you know!”
“Witch,” thought Frank Braun. “He calls her a witch, just like
Uncle Jakob did in his leather bound volume.”
“What do you mean by that, Herr Attorney?” he asked.
Manasse barked, “Exactly what I said. “Whoever gets to close to
the Fräulein ten Brinken–gets stuck, like a fly in syrup. And whoever
is once caught by her–stays there and no amount of struggling will do
any good!
Be careful, Herr Doctor, I’m warning you! It is thankless
enough–to give warnings like this. I have already done it once–
without any success–with Wölfchen–now it is you–flee while there is
still time. What do you still want here?–It seems to me exactly as if
you are already licking at the honey!”
Frank Braun laughed–but it sounded a little forced.
“Have no fear on my account, Herr Attorney,” he cried–But he
didn’t convince the other–and even less, himself.
They sat and drank, drank to Schacht’s doctoral degree and to the
Priest’s becoming a vicar. They drank as well to the health of Karl
Mohnen, of whom no one had heard since he had left the city.
“He is lost,” said Stanislaus Schacht.
Then he became sentimental and sang melancholy songs. Frank
Braun took his leave, went out on foot back to Lendenich–through the
fragrant trees of spring – like in the old times.
He came across the courtyard, then saw a light in the library. He
went in–Alraune sat on the divan.
“You here, little cousin?” he greeted.
She didn’t answer, waved to him to take a place. He sat across
from her, waiting. But she remained silent and he didn’t press her.
Finally she said, “I wanted to speak with you.”

Read Full Post »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Wölfchen stared at it, fat tears running down his cheeks. But he
lit another cigarette when the first one burned down, removed the stub
from the frog’s throat and with shaking fingers pushed the fresh one
back into its mouth. The frog swelled up monstrously, quivering in
agony, its eyes popping out of their sockets. It was a strong animal
and endured two and a half cigarettes before it exploded.
The youth screamed in misery as if his own pain were much
greater than that of the animal he had just tortured to death. He sprang
back as if he wanted to run away into the bushes, looked around and
then quickly ran back when he saw that the torn body of the frog was
still moving. Wild and despairing he crushed it to death with his heel
to free it from its misery.
The Privy Councilor took him by the ear and searched his
pockets. He found a few more cigarettes and the boy confessed to
taking them from the writing desk in the library. But he could not be
moved to tell how he had known that smoking frogs would inflate
themselves until they finally explode. No amount of urging worked
and the rich beating that the professor gave him through the garden
didn’t help either. He remained silent.
Alraune stubbornly denied everything as well even after one of
the maids declared she had seen the child taking the cigarettes.
Despite everything they both stuck to their stories; the boy, that he
had stolen the cigarettes and the girl, that she had not done anything.
Alraune stayed at the convent for one more year. Then in the
middle of the school year she was sent home and certainly this time
unjustly. Only the superstitious sisters believed that she was guilty
and just maybe the Privy Councilor suspected it a little as well. But no
reasonable person would have.
Once before illness had broken out at Sacré Couer, that time it
had been the measles and fifty-seven little girls lay sick in their beds.
Only a few like Alraune ran around healthy. But this time it was much
worse. It was a typhoid epidemic. Eight children and one nun died.
Almost all of the others became sick.
But Alraune ten Brinken had never been so healthy. During this
time she put on weight, positively blossomed and gaily ran around
through all the sick rooms. No one troubled themselves over her
during these weeks as she ran up and down the stairs, sat on all the
beds and told the children that they were going to die the next day and
go to hell. While she, Alraune would continue to live and go to
heaven.
She gave away all of her pictures of the saints telling the sick
girls that they could diligently pray to the Madonna and to the sacred
heart of Jesus–but it wouldn’t do them any good. They would still
heartily burn and roast–It was simply amazing how vividly she could
describe these torments. Sometimes when she was in a good mood
she would be generous. Then she would promise them only a hundred
thousand years in purgatory. That was bad enough for the minds of
the pious sick little girls.
The doctor finally unceremoniously threw Alraune out of the
rooms. The sisters were absolutely convinced that she had brought the
illness into the convent and sent her head over heels back home.
The professor was tickled and laughed over this report. He
became a little more serious when shortly after the child’s arrival two
of his maids contracted typhus and both soon died in the hospital.
He wrote an angry letter to the supervisor of the convent and
complained bitterly that under the existing circumstances they should
have never sent the little one back home. He refused to pay the tuition
payment for the last half of the year and energetically insisted that he
be reimbursed for the monies he had put out for his two sick maids–
From a sanitary point of view the sisters should not have been
permitted to act as they had done.
His Excellency ten Brinken did not handle things much
differently. While he was not exactly afraid of contagion, like all
doctors he would much rather observe illness in others than in his
own body. He let Alraune stay in Lendenich only until he found a
good finishing school in the city. By the fourth day he had already
sent her to Spa, to the illustrious Institute of Mlle. de Vynteelen.
