Anarchistbanjo's World

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

But the overseer of the prison was not satisfied. “What! To the
commander? But Herr Doctor, you have no leave of absence to go
down to the city, and you still want to go to the commander?”
Frank Braun laughed, “Yes indeed. Straight to him! Namely, I
must go to the commander and pump some money out of him.”
The Sergeant-major didn’t say another word. He stood there not
moving with a wide-open mouth, completely petrified.
“Give me ten pennies, boy,” Frank Braun cried to his valet, “for
the toll bridge.”
He took the coins and went with quick strides across the yard,
into the officer’s garden and from there onto the slope leading up to
the ramparts. He swung up onto the wall, grabbed the bough of a
mighty ash tree on the other side and climbed down the trunk. Then
he pushed through the thick underbrush and climbed down the rocks.
In twenty minutes he was at the bottom.
It was the route they always took for their nightly escapades. He
went along the Rhine to the toll bridge and then across to Coblenz. He
learned where the commander lived and hurried there.
He showed the general the telegram and said that he came on
very urgent matters. The general let him in and he put the telegram
back in his pocket.
“How can I help you with this?”
Frank Braun said, “I need a leave of absence your Excellency. I
am a prisoner at the fortress.”
The old general stared at him unkindly, visibly annoyed at the
intrusion.
“What do you want? By the way, how did you get down into the
city? Do you have a pass?”
“Certainly, Your Excellency,” said Frank Braun. “I have church
leave.”
He lied, but knew very well the general only wanted an answer.
“I came to Your Excellency to ask for a three day pass. My uncle is in
Berlin and dying.”
The commander blurted out, “What is your uncle to me? It’s
entirely out of the question! You are not sitting up there at your
convenience. It’s because you have broken the law, do you
understand? Anyone could come to me with a dying uncle or aunt. If
it’s not at least a parent I deny such a pass strictly on principle.”
“I remain dutiful, your Excellency,” he replied. “I will inform
my uncle, his Excellency, the Privy Councilor ten Brinken,
immediately by telegraph that unfortunately his only nephew is not
allowed to hasten to his deathbed for his weary eyes to look upon.”
He bowed, turned toward the door, but the general held him back
as he had expected.
“Who is your uncle?” he asked in hesitation.
Frank Braun repeated the name and the beautiful title. Then he
took the telegram out of his pocket and handed it over.
“My poor uncle has one last chance for deliverance in Berlin but
unfortunately the operation is not successful very often.”
“Hmm,” said the commander. “Go my young friend. Go
immediately. Perhaps it will be helpful.”
Frank Braun made a face, lamented and said, “Only God knows–
Perhaps my prayers can do some good.”
He interrupted himself with a beautiful sigh and continued, “I
remain dutiful, your Excellency. There is just one other thing I have
to ask.”
The commander gave him the telegram back. “What?” he asked.
Frank Braun burst out, “I have no travel money. May I ask your
Excellency to loan me three hundred Marks.”
The general looked suspiciously at him. “No money–Hmm–so
no money either–But wasn’t yesterday the first? Didn’t your money
come?”
“My money came promptly, your Excellency,” he replied
quickly. “But it was gone just as quickly that night!”
The old commander laughed at that.
“Yes, yes. That is how you atone for your crimes, your
misdeeds! So you need three hundred Marks?”
“Yes, your Excellency! My uncle will certainly be very happy to
hear how you have helped me out of this predicament, if I am
permitted.”
The general turned, went to the writing desk, opened it and took
out three little pieces of paper and a moneybox. He gave the prisoner
quill and paper and told him what to write down on the receipt. Then
he gave him the money. Frank Braun took it with a light easy bow.
“I remain dutiful, your Excellency.”
“Think nothing of it,” said the commander. “Go there and come
back right away–Give my compliments to yours truly, his
Excellency.”
“Once again I remain dutiful, your Excellency.”
One last bow and he was outside. He sprang over the six front
steps in one leap and had to restrain himself not to shout out loud.
That was great!
He called a taxi to take him to the Ehrenbreitstein train station.
There he leafed through the departure times and found he still had
