Anarchistbanjo's World

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–”

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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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