Silent Aloys had to escort her. As far as the child was concerned
the trip went without incident but he did have two little incidents to
report. On the train trip there he had found a pocket book with several
pieces of silver and on the trip back home he had slammed his finger
in the compartment door of the car he was riding in. The Privy
Councilor nodded in satisfaction at Aloy’s report.
The Head Mistress was Fräulein Becker who had grown up in
the University City on the Rhine and always went back there on her
vacations. She had much to relate to the Privy Councilor over the
years that Alraune stayed with her.
Right from the first day that Alraune arrived in the ancient
building on Marteau Avenue her dominion began and it was not only
imposed on her schoolmates. It was also imposed on the instructors,
most especially over the Miss, who after only a few weeks had
become a plaything for the absurd moods of the little girl, without any
will of her own.
At breakfast on that very first day Alraune declared that she
didn’t like honey and marmalade and much more preferred butter.
Naturally Mlle. de Vynteelen didn’t give her any. It was only a few
days until several of the other girls began to crave butter as well.
Finally a large cry for butter went up throughout the entire Institute.
Even Miss Paterson, who had never in her life enjoyed anything
with her morning tea other than toast with jam suddenly felt an
uncontrollable desire for butter. So the principal had been obliged to
give in to the demand for butter but on that very same day Alraune
acquired a preference for orange marmalade.
In response to the Privy Councilor’s pointed question Fräulein
Becker declared that the torturing of animals never came up during
those years at the Vynteelen School. At least no incidents had ever
been discovered. On the other hand, Alraune had made the lives of the
other children miserable as well as those of all the instructors, both
male and female.
Especially the poor music instructor who always placed his
snuffbox on the mantel in the hall during class so he would not be
tempted to use it. From the moment of Alraune’s entrance into the
school the most remarkable things had been found in it. For example,
thick spider webs, wood lice, gunpowder, pepper, writing sand black
with ink and once even a chopped up millipede. Several girls were
caught doing it and punished–but never Alraune.
Yet she always showed a passive resistance toward the musician,
never practiced and during class laid her hands in her lap and never
raised them to play an instrument. But when the professor finally
complained in despair to the principal Alraune quietly declared that
the old man was lying. At that point Mlle. de Vynteelen personally
attended the next hour and saw that the little girl knew her lesson
exquisitely, could play better than any of the others and showed a
remarkable talent.
The Head Mistress reproached the music instructor heavily. He
stood there speechless and could say nothing other than, “But it is
incredible, incredible!”
From then on the little schoolgirls only called him “Monsieur
Incredible”. They called after him whenever they saw him and
pronounced the words like he did, as if they didn’t have any teeth in
their mouths either.
As for the Miss, she scarcely ever experienced a quiet day. New
stupid pranks were always being played on her. They sprinkled itch
powder in her bed and one time after a picnic placed a half dozen
fleas in it. Then the key to her wardrobe was missing, then the hooks
and eyelets were torn from the dress that she wanted to wear. Once as
she was going to bed she was almost frightened to death by an
effervescent powder reaction in her chamber pot. Another time so
many stinging insects flew through her open window that she
screamed out for help. Then the chair she sat on was smeared with
paint or with glue or she found a dead mouse or an old chicken head
in her pocket.
And so it merrily continued, the poor Miss could hardly enjoy an
hour of her life. Investigations took place and those girls found guilty
were always punished but it was never determined to be Alraune even
though everyone was convinced that she was the mastermind behind
all the pranks.
The only one that angrily rejected this suspicion was the English
woman herself. She swore the girl was innocent up until the day she
left the de Vynteelen Institute.
“This hell,” she said, “only shelters one sweet little angel.”
The Privy Councilor grinned as he noted in the leather volume,
“That sweet little angel is Alraune.”
As for herself, Fräulein Becker related to the Professor that she
had avoided coming into contact with the strange little creature from
the very start. That had been easy for her since she was mostly
occupied in working with the French and English students. She only
had to instruct Alraune in gymnastics and sewing. As for the latter
subject, she had quickly exempted her from it when she had seen that
not only did Alraune have no interest in sewing, she showed a
downright aversion to it.
But in calisthenics, which by the way Alraune always excelled
in, she always acted as if she never noticed the joking around the
child did. She only once had a little confrontation with her and that
was just after Alraune’s entrance into the school. She had to confess
that unfortunately Araune had gotten the better of her.
By chance she had overheard Alraune telling her schoolmates
about her stay in the convent. The boasting and cheeky bragging was
so abominable that she took it as her duty to intervene. On one hand
the little one told how splendid and magnificent the convent was and
on the other hand she told truly murderous stories about the various
misdeeds of the pious sisters.
She herself had been brought up in the Sacré Couer convent in
Nancy and knew very well how simple and plain it was and knew as
well that the nuns were the most harmless creatures in the world. So
she called Alraune into her office and reproached her for telling such
fraudulent stories. She also demanded that the girl immediately tell
her schoolmates that she had not been telling the truth. When Alraune
stubbornly refused, she declared that she would tell them herself.
At that Alraune rose up on her toes, looked straight at her and
quietly said, “If you tell them that, Fräulein, I will tell them that your
mother has a little cheese shop in her home.”
Fräulein Becker confessed that she had become weak and given
in to a false shame. She let the child have her way. There had been
something so deliberate and calculated in the soft voice of the child in
that moment that she had become afraid. She left Alraune standing
there and went to her room happy to avoid an outright quarrel with the
little creature.

Read Full Post »

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

Seventh Chapter
When Ruprecht returned from Krems at noon,
Helmina informed him that Herr Anton Sykora had
visited—an old friend of her late husband. He’d
regretted missing Ruprecht, but business had forced
him to leave early that morning.
Ruprecht listened half-heartedly, murmuring, “Is
that so?” His mind was brimming with agricultural
matters. He’d thrown himself into work with fervor.
There was much to do. Herr Augenthaler soon
realized the new master held the reins tightly. The
golden age was over; the iron one began. Ruprecht
was everywhere, impossible to deceive. He lifted
every lid to see what lay beneath. Even in winter, he
tolerated no idleness. He’d found gaps in his
stewards’ theoretical knowledge, which he meant to
fill. From Krems, he brought a stack of farming
books and pamphlets, distributing them among his
staff.
Sighing, the manager lugged a pile of scholarship
across the courtyard. The assistant sat in the office,
rolling a cigarette, gazing at Helmina’s window row,
hoping she’d appear.
When the manager handed him his assigned
books, the assistant tossed them on the table and
slammed his fist down. “Ridiculous!” he shouted.
“To cram this into your head… as a grown man—I’m
no schoolboy!”
“Don’t yell,” the manager said. “What’s gotten
into you? And don’t speak so disrespectfully of our
master.” Secretly, though, he relished the assistant’s
outburst, echoing his own thoughts.
Helmina cared little for her husband’s efforts.
Such matters were alien to her. The land held no life
or meaning. Growth, decay, bloom, and fruit were
self-evident, unremarkable. When Ruprecht sat in his
study, she wandered from room to room, played with
the children, chatted with Miss Nelson, or sang in a
not-unpleasant but untrained voice. Deep down, she
was bored. She sometimes thought of Dankwardt,
who’d been no different—immersed in Indian
philosophy while Ruprecht tackled plant physiology,
agricultural chemistry, audited accounts, or drafted
estate plans. Occasionally, he retreated to the Indian
temple, a room Dankwardt had furnished with
mementos from an Indian journey. Between painted
lotus columns, a mural depicted palms and a distant
broad river. A small library held travelogues and
India’s literary treasures on fragrant cedar shelves.
Ornate lamps hung from the ceiling. In corners,
Buddha statues gazed at their navels. When the door
opened, a prayer wheel, tied to the handle by a cord,
clattered.
In that Indian temple, any difference between
Ruprecht and Dankwardt vanished. Helmina passed
the door, casting venomous glances. He’d better not
leave her to boredom. This man was no wiser than
the others. Sometimes, his gaze seemed to pierce her
depths, unearthing hidden truths, sending shivers
through her. Did he truly touch her secrets, strip away
her veils? After passionate nights, a strange urge
gripped her—to shed her mask, confess everything,
stand bare-souled before him. Let him prove if his
love could follow her into the realm of horrors. In
those moments, silence was heavy.
When Ruprecht returned to work, she
congratulated herself on her resolve. Her scornful
smile mocked her own fervor and him, dutifully
fulfilling his self-imposed tasks like an iron
necessity.
“It’s a need,” Ruprecht said, sensing her subtle
derision. “I can’t help it. I can’t lie idle on a bearskin.
I need motion, work. Before, I roamed the world,
busy with sights and vivid experiences, claiming all
there was. Now I’m rooted in one place. I must be all
the busier. It’s the law of energy conservation.”
Helmina delighted in breaching Ruprecht’s
fortified camp. She tore him from work, besieged
him, and triumphed when she toppled his idol, Duty.
Then she let out a wicked laugh. Ruprecht noticed,
calling it a mermaid’s laugh.
The Christmas holidays approached. Snow lay
thick on the mountains, fitting for the season. In the
valley, black wagon tracks ran beside the frozen
river, among groaning firs trembling before their
killers. Peasants trudged through forests, saws and
axes in thick mittens, shaking snow from firs and
pines. They sought Christmas trees. Finding a victim,
iron teeth bit through bark and frozen pith. Axes
struck the trunk, and its fall drew a fearful sigh from
the surrounding woods.
Ruprecht and Helmina skied over steep slopes. He
showed her tricks learned from Norwegian hunters,
teaching her to leap, delighted by her fearlessness.
She kept her legs tight and jumped, her short skirt
flapping around ankles and knees. When she fell, she
rose before he could help, laughing as she brushed
snow from her red jacket. In those moments, he
forgot her wicked smile, unmindful of danger.
From Amnisbühel, a splendid sledding run
descended. Ruprecht and Helmina zoomed down on a
two-seater, black firs blurring into a solid wall. Snow
sprayed, stinging their faces in wild sparks, trailing a
white cloud. The children had a small sled and were
allowed to ride. They tipped over, tumbling downhill,
68piling atop their sled. Squeals and laughter erupted.
Crashing was the best part of sledding.
Two days before Christmas, the children saw a
large sleigh piled with young firs and pines on the
road below. Its runners crunched over hard snow,
horse harnesses jingled, and the driver, in high boots
and short fur, strode alongside, puffing bright blue
smoke balls.
“Where are all those little trees going?” Nelly
asked.
“To the cities… maybe even Vienna, so the Christ
Child can decorate them for children. Every good
child gets a Christmas tree.”
Nelly looked down sadly, then said shyly, “The
Christ Child never decorated a tree for us.”
Ruprecht lifted the girl, kissing her. He knew the
children had never known true, bright Christmas
joy—the wonder of a tree, worth more than any gift.
Helmina hadn’t wanted it. “I’ve spoken to the Christ
Child,” he said. “This time, you’ll surely get one.”
That evening, he and Miss Nelson began
decorating the tree. He was bustling, childishly
gleeful, with the earnestness a proper game demands.
Glittering ornaments lined the branches.
Helmina sat at the room’s rear, watching idly with
cold eyes, a wicked smile curling her lips. Her brow
flickered with storm clouds. How Miss Nelson came
alive at work, shedding all stiffness and reserve. She
stretched to reach higher branches, bent for lower
ones, her slim body tracing graceful lines. She was all
zeal, neither she nor Ruprecht heeding Helmina,
acting as if no one else were present. They debated
earnestly where to place a chain or glass bell.
“Oh, how long since I’ve had a Christmas,”
Ruprecht said, “a true German Christmas. It’s unique.
No other people has its like. These past years, I was
always in the south. The longing was fierce. I’d have
given anything to peek through a window at a
glowing Christmas tree.”
Miss Nelson shared tales of English Christmases,
climbing a chair to fasten a porcelain angel with
tinsel wings high up.
My God, she’s speaking, Helmina thought. A
miracle. She speaks unprompted. Good. Let Ruprecht
try to betray me with her. At the first sign, he’s lost.
What holds him still? What do we share beyond those
fevered nights? Do I love him?
It always began this way for her—a sense of
superiority, as if she need only reach out to toy with a
man. Ah—how exquisite. Years ago, someone gave
her white mice. She’d cared for them well for weeks.
One twilight evening, she opened their cage and let
the yellow cat in.
Ruprecht turned, playfully tossing a chenille
monkey into Helmina’s lap. She disliked such jests.
Her face didn’t change; she said nothing. It was an
insult to offer her such harmlessness. Ruprecht met
her eyes sharply, probing. She returned the gaze.
Fine—let him at least suspect her thoughts. As he
turned back to the tree, she crushed the poor chenille
monkey between her fingers.
On Christmas Eve, the tree blazed in radiant
splendor—a winter fairy tale. Yet the children shone
brighter. They ignored their gifts, standing in shy
reverence. Four tiny Christmas trees sparkled in four
childish eyes. Four small fists clenched tight with
bliss.
Ruprecht, too, stood reverent before the tree,
bathed in light, feeling weightless, soaring, complete.
Meanwhile, Helmina drifted to her gift table.
Carelessly, she sifted through the items—every
fleeting wish fulfilled: the amethyst set, the Lalique
brooch, two Tiffany vases, all there. At the bottom
lay a heavy, angular package. She unwrapped it—a
book: Economic Studies in the Orient by Ruprecht
von Boschan. Its first page bore her name: “To my
beloved wife, Helmina!”
Ruprecht approached. “I know these things don’t
interest you. Still—it’s a memento of our
engagement. I finished it then, giving it your name as
a talisman, calling you my wife in advance. It came
out just in time for Christmas.”
“Thank you for everything,” Helmina said,
offering a cool hand. Oh, Ruprecht piled sentiment
upon sentiment—the Christmas tree, the dedication
from their betrothal! What next?
He’d said his book wouldn’t interest her, but
having written it, he’d joined the guild whose
compass swings toward praise or blame. When
Helmina, well into mid-January, hadn’t mentioned
his Economic Studies, Ruprecht grew impatient.
Dawn’s glow of fame crowned his head, yet Helmina
acted oblivious.
One day, in a measured tone, he said, “I got a
letter from Professor Zwicker today… from Vienna
University, economics. He finds my book
significant.”
“Oh?” Helmina replied indifferently. Let him
stew. Then she added, “I’m not sitting in this
wilderness all Carnival. We’ll go to Krems a few
times when something’s happening. And to Vienna—
at least once or twice. The Vienna City Ball… and
the Concordia Ball.”
“As you wish,” he said, irritated.
She scraped her fork across the plate, a squealing
screech she knew he loathed. “If it doesn’t suit you,
stay home.”

Read Full Post »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Frank Braun said, “Uncle, I’m going down. Do it–For the first
time in you life do it–what I ask of you–I know how it seems–and I
will never go against you again. What do you want me to do?–Should
I grovel even more before you?–Come, let this be enough–Give me
the money.”
Then the Privy Councilor spoke, “I will make you a proposition,
nephew. Do you promise to listen quietly? To not bluster and roar
again like you always do?”
He said firmly, “Yes, Uncle Jakob.”
“Then listen–You shall have the money that you need to get you
out of trouble. If you need more, we will have to talk a little about the
amount later. But I need you–need you here at home. I will have it
arranged for you to be placed there under house arrest for the duration
of your sentence–”
“Why not?” Frank Braun answered. “It doesn’t matter to me if I
am here or there. How long will you need me?”
“Around a year, not quite that long,” answered the professor.
“I agree,” said the attorney. “What do I need to do?”
“Oh not much,” replied the old man. “Just a little employment
that you are already accustomed to and very good at!
You see, my boy,” the Privy Councilor continued. “I need a little
help with this girl that you have arranged for me. You are entirely
correct. She will run away from us, will become unspeakably bored
during her pregnancy and certainly try to abort the child.
I want you to watch over her and protect our interests, prevent
her from doing any of these things. Naturally it is a lot easier to do in
a prison or workhouse where guards can continually watch. But
unfortunately we are not equipped for that. I can’t lock her up in the
terrarium with the frogs or in a cage like the monkeys or guinea pigs
can I?”
“Certainly not, uncle.” the attorney said. “You must find some
other way.”
The old man nodded, “I have found another way. We need
someone that will keep her contented right where she is. Now it
appears to me that Dr. Petersen is completely unsuitable to hold her
interest for a long time. He could scarcely satisfy her for one night.
But it needs to be a man. I was thinking about you–”
Frank Braun pressed the chair arms as if he would break them.
He breathed deeply.
“Of me–” he repeated.
“Yes, of you,” the Privy Councilor continued. “It is one of the
little things that I need you for. You can keep her from running away,
tell her some new nonsense. Put your fantasies to some useful purpose
and in the absence of her prince, she can fall in love with you. You
will be able to satisfy her sensual and sexual requirements. If you are
not enough for her, I’m sure you certainly have friends and
acquaintances enough that would be glad to spend a few hours with
such a beautiful creature.”
The attorney gasped, his voice rang hot. “Uncle,” he spoke. “Do
you know what you are asking? You want me to be the lover of this
prostitute while she is carrying the murderer’s child? I should
entertain her and find new lovers for her every day? Be her pimp–”
“Certainly,” the professor interrupted him quietly. “I know very
well what I’m doing. It appears to be the only thing in the world that
you are very good at, my boy.”
He didn’t answer, felt this stroke, felt his cheeks become bright
red, his temples glow hot. He felt the blows like long stripes from a
riding whip cutting across his face and he understood quite well that
his uncle was having his revenge.
The Privy Councilor knew it too, a satisfied grin spread across
his drooping features.
“You can be grateful boy,” he said slowly. “We don’t need to
deceive each other, you and I. We can say things the way they really
are. I will hire you as a pimp for this prostitute.”
Frank Braun felt as if he was lying on the floor helpless,
completely unarmed, miserably naked and could not move while the
old man stepped on him with his dirty feet and spit into his gaping
wounds with his poisonous spittle–He could not find a word to speak.
Somehow he staggered dizzily down the stairs and out into the street
where he stood staring into the bright morning sun.
He scarcely knew that he left, felt like he had been mugged,
dropped by a frightful blow to the head and left lying in the gutter. He
scarcely knew who he was any more, wandering through the streets
for what seemed like centuries until he stood in front of an
advertisement pillar. He read the words on the poster but only saw the
words without understanding them. Then he found himself at the train
station, went to the counter and asked for a ticket.
“To where?” the attendant asked.
“To where?–Yes–to where?”
He was amazed to hear his own voice say, “Coblenz.”
He searched in all his pockets for money. “Third Class,” he
cried.
He had enough for that. He climbed up the steps to the platform.
That was when he first realized that he was without a hat–He sat
down on a bench and waited.
Then he saw her carried in on a stretcher, saw Dr. Petersen come
in behind her. He didn’t move from his place, it felt as if it had
absolutely nothing at all to do with him. He saw the train arrive,
watched how the doctor opened a cabin in First Class and how the
bearers carefully placed their burden inside. Then in back, at the end
of the train, he climbed inside.
He clenched his jawbone as hysterical laugher convulsed him. It
is so appropriate–he thought. Third class– This is good enough for the
menial–for the pimp. Then he forgot again as he sat on the hard bench
pressed tightly into his corner and stared down at the floorboards.
The gloomy fog would not leave his head. He heard the names of
the stations called one after another and it seemed to him as if they
were like sparks flowing through a telegraph wire. At other times it
seemed like an eternity between one station and another.
In Cologne he had to get out and change trains. He needed to
wait for the one going to the Rhine. But it was no interruption; he
scarcely noticed the difference, whether he was sitting on a hard
bench there or in the train.
Then he was in Coblenz, climbed out and again wandered
through the streets. Night was falling when it finally occurred to him
that he needed to get back to the fortress. He went over the bridge,
climbed up the rocks in the dark and followed the narrow footpath of
the prisoners through the underbrush.
Suddenly he was up above, in the officer’s courtyard, then in his
room sitting on his bed. Someone came down the hall and stepped
into the room, candle in hand. It was the strong marine medic, Dr.
Klaverjahn.
“Well hello,” he cried in the doorway. “The Sergeant-major was
right. Back so soon brother? Then come on down the hall. The
cavalry captain has a game going.”
Frank Braun didn’t move, scarcely heard what the other was
saying. The doctor grabbed his shoulder and shook it heartily.
“Don’t just sit there like a log. Come on!”
Frank Braun sprang up swinging something else high as well. It
was the chair that he had grabbed.
He moved a step closer, “Get out.” he hissed, “Get out,
you scoundrel!”
Dr. Klaverjahn looked at him standing there in front of him. He
looked into the pale, distorted face, the intent threatening eyes. It
awoke the medical professional that was still in him and he
recognized the condition instantly.
“So that’s how it is,” he said quietly–“Please excuse me.”–
Then he left.
Frank Braun stood for awhile with the chair in his hand. A cold
laugh hung on his lips but he was thinking of nothing, nothing at all.
He heard a knock at the door, heard it like it was far off in the
distance. When he looked up–the little ensign was standing in front of
him.
“You are back again, what happened?” he asked and startled a bit
when the other didn’t answer.
Then he ran out and came back with a glass and a bottle of
Bordeaux.
“Drink, it will be good for you.”
Frank Braun drank. He felt how the wine made his pulse race,
felt how his legs trembled, threatening to buckle underneath him. He
let himself fall heavily onto the bed.
The ensign supported him.
“Drink,” he urged.
But Frank Braun waved him away. “No, no,” he whispered. “It
will make me drunk.”
He laughed weakly, “I don’t think I’ve had anything to eat
today–”
A noise rang out from down the hall, loud laughing and yelling.
“What’s going on?” he asked indifferently.
The ensign answered, “They are playing. Two new ones came in
yesterday.”
Then he reached into his pocket, “By the way, this came for you
this evening. It’s a money dispatch for a hundred Marks. Here.”
Frank Braun took the paper, but had to read it twice before he
finally understood what it said. His uncle had sent him a hundred
Marks and wrote along with it:
“Please consider this as an advance.”
He sprang up with a bound. The fog rose as a red mist in front of
his eyes–Advance! Advance? Oh, for that job the old man wanted him
for–for that!
The ensign held the money out to him, “Here’s the money.”
He took it and it burned the tips of his fingers and this pain that
he felt as a physical pain almost did him in completely. He shut his
eyes, letting the scorching fire in his fingers climb into his hands and
up into his arms. He felt this final insult burn deeply down into his
bones.
“Bring me–” he cried. “Bring me some wine!”
Then he drank and drank. It seemed to him that the dark wine
extinguished the sizzling fire.
“What are they playing?” he asked, “Baccarat?”
“No,” said the ensign. “They are playing dice, Lucky Seven.”
Frank Braun took his arm, “Come on. Let’s go.”
They stepped into the casino.
“Here I am!” he cried. “One hundred Marks on the eight” and he
threw his money on the table. The cavalry captain shook the cup. It
was a six–

Read Full Post »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Around eleven o’clock?” The assistant doctor made a somewhat
dubious face. “Isn’t that a little late? His Excellency is in the habit of
going to bed around that time and after such a strenuous day.”
“His Excellency must exert himself a little bit longer today
doctor.” Frank Braun decided. “Deliver the message. The hour is
certainly not too late for our purpose. It’s almost too early–In fact, it
would be better if it were twelve o’clock instead–That way if poor
uncle is too tired he can rest a bit ahead of time. Goodbye Doctor–
until this evening.”
He stood up, nodded curtly and left. He bit his teeth together,
feeling at the same moment as his lips closed just how childish, how
much of a mad mess it all was. He was almost ashamed of how he had
treated the good doctor, how small he had been, how cheap his joke
was. All of his nerves and sinews screamed for action–and instead he
let his thistle headed brain scatter in a thousand directions–while he
played childish pranks!
Dr. Petersen watched him go.
“He is full of pride,” he said to himself. “Not once did he offer to
shake my hand.”
He ordered another coffee, added a little cream and deliberated
while smearing butter on another slice of bread.
Then with innermost conviction, “Pride goes before the fall!”
Very satisfied with this wholesome common wisdom he bit into
the white bread and raised the cup to his mouth.
It was closer to one o’clock that evening when Frank Braun
finally appeared.
“Excuse me uncle,” he said lightly.
“Now dear nephew,” replied the Privy Councilor. “We have been
waiting way too long!”
“I had something better to do uncle, and by the way you are not
waiting here because of me but only because of your purpose.”
The professor squinted over at him. “Youngster–” he began, but
he controlled himself. “No, let it go. I am grateful that you have come
here to help me nephew. Are you ready to go now?”
“No,” declared Frank Braun blinded in childish defiance. “I will
have a whiskey soda first. We have enough time.”
That was his nature now, driving everything to the limit,
sensitive and thin skinned to every little word, taking offence at even
the slightest provocation. He always said harsh things to others but
couldn’t endure the softest rebuke or criticism himself. He could feel
how the old gentleman was hurt by his actions but knew the real
reason his uncle was hurt was because he needed his stupid young
nephew, that is what really sickened and offended his uncle.
It almost felt like a put down that the Privy Councilor was so
completely oblivious, couldn’t see through the shabby surface
behavior, couldn’t understand the blonde defiance for what it really
was. While he on the other hand had to resist whether he wanted to or
not, be more of a pirate than he really was, pull the mask still tighter
and go his insolent way like he had discovered on the Montmartre,
shock the bourgeois.
He leisurely emptied his glass, then stood up negligently like a
bored, melancholy prince, “Whenever you gentlemen are ready.”
He looked down on his guests from above as if they were
infinitely beneath him.
“Innkeeper, a cab.”
They left. The Privy Councilor was quiet, his upper lip hung
down deeply, fat tear ducts drained over his cheeks. His mighty ears
stuck out on both sides and the glittering right eye shone green in the
dark.
“He looks like an owl,” thought Frank Braun. “Like an ugly old
owl searching for a mouse.”
Dr. Petersen sat open mouthed in the front seat. He couldn’t
comprehend the unbelievable behavior of the nephew towards his
uncle.
It wasn’t long before the young man once more found his
equilibrium–Why should he get angry at the old ass? In the end his
good side came out as he helped the Privy Councilor out of the cab.
“Here we are,” he cried. “Please step inside.”
“Café Stern” it said on the large sign illuminated with electric
lights. They went inside, down long rows of small marble tables and
through a crowd of noisy and yelling people. Finally they sat down.
This was a good place. Many women sat around all decked out with
enormous hats and colorful silk blouses, multitudes of flesh waiting
for customers. They were spread out lounging around like window
displays.
“Is this one of the better places?” the Privy Councilor asked.
The nephew shook his head. “No Uncle Jakob, not at all. We
wouldn’t find what we wanted there–This might even be too good.
We need the bottom dregs.”
In the back a man in a greasy tight fitting suit sat at a piano
continually playing one popular song after another. At times a few
drinkers bellowed out words to the songs until the bouncer came over
to quiet them down and tell them that this was a respectable place and
they couldn’t do that.
Little clerks ran around and a couple good citizens from the
province sat at a nearby table making advances and talking dirty to
the prostitutes. A waiter swung between the tables bringing an
unappetizing brown sauce in glasses and a yellow one in cups. It was
called bouillon and the other Melange. He also carried a full carafe of
schnapps with little striped shot glasses.
Two women came up to their table and asked for coffee. It was
no big deal; they just sat down and ordered.
“The blonde perhaps?” whispered Dr. Petersen.
But the attorney waved him away. “No, no not at all–She is only
flesh. Not much better than your monkeys.”
A short one in the back of the room caught his eye. She was dark
and her eyes seethed with eagerness. He stood up and waved to her.
She loosened herself from her companion and came over to him.
“Listen–” he began.
But she said, “Not tonight, I already have a gentleman–
Tomorrow if you want.”
“Get rid of him,” he urged. “Come with us. We are looking for
something special.”
That was tempting. “Tomorrow– can’t it wait until tomorrow
darling? I really can’t tonight. He’s an old customer. He paid twenty
Marks.”
Frank Braun gripped her arm, “I will pay much more, a lot more.
Do you understand? You will have it made. It’s not for me–It’s for the
old man over there. He wants something special.”
She stopped. Her gaze followed his eyes to the Privy Councilor.
“Him, over there?”
She sounded disappointed. “What would he be wanting?”
“Lucy,” screamed the man at her table.
“I’m coming,” she answered. “Not tonight. We can talk about it
tomorrow if you want. Come back here around this time.”
“Stupid woman,” he whispered.
“Don’t be angry. He will kill me if I don’t go with him tonight.
He’s always that way when he’s drunk. Come tomorrow–do you hear
me? And leave the old man–Come alone. You won’t need to pay if
you don’t like it.”
She left him standing and ran over to her table.
Frank Braun saw how the dark gentleman with the starched felt
hat bitterly reproached her. Oh yes, she had to remain true to him–for
tonight. He went through the hall slowly looking at the prostitutes but
couldn’t find any that looked corrupt enough. There was still a last
residue of self-respect, some instinctive certainty of belonging to
some other class of society.
No, there were none of the lowest of the low. The pert and saucy
ones that had their own way, that knew what they wanted to be,
whores. He could hardly define what it was that he was looking for. It
was a feeling. She must love what she does, he thought, and want no
other. She would not be like these others that through some chance
unfortunate coincidence had wound up here.
These upright little women would have been workers, waitresses,
secretaries or even telephone operators if their lives had only been just
a little bit different. They were only prostitutes because the coarse
greed of males made it that way.
No, the one he was looking for should be a prostitute. Not
because she couldn’t be anything else, but because every inch of her
body screamed for new embraces, because under the caresses of one
lover, her soul already longed for the kisses of another. She needed to
be a prostitute just like he–he hesitated. What was he? Tired and
resigned, he finished his thought, just like he needed to be a dreamer.
He returned back to the table, “Come uncle. She is not here. We
will go some other place.”
The Privy Councilor protested but his nephew wouldn’t listen.
“Come uncle,” he repeated. “I promised you that I would find
someone and I will find her.”
They stood up, paid, went across the street and then further to the
north.
“Where,” asked Dr. Petersen.
The attorney didn’t answer, just kept walking, and looking at the
big signs on the coffeehouses. Finally he stopped.
“Café–Drinks–Gentlemen,” he murmured. “That would be
right.”
These dirty rooms were furnished in every style imaginable. To
be sure, the little white marble tables stood here as well and plush red
sofas were stuck against the walls. The rooms were lit with the same
electric bulbs and the same flat-footed waiters shoved through the
crowd in sticky suit coats.
But there was no pretense. Everything appeared just as it really
was. The air was bad, smoky and stuffy, but when you breathed it in
you felt better and freer somehow. There was no constraint and
students sat at nearby tables drinking their beer and talking dirty with
the women. They were all confident, sure of themselves, as mighty
floods of filth flowed out of their lips. One of them, small and fat with
a face full of dueling scars appeared inexhaustible and the women
neighed and bent over writhing with resounding laughter.
Pimps sat around on the walls playing cards or sitting alone,
staring at the drunken musicians and whistling along while drinking
their schnapps. Once in awhile a prostitute would come in, go up to
one of them, speak a few hurried words and then disappear again.
“This will do!” Frank Braun said. He waved to the waiter,
ordered cherry water and told him to send a few women over to the
table. Four came but as they sat down he saw another going out the
door, a tall, strong woman in a white silk blouse with luxurious fiery
red hair springing out from under a little hat. He leaped up and rushed
out into the street after her.
She went up the road slowly, indolently, lightly rocking her hips.
She curved to the left and entered into a doorway. Glowing red letters
arched over it, “North Pole Dance Hall”. He stepped across the dirty
yard after her and entered into the smoky hall almost the same time
she did but she didn’t notice. She stood standing out in front looking
over the dancing crowd.
It was noisy with yells and shouts; men and women whirled
around moving their legs till the dust flew high as the harsh words of
the Rix Dorfer howled through the music. It was rough, crude and
wild as the dancers pushed through each other and the crowd was
certainly growing.
He liked the Croquette and the Likette that they danced over on
the Montmartre and in the Latin Quarter on the other side of the Seine
and fell into them easily. They were lighter, more grand and full of
charm. There was none of that in this shoving, seething mass, not the
slightest twinge of what the French girls called “focus”.
But a hot blood screamed out of the Rix Dorfer, a wild passion
was driving the dancers crazy throughout the dance hall. The music
stopped and the dance master collected money in his dirty sweaty
hands from the women, not from the men. Then he bowed to the
audience and gestured grandly for the band in the gallery to start a
new dance.
But the crowd didn’t want the Rhinelander. They screamed at the
conductor, yelling at him to stop but the orchestra played on battling
against the will of the dance hall, secure high above and behind their
balustrade.
Then the Maitre pressed out onto the floor. He knew his women
and his fellows, held them solidly in his hand and would not be
intimidated by drunken yells or threatening raised fists. But he also
knew when he had to give in.
“Play the Emil,” he called up. “Play the Emil!”
A fat female in a huge hat wound her arm around the dance
master’s dusty suit coat.
“Bravo, Justav. That was well done!”
His influence spread like oil over the raging crowd. They
laughed, pressed onto the dance floor, cried “Bravo”, and slapped him
whole heartedly on the back or playfully punched him in the belly.
Then, as the waltz began he broke out in song, screaming and hoarse:
“Emil, you are a plant,
You climb all over me!
Are always quick to kiss
And that’s why I love you!”
“Alma,” cried out someone in the middle of the room. “There’s
Alma!”
He left his partner standing, sprang up and grabbed the red haired
prostitute by the arm. He was a short dark fellow with smooth hair
curling tight against his forehead and bright piercing eyes.
“Come,” he cried, grabbing her tightly around the waist.
The prostitute danced. More daring than the others, she pranced
the waltz letting her partner whirl her quickly around. After a few
beats she was completely into the dance, throwing her hips around,
bending forward and backward, pressing her body up against her
partner in constant contact. It was shameless, vulgar and brutally
sensual.
Frank Braun heard a voice near him, saw the dance master
watching the prostitute with keen appreciation.
“Damn, that whore can swing her ass!”
Oh yes, she could swing her ass! She swung it high and cheeky
like a flag, like a storm filled banner of naked lust, like the Baroness
Gudel de Gudelfeld swung hers for the applause of the Crown Prince.
She doesn’t need any ornaments thought Frank Braun as his eyes
followed her down the hall and back. He quickly stepped up to her as
the music stopped and laid his hand on her arm.
“Pay first,” the dark haired man laughed at him.
He gave the man a coin. The prostitute looked him over with a
quick look, examining him from top to bottom.
“I live nearby,” she said. “Scarcely three minutes in the–”

Read Full Post »