three hours to wait. He called to the valet that was waiting with his
suitcase and commanded him to quickly run over to the “Red Cock”
and bring back the ensign from Plessen.
“But bring the right one boy!” he said sharply. “The young
gentleman that just got here not to long ago, the one that wears No.
six on his back. The one that–Wait, your pennies have earned
interest.”
He threw him a ten Mark piece. Then he went into the wine
house, considered carefully, ordered a select supper and sat at the
window looking out at the Sunday citizens as they wandered along the
Rhine.
Finally the ensign came. “What’s up now?”
“Sit down,” said Frank Braun. “Shut up. Don’t ask. Eat, drink
and be merry!”
He gave him a hundred Mark bill. Pay my bill with this. You can
keep the rest–and tell them up there that I’ve gone to Berlin–with a
pass! I want the Sergeant-major to know that I will be back before the
end of the week.”
The blonde ensign stared at him in outright admiration, “Just tell
me–how did you do it?”
“My secret,” said Frank Braun. “But it wouldn’t do you any
good if I did tell you. His Excellency will only be good-natured
enough to fall for it once. Prosit!”
The ensign brought him to the train and handed his suitcase up to
him. Then he waved his hat and handkerchief.
Frank Braun stepped back from the window and forgot in that
same instant the little ensign, his co-prisoners and the fortress. He
spoke with the conductor, stretched out comfortably in his sleeper,
closed his eyes and went to sleep. The conductor had to shake him
very hard to wake him up.
“Where are we?” he asked drowsily.
“Almost to Friedrichstrasse station.”
He gathered his things together, climbed out and went to the
hotel. He got a room, bathed, changed clothes and then went down for
breakfast. He ran into Dr. Petersen at the door.
“Oh there you are dear Doctor! His Excellency will be
overjoyed!”
His Excellency! Again his Excellency! It sounded wrong to his
ears.
“How is my uncle?” he asked. “Better?”
“Better?” repeated the doctor. “What do you mean better? His
Excellency has not been sick!”
“Is that so,” said Frank Braun. “Not sick! That’s too bad. I
thought uncle was on his deathbed.”
Dr. Petersen looked at him very bewildered. “I don’t understand
at all–”
He interrupted him, “It’s not important. I am only sorry that the
Privy Counselor is not on his deathbed. That would have been so
nice! Then I would have inherited right? Unless he has disowned me.
That is also very possible–even more likely.”
He saw the bewildered doctor standing before him and fed on his
discomfort for a moment.
Then he continued, “But tell me doctor, since when has my uncle
been called his Excellency?”
“It’s been four days, the opportunity–”
He interrupted him, “Only four days! And how many years now
have you been with him–as his right hand?”
“Now that would be at least ten years now,” replied Dr. Petersen.
“And for ten years you have called him Privy Councilor and he
has replied back to you. But now in these four days he has become so
completely his Excellency to you that you can’t even think of him any
other way than in the third person?”
“Permit me, Herr Doctor,” said the assistant doctor, intimidated
and pleading. Permit me to–What do you mean anyway?”
But Frank Braun took him under the arm and led him to the
breakfast table.
“Oh, I know that you are a man of the world doctor! One with
form and manners–with an inborn instinct for proper behavior–I know
that–and now doctor, let’s have breakfast and you can tell me what
you have been up to in the meantime.”
Doctor Petersen gratefully sat down, thoroughly reconciled and
happy that was over with. This young attorney that he had known as a
young schoolboy was quite a windbag and a true hothead–but he was
the nephew–of his Excellency.
The assistant doctor was about thirty-six. He was average and
Frank Braun thought that everything about him was “average”. His
nose was not large or small. His features were not ugly or handsome.
He was not young anymore and yet he wasn’t old. The color
of his hair was exactly in the middle between dark and light. He
wasn’t stupid or brilliant either, not exactly boring and yet not
entertaining. His clothes were not elegant and yet not ordinary either.
He was a good “average” in all things and just the man the Privy
Councilor needed. He was a competent worker, intelligent enough to
grasp and do what was asked of him and yet not intelligent enough to
know everything about this colorful game his master played.
“By the way, how much does my uncle pay you?” Frank Braun
asked.
“Oh, not exactly splendid–but it is enough,” was the answer.
“I’m happy with it. At New Years I was given a four hundred Mark
raise.”
The doctor looked hungrily as the nephew began his breakfast
with fruit, eating an apple and a handful of cherries.
“What kind of cigars do you smoke?” the attorney inquired.
“What I smoke? Oh, an average kind–Not too strong–he
interrupted himself. But why do you ask doctor?”
“Only because,” said Frank Braun, “it interests me–But now tell
me what you have already done in these things. Has the Privy
Councilor shared his plans with you?”
“Certainly,” the doctor nodded proudly. “I am the only one that
knows–except for you of course. This effort is of the highest scientific
importance.”
The attorney cleared his throat, “Hmm–you think so?”
“Entirely without a doubt,” confirmed the doctor. “And his
Excellency is so extremely gifted to have thought it all out, taking
care of every possible problem ahead of time. You know how careful
you have to be these days. The foolish public is always attacking us
doctors for so many of our absolutely important experiments. Take
vivisection–God, the people become sick when they hear the word.
What about our experiments with germs, vaccines and so on? They
are all thorns in the eyes of the public even though we almost always
only work with animals. And now, this question of artificial
insemination of people–
His Excellency has found the only possibility in an executed
murderer and a paid prostitute. Even the people loving pastor would
not have much against it.”
“Yes, it is a splendid idea,” Frank Braun confirmed. “It is well
that you can recognize the capacity of your superior.”
Then Dr. Petersen reported how his Excellency had made several
attempts in Cologne with his help. Unfortunately they had not had any
success in finding an appropriate female. It turned out that these
creatures in this class of the population had very different ideas about
having to endure artificial insemination. It was nearly impossible to
talk to them about it at all, much less persuade one to actually do it. It
didn’t matter how eloquent his Excellency spoke or how hard he tried
to make them understand that it would not be dangerous at all; that
they would earn a nice piece of money and be doing the scientific
community a great service. One had screamed loudly that she would
rather service the entire scientific community–and made a very rude
gesture.
“Pfui!” Frank Braun said. “If only she could!”
It was a very good thing that his Excellency had the opportunity
to travel to Berlin for the Gynecological Conference. Here in the
metropolis there would no doubt be a much wider selection to choose
from. The women in question would not be as stupid as in the
province, would have less superstitious fear of the new and be more
open and practical regarding the money they could make and the
important service they could provide to the advancement of science.
“Especially the last!” Frank Braun emphasized.
Dr. Petersen obliged him with:
“It is unbelievable how old fashioned their ideas are in Cologne!
Every Guinea pig, yes, even every monkey is infinitely more
insightful and reasonable than those females. I almost lost my faith in
the towering intellect of humanity. I hope that here I can regain that
shaken belief and make it solid once more.”
“There is no doubt about it,” the attorney encouraged him. “It
would be a real shame indeed if Berlin’s prostitutes couldn’t do any
better than Guinea-pigs and monkeys!
By the way, when is my uncle coming? Is he up already?”
“Oh, he’s been up for a long time now,” declared the assistant
doctor zealously. “His Excellency left immediately. He had a ten
o’clock audience at the Ministry.”
“And after that?” Frank Braun asked.
“I don’t know how long it will last,” reasoned Doctor Petersen.
“In any case his Excellency requested I wait for him in the auditorium
at two o’clock. Then at five o’clock his Excellency has another
important meeting with a Berlin colleague here in the hotel and
around seven his Excellency is invited to eat with the university
president.
Herr Doctor, perhaps you could meet in between–”
Frank Braun considered. Basically he was in favor of his uncle
being occupied the entire day. Then his uncle wouldn’t be around to
interfere with his day.
I want you to deliver a message to my uncle,” he said. “Tell him
we will meet up downstairs in the hotel around eleven o’clock.”

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Chapter Three
Informs how Frank Braun persuaded the Privy Councilor to
create Alraune

THEY sat in the carriage, Professor Ten Brinken and his
nephew. They didn’t speak. Frank Braun leaned back
staring straight ahead, sunk deeply into his thoughts. The
Privy Councilor was observing, squinting over at him
watchfully.
The trip lasted scarcely half an hour. They rolled along the open
road, turned to the right, went downhill over the rough road to
Lendenich. There in the middle of the village lay the birthplace of the
Brinken family.
It was a large, almost square complex with gardens and a park.
Back from the street stood a row of insignificant old buildings. They
turned around a corner past a shrine of the patron Saint of the village,
the Holy Saint John of Nepomuk. His statue was decorated with
flowers and lit with two eternal lamps that were placed in niches by
the corners.
The horses stopped in front of a large mansion. A servant shut
the fenced gate behind them and opened the carriage door.
“Bring us some wine Aloys,” commanded the Privy Councilor.
“We will be in the library.”
He turned to his nephew. “Will you be sleeping here Frank? Or
should the carriage wait?”
The student shook his head, “Neither, I will go back to the city
on foot.”
They walked across the courtyard, entered the lower level of the
house at a door on the right hand side. It was literally a great hall with
a tiny antechamber and a couple of other small rooms nearby.
The walls were lined with long immense shelves containing
thousands of books. Low glass cases stood here and there full of
Roman artifacts. Many graves had been emptied, robbed of their
cherished and carefully preserved treasures. The floor was covered in
thick carpet. There were a couple of desks, armchairs and sofas that
stood scattered around the room.
They entered. The Privy Councilor threw his alraune on a divan.
They lit candles, pulled a couple of chairs together and sat down. The
servant uncorked a dusty bottle.
“You can go,” said his master. “But don’t go too far. The young
gentleman will be leaving and you will need to let him out.”
“Well?” he turned to his nephew.
Frank Braun drank. He picked the root manikin up and toyed
with it. It was still a little moist and appeared to be almost flexible.
“It is clear enough,” he murmured. “There are the eyes–both of
them. The nose pokes up there and that opening is the mouth. Look
here Uncle Jakob. Doesn’t it look as if it is smiling? The arms are
somewhat diminutive and the legs have grown together at the knees.
It is a strange thing.”
He held it high, turned it around in all directions.
“Look around Alraune!” he cried. “This is your new home. You
will be much happier here with Herr Jakob ten Brinken than you were
in the house of the Gontrams.”
“You are old,” he continued. “four hundred, perhaps six hundred
years old or even more. Your father was hung because he was a
murderer or a horse thief, or else because he made fun of some great
knight in armor or in priestly robes.
The important thing is that he was a criminal in his time and they
hanged him. At the last moment of his life his seed fell to the earth
and created you, you strange creature. Then your mother earth took
the seed of this criminal into her fertile womb, secretly fashioned and
gave birth to you.
You the great, the all-powerful–Yes you, you miserable ugly
creature!–Then they dug you up at the midnight hour, at the
crossroads, shaking in terror at your howling, shrieking screams.
The first thing you saw as you looked around in the moonlight
was your father hanging there on the gallows with a broken neck and
his rotting flesh hanging in tatters.
They took you with them, these people that had tied the noose
around your father. They held you, carried you home. You were
supposed to bring money into their house. Blood money and young
love.
They knew well that you would bring pain, misery, despair and
in the end a horrible death. They knew it and still they wanted you,
still they dug you up, still they took you home, selling their souls for
love and money.”
The Privy Councilor said, “You have a beautiful way of seeing
things my boy. You are a dreamer.”
“Yes,” said the student. “That’s what I am–just like you.”
“Like me?” the professor laughed. “Now I think that part of my
life is long gone.”
But his nephew shook his head, “No Uncle Jakob. It isn’t. Only
you can make real what other people call fantastic. Just think of all
your experiments! For you it is more like child’s play that may or may
not lead to some purpose.
But never, never would a normal person come up with your
ideas. Only a dreamer could do it–and only a savage, a wildman, that
has the hot blood of the Brinkens flowing through his veins. Only he
would dare attempt what you should now do Uncle Jakob.”
The old man interrupted him, indignant and yet at the same time
flattered.
“You crazy boy!–You don’t even know yet if I will have any
desire to do this mysterious thing you keep talking about and I still
don’t have the slightest idea what it is!”
The student didn’t pause, his voice rang lightly, confidently and
every syllable was convincing.
“Oh, you will do it Uncle Jakob. I know that you will do it, will
do it because no one else can, because you are the only person in the
world that can make it happen. There are certainly a few other
professors that are attempting some of the same things you have
already done, perhaps even gone further.
But they are normal people, dry, wooden–men of science. They
would laugh in my face if I came to them with my idea, would chide
me for being a fool. Or else they would throw me completely out the
door, because I would dare come to them with such things, such
thoughts, thoughts that they would call immoral and objectionable.
Such ideas that dare trespass on the craft of the Great Creator and play
a trick on all of nature.
You will not laugh at me Uncle Jakob, not you! You will not
laugh at me or throw me out the door. It will fascinate you the same
way it fascinates me. That’s why you are the only person that can do
it!”
“But what then, by all the gods,” cried the Privy Councilor,
“what is it?”
The student stood up, filled both glasses to the rims.
“A toast, old sorcerer,” he cried. “A toast! To a newer, younger
wine that will flow out of your glass tubes. Toast, Uncle Jakob to your
new living alraune–your new child!”
He clinked his glass against his uncle’s, emptied it in a gulp and
threw it high against the ceiling where it shattered. The shards fell
soundlessly on the heavy carpet.
He pulled his chair closer.
“Now listen uncle and I will tell you what I mean. I know you
are really impatient with my long introduction–Don’t think ill of me.
It has helped me put my thoughts in order, to stir them up, to make
them comprehensible and tangible.
Here it is:
You should create a living alraune, Uncle Jakob, turn this old
legend into reality. Who cares if it is superstition, a ghostly delusion
of the Middle Ages or mystic flim-flam from ancient times?
You, you can make the old lies come true. You can create it. It
can stand there in the light of day tangible for all the world to see–No
stupid professor would be able to deny it.
Now pay attention, this is what needs to be done!
The criminal, uncle, you can find easily enough. I don’t think it
matters if he dies on a gallows at a crossroads. We are a progressive
people. Our prisons and guillotine are convenient, convenient for you
as well. Thanks to your connections it will be easy to obtain and save
the rare seed of the dead that will bring forth new life.
And Mother Earth?–What is her symbol? What does she
represent? She is fertility, uncle. The earth is the feminine, the
woman. She takes the semen, takes it into her womb, nourishes it, lets
it germinate, grow, bloom and bear fruit. So you take what is fertile
like the earth herself–take a woman.
But Mother Earth is the eternal prostitute, she serves all. She is
the eternal mother, is always for sale, the prostitute of billions. She
refuses her lascivious love to none, offers herself gladly to anyone
that will take her. Everything that lives has been fertilized in her
glorious womb and she has given birth to it. It has always been this
way throughout the ages.
That is why you must use a prostitute Uncle Jakob. Take the
most shameless, the cheekiest one of them all. Take one that is born to
be a whore, not one that is driven to her profession or one that is
seduced into it for money. Oh no, not one of those. Take one that is
already wanton, that learns as she goes, one whose shame is her
greatest pleasure and reason for living. You must choose her. Only
her womb would be like the mother earth’s. You know how to find
her. You are rich–You are no school boy in these things.
You can pay her a lot of money, purchase her services for your
research. If she is the right one she will reel with laughter, will press
her greasy bosom against you and kiss you passionately–She will do
this because you have offered her something that no other man has
offered her before.

