Anarchistbanjo's World

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

The coachman watched for a long time as Frank Braun went into
the garden, spit, thoughtfully shook his head, then crossed himself.
One evening Frieda Gontram sat on the stone bench under the
copper beeches. He stepped up to her and offered his hand.
“Back already Frieda?”
“The two months are gone,” she said.
He put his hand to his forehead.
“Gone,” he murmured. “It scarcely seems like a week to me.
How goes it with your brother?” he continued.
“He is dead,” she replied, “for a long time now. Vicar Schrőder
and I buried him up there, in Davos.”
“Dead,” he responded.
Then as if to chase the thought away he quickly asked, “What
else is new out there? We live like hermits, never go out of the
garden.”
“The princess died of a stroke,” she began. “Countess Olga– ”
But he didn’t let her continue.
“No, no,” he cried. “Say nothing. I don’t want to hear. Death,
death and more death–Be quiet Frieda, be quiet!”
Now he was happy that she was there. They spoke very little to
each other, but they sat together quietly, secretly, when the Fräulein
was in the house. Alraune resented that Frieda Gontram was back.
“Why did she come? I won’t have it! I want no one here except
you.”
“Let her be,” he said. “She is not in the way, hides herself
whenever she can.”
Alraune said, “She is together with you when I’m not there. I
know it. She better be careful!”
“What will you do?” he asked.
She answered, “Do? Nothing! Have you forgotten that I don’t
need to do anything? It all happens by itself.”
Once again resistance awoke in him.
“You are dangerous,” he said. “Like a poisonous berry.”
She raised her lips, “Why does she nibble then? I ordered her to
stay away forever!–But you changed it to two months. It is your
fault.”
“No,” he cried. “That is not true. She would have drown herself–
”
“So much the better!” laughed Alraune.
He bit his teeth together, grabbed her arms and shook her.
“You are a witch!” he hissed. “Someone should kill you.”
She didn’t defend herself, even when his fingers pressed deeply
into her flesh.
“Who?” she laughed. “You?”
“Yes me!” he screamed. “Me! I planted the seed of this
poisonous tree–so I am the one to find an axe and chop it down–to
free the world of you!”
“Do it,” she piped gently. “Do it, Frank Braun!”
Her mockery flowed like oil on the fire that burned in him. Haze
rose hot and red in front of his eyes, pressed stuffily into his mouth.
His features became distorted. He quickly let go of her and raised his
clenched fists.
“Hit me,” she cried. “Hit me! I want you to!”
At that his arms sank, his poor will drowned in the flood of her
caresses.
That night he awoke. A flickering light fell on him coming from
the large silver candlestick that stood on the fireplace. He lay on his
great-grandmother’s mighty bed. Over him, directly over him, the
little wooden man was suspended.
“If it falls, it will kill me,” he thought half-asleep. “I must take it
down.”
Then his gaze fell to the foot of the bed. There crouched Alraune,
soft words sounded from her mouth, something rattled lightly in her
hands. He turned his head a little and peered over at her. She held the
dice cup–her mother’s skull, threw the dice–her father’s bones.
“Nine,” she muttered, “and seven–sixteen!”
Again she put the bone dice in the skull dice cup, shook it noisily
back and forth.
“Eleven,” she cried.
“What are you doing?” he interrupted.
She turned around, “I’m playing. I couldn’t go to sleep–so I’m
playing.”
“What are you playing?” he asked.
She glided over to him, quickly, like a smooth little snake.
“I’m playing ‘How it will be’, How it will be–with you and with
Frieda Gontram!”
“Well–and how will it be?” he asked again.
She drummed with her fingers on his chest.
“She will die,” she twittered. “Frieda Gontram will die.”
“When,” he pressed.
“I don’t know,” she spoke. “Soon, very soon!”
He tightened his fingers together, “Well – and how about me?”
She said, “I don’t know. You interrupted me. Should I continue
to play?”
“No,” he cried. “No! I don’t want to know!”
He fell silent, brooding heavily, then startled suddenly, sat up
and stared at the door. Light steps shuffled past. Very distinctly he
heard the floorboards creak. He sprang out of bed, took a couple steps
to the door and listened intently. Now they were gliding up the stairs.
Then he heard her clear laughter behind him.
“Let her be!” she tinkled. “What do you want from her?”
“Why should I leave it alone?” he asked. “Who is it?”
She laughed even more, “Who? Frieda Gontram! Your fear is too
early, my knight! She still lives!”
He came back, sat on the edge of the bed.
“Bring me some wine!” he cried. “I want something to drink!”