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OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 23

When little Karl Schuh was two years old and already a very independent gentleman, Frau Hermine decided it was finally time to introduce him to his grandfather.

He marched stoutly through all the rooms on his chubby legs, and if someone tried to take his hand on the street, he’d swat it away and say, “All by myself!” He climbed onto every chair and recently pulled the crocheted cover off the dresser, along with vases, clocks, glass eggs, porcelain lambs, and other knickknacks, then tried to excuse himself for the mess. He dipped his finger in stove soot, smearing the walls with wild drawings, and held hour-long conversations with himself—in short, he was such a wonder that his mother could no longer justify withholding him from his grandfather.

She had planned a visit to Kobenzl soon after settling the ugly lawsuit business, where the father now lived permanently after selling his Vienna house. But with a small child, it was a cumbersome affair, and when they might have managed, the Freiherr was traveling abroad.

It was said he had conducted experiments on sensitivity and Od in London at Lord Cowper’s house, Palmerston’s stepson, then traveled to Berlin for an extended stay. The university there had even provided him two rooms, but the Berlin scholars had been utterly dismissive, impossible to convince. They either didn’t attend his demonstrations or, when they did, sniffed, nitpicked, and criticized so much that nothing fruitful came of it.

Karl Schuh sometimes brought home newspapers with mentions of Freiherr von Reichenbach. They recalled the Freiherr who, years ago, made waves claiming to discover a new natural force called Od, asserting the boldest claims about it. He had locked his unfortunate victims in a darkroom until their eyes began to glimmer in the gloom. Science had long moved past this quirk of an otherwise distinguished man, but the Freiherr kept the learned world on edge with his fierce attacks. The fiery old gentleman lashed out like a berserker, and his polemics, flooding the public, were as notable for their lack of logic as for their excessive tone. Yet all this couldn’t gain recognition for his Od, and recently the Berlin scholars had unequivocally rejected Herr von Reichenbach and his supposed force.

Schuh brought the papers to Hermine but didn’t comment further. “Whatever may be said of the Od,” Hermine remarked, “I think it’s unnecessary to mock such honest endeavor!”

Karl Schuh shrugged.

“There might be a force, invisible rays, so to speak, carriers of the soul’s faculties in people.”

Hermine received no response to this either.

“And I find it petty and mean when they hint here that Father lost his fortune and now owns nothing but the Kobenzl castle. I’ll finally visit him in the next few days. You don’t mind, do you?”

No, Schuh had no objections. Hermine could go and take the boy. He himself would hold back; he couldn’t be expected to make the first move, having been so gravely insulted. The Freiherr would have to come first.

The Freiherr had long since returned and was hurling invectives against his adversaries from his study. Hermine planned week after week to visit her father, but something always intervened—bad weather, little Karl’s cold, a big laundry day. As a housewife and mother, she couldn’t just leave at will.

Then came that letter from Italy, from Venice. Such letters from Venice didn’t arrive often but came at intervals, so Hermine was never too long in the dark about Ottane’s fate. She now knew Ottane’s story but hadn’t initially dared to share the truth with her husband.

Schuh, when he finally learned, showed much understanding and heart. He stood on a higher plane, with a broad view of the world; his notions of morality weren’t so narrow. They had arranged things—fine, he wasn’t appointed Ottane’s judge. He only asked once, “Why don’t they marry?”

Hermine passed the question to Venice and received a reply after some weeks. Ottane felt she should no longer conceal how things stood with Max Heiland. He was at risk of going blind—or perhaps, it wasn’t clear from her letter—he was already blind, and he resisted binding Ottane to him with an indissoluble bond. As long as her heart urged her to stay with him, he accepted it as heaven’s grace, but he didn’t want her free sacrifice turned into a rigid duty.

“He’s actually a damned decent fellow,” Schuh said after reflection. “I wouldn’t have expected that from him.”

The envelope of today’s letter from Venice bore not Ottane’s handwriting but that of a stranger. An unknown wrote on behalf of Herr Max Heiland, prevented by his eye condition from writing himself. He wrote that he regrettably had a deeply sorrowful message to convey, which he received with resignation to God’s will. Fräulein Ottane von Reichenbach had died after brief, severe suffering, comforted by religion’s rites, from typhus. Unfortunately, the undersigned, a German doctor, had been called too late, after the Italian colleagues declared themselves unable to save her. A few lines were enclosed for comfort, and it was noted that notices had also gone to Freiherr von Reichenbach and Professor Semmelweis in Pest, the undersigned’s esteemed teacher, whom the dying woman had wished notified.

“So these wretched papists botched the poor thing,” Schuh said angrily. He channeled his grief into furious rage, railing against Italy, its doctors, the climate, and life there—but at bottom, he raged against fate for inflicting such incomprehensible cruelty on the person, after Hermine and his boy, he loved most.

Hermine battled her pain for two days, while little Karl cowered under the table, uncomprehending why his mother wept ceaselessly and his father cursed.

Then Hermine said, “Tomorrow I’ll go to Kobenzl to see Father. I imagined my first visit with him differently, bringing the child. But perhaps the boy will be some consolation and joy to him.”

When she and the child prepared to leave the next day, Schuh opened his wardrobe and began dressing too.

“Not going to the factory?” Hermine asked.

“No, I’m coming with you,” Schuh grumbled. He had the right to use the factory carriage but rarely did. Today, however, he’d ordered it; it waited outside, and they drove off together into the blissful summer day, full of sun and colors. For little Karl, the ride was a journey to fairyland—wonders followed one after another; he crowed endlessly with delight. Over his blond head, the parents exchanged glances; they understood each other, full of confidence. However sadly and incomprehensibly cruel some decrees were, there were consolations bringing light even to the darkest soul.

The access roads to Reisenberg were far from good, torn up by deep ruts where the carriage jolted forward, sometimes throwing their heads together with a sudden lurch. The mulberry trees the Freiherr had planted stood wild along the roadsides. There were now enough leaves for armies of silkworms to gorge themselves, but where were the silkworms, where was the careful husbandry of the estate’s model days? It was clear Reichenbach had sold the estate, and the creditor to whom it was transferred cared little for it, thinking only of further sales.

The castle itself showed Reichenbach’s neglect. It wasn’t just the subtle signs of decay but an indefinable air of cold, surly rejection that made Hermine uneasy. It no longer gazed freely and cheerfully into the landscape; it lay closed off, ill-tempered, like a sullen fortress. And the great cast-iron dog on the terrace, the Molossus from Blansko’s foundry, with its grim face, seemed now the true emblem of the house. Little Karl was transfixed by the iron beast, standing before it as if waiting for it to suddenly bark.

Meanwhile, Schuh pulled the bell at the entrance by the garden hall, now boarded up with weathered planks in the middle of summer. It took a long time before anyone came, and even then, the door opened only a narrow crack, as far as an iron chain inside allowed. One might think the woman whose head appeared in the gap had modeled her expression on the cast-iron Molossus.

“The Herr Baron isn’t home!” she grumbled with blunt certainty, without waiting for an explanation.

“Just announce us to the Herr Baron,” said Schuh, irritated by this broad face with coarse cheekbones and thick lips.

“You’ve heard he’s not home,” the woman snapped.

“Tell him his daughter Hermine is here with her husband and child.”

The woman pulled a brazen, mocking grimace that Schuh would have loved to smash with his fist. “Even if the Emperor of China were here, he’d have to turn back. The Herr Baron wants to see no one… and you least of all, got it?”

Schuh’s patience ran out. He shoved the woman in the chest and tried to wedge his foot in the door to force entry. But the chain held, and the woman, a broad, solid, heavy figure, threw herself against the intruder, pushed him back, and slammed the door shut.

There stood Schuh and Hermine, staring at each other, at a loss for words. What kind of gatekeeper had the father hired? The house was indeed a fortress, guarded by a woman with the devil in her.

“Aren’t we going to Grandfather’s?” asked little Karl, finally tearing himself from the dog.

“No, not today,” Hermine said in a choked voice. “Grandfather isn’t home.”

They went to the carriage waiting on the road. On a terrace bench overlooking the city sat an old man.

“That’s Severin,” said Hermine. Yes, Severin—he would lead them to her father, he’d muzzle that Cerberus.

Severin nodded with an enigmatic smile and rose slowly, leaning on a stick beside him.

“What kind of fury do you have at the door?” Schuh asked, still furious.

“Oh,” Severin chuckled, “she’s got hair on her teeth!”

“Take us to Father,” Hermine pleaded.

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