She sprang up, ran into the next room, brought the crystal carafe,
let the burgundy bleed into the polished goblets.
“She always runs around,” Alraune explained, “day and night.
She says she can’t sleep, so she climbs through the entire house.”
He didn’t hear what she was saying, gulped the wine down and
reached the goblet out to her again.
“More,” he demanded. “Give me more!”
“No,” she said. “Not like that! Lay back down. You will drink
from me if you are thirsty.”
She pressed his head down onto the pillows, kneeled in front of
him on the floor, took a sip of wine and gave it to him in her mouth.
He became drunk from the wine, even more drunk from the lips that
reached out to him.
The sun burned at noon. They sat on the marble edge of the pool
and splashed in the water with their feet.
“Go into my room,” she said. “On my dresser is a hook, on the
left hand side. Bring it to me.”
“No,” he replied. “You shouldn’t fish. What would you do with
the little goldfish?”
“Do it!” she spoke.
He stood up and went into the mansion. He went into her room,
picked up the hook and examined it critically. Then he smiled in
satisfaction.
“Well, she won’t catch many with this thing here!” But then he
interrupted himself.
Heavy lines creased his forehead, “Not catch many? She would
catch goldfish even if she threw in a meat hook!”
His glance fell on the bed, then up to the little root man. He
threw the hook into the corner and grabbed a chair in sudden resolve.
He placed it by the bed, climbed up and with a quick pull tore the
little alraune down. He gathered some paper together, threw it into the
fireplace, lit it and laid the little man on top.
He sat down on the floor watching the flames. But they only
devoured the paper, didn’t even singe the alraune, only blackened it.
And it seemed to him that it laughed, as if its ugly face pulled into a
grimace–yes, into Uncle Jakob’s grin! And then–then the phlemy
laugh sounded again–echoed from the corners.
He sprang up, took his knife from the table, opened the sharp
blade and grabbed the little man from out of the fire. The wooden root
was hard and infinitely tough. He was only able to remove little
splinters, but he didn’t give up. He cut and cut, one little piece after
the other. Bright beads of sweat pearled on his forehead and his
fingers hurt from the unaccustomed work. He paused, took some fresh
paper, stacks of never read newspapers, threw the splinters on them,
sprinkled them with rose oil and Eau de Cologne.
Ah, now it burned, blazed, and the flames doubled his strength.
Faster and stronger, he removed more slivers from the wood, always
giving new nourishment to the fire. The little man became smaller,
lost its arms and both legs. Yet it never gave up, defended itself, the
point of a splinter stuck deeply into his finger. But he smeared the
ugly head with his blood, grinned, laughed and cut new slivers from
its body.
Then her voice rang, hoarse, almost broken.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
He sprang up, threw the last piece into the devouring flames. He
turned around and a wild, insane gleam showed in his green eyes.
“I’ve killed it!” he screamed.
“Me,” she moaned, “Me!”
She grabbed at her breast with both hands.
“It hurts,” she whispered. “It hurts.”
He walked past her, slammed the door shut–Yet an hour later he
lay again in her arms, greedily drinking her poisonous kisses.
It was true–He had been her teacher. By his hand they had
wandered through the park of love, deep onto the hidden path far from
broad avenues of the masses. But where the path ended in thick
underbrush he turned around, turned back from the steep abyss. There
she walked on laughing, untroubled and free of all fear or shyness.
She skipped in light easy dance steps. There was no red poisonous
fruit that grew in the park of love that her fingers did not pluck, her
smiling lips did not taste–
She learned from him how sweet the intoxication was when the
tongue sipped little drops of blood from the flesh of the lover. But her
desire was insatiable and her burning thirst unquenchable.
He was exhausted from her kisses that night, slowly untangled
himself from her limbs, closed his eyes and lay like a dead man, rigid
and unmoving. But he didn’t sleep. His senses remained clear and
awake despite his weariness. He lay like that for long hours.
The bright light of the full moon fell through the open window
onto the white bed. He heard how she stirred at his side, softly
moaned and whispered senseless words like she always did on such
full moon nights.
He heard her stand up, go singing to the window, then slowly
come back, felt how she bent over him and stared at him for a long
time. He didn’t move.

Read Full Post »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

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

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

Read Full Post »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

They swam around–Then he went into the house, brought her a
cloak. And when they turned to go back, hand in hand, under the
copper beeches she said:
“I thank you, my love!”
They lay naked in the red afterglow. Their bodies, that had been
one through the hot afternoon hours, fell apart–Broken and crushed by
their caresses, their fondling and sweet words, like the flowers, like
the tender grass, over which their love storm had broken. The
firebrand lay dead, had devoured itself with greedy teeth. Out of the
ashes grew a cruel, steel hard hatred.
They looked at each other–now they knew that they were mortal
enemies. The long red lines on her thighs now seemed disgusting and
unseemly to him, the spittle ran in his mouth as if he had sucked a
bitter poison out of her lips. The little wounds that her teeth and her
nails had torn hurt and burned, swelling up–
“She has poisoned me,” he thought. “Like she once did Dr.
Petersen.”
Her green gaze smiled over at him, provoking, mocking and
impudent. He closed his eyes, bit his lips together, and curled his
fingers into fists. Then she stood up, turned around and kicked him
with her foot, carelessly and contemptuously.
He sprang up at that, stood in front of her, their glances crossed–
Not one word came out of her mouth, but she pouted her lips, raised
her arm, spit at him, slapped him in the face with her hand.
Then he threw himself at her, shook her body, whirled her
around by her hair, flung her to the ground, kicked her, beat her,
choked her tightly by the neck. She defended herself well. Her nails
shredded his face, her teeth bit into his arm and his chest. And with
blood foaming at their mouths, their lips searched and found each
other, took each other in a rutting frenzy of burning desire and pain–
Then he seized her, flung her several meters away, so that she
fainted, sinking down onto the lawn. He staggered a few steps further,
sank down and stared up into the blue heavens, without desire,
without will–listening to his temples pound–until his eyelids sank–
When he awoke, she was kneeling at his feet, drying the blood
out of his wounds with her hair, ripping her shift into long strips,
bandaging him skillfully–
“Let’s go, my love,” she said. “Evening falls.”
Little blue eggshells lay on the path. He searched in the bushes,
found the plundered nest of a crossbill.
“Those pesky squirrels,” he cried. “There are far too many in the
park. They will drive out all of our song birds.”
“What should we do?” she asked.
He said, “Shoot a few.”
She clapped her hands.
“Yes, yes,” she laughed. “We will go on a hunt!”
“Do you have some kind of a gun?” he asked.
She considered, “No, –I believe there are none, at least none that
we can use–We must buy one–But wait,” she interrupted herself,
“The old coachman has one. Sometimes he shoots the stray cats when
they poach.”
He went to the stables.
“Hello Froitsheim,” he cried. “Do you have a gun?”
“Yes,” replied the old man. “Should I go get it?”
He nodded, then he asked, “Tell me old man. Do you still want
to let your great-grandchildren ride on Bianca? They were here last
Sunday–but I didn’t see you setting them on the donkey.”
The old man growled, went into his room, took a rifle down from
the wall, came back, sat down quietly, cleaning it and getting it ready.
“Well?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to answer me?”
Froitsheim chewed with dry lips.
“I don’t want to,” he grumbled.
Frank Braun laid a hand on his shoulder, “Be reasonable old
man, say what is on your heart. I think you can speak freely with me!”
Then the coachman said, “I will accept nothing from the
Fräulein–don’t want any gifts from her. I receive my bread and
wages–for that I work. I don’t want any more than that.”
Frank Braun felt that no persuasion would help getting through
his hard skull. Then he hit upon an idea, threw in a little bait that the
old man could chew on–
“If the Fräulein asked something special of you, would you do
it?”
“No,” said the stubborn old man. “No more than my duty.”
“But if she paid you extra,” he continued. “Then would you do
it?”
The coachman still didn’t want to agree.
“That would depend–” he chewed.
“Don’t be pig headed, Froitsheim!” laughed Frank Braun. “The
Fräulein–not I–wants to borrow your gun to shoot squirrels–That has
absolutely nothing to do with your duty, and because of that–do you
understand, in return–she will allow you to let the children ride on the
donkey–It is a trade. Will you do it?”
“Yes,” said the old man grinning. “I will.”
He handed the rifle over to him, took a box of cartridges out of a
drawer.
“I will throw these in as well!” he spoke. “That way I’ve paid
well and am not in her debt–Are you going out riding this afternoon,
young Master?” he continued.
“Good, the horses will be ready around five-o’clock.”–Then he
called the stable boy, sent him running out to the cobbler’s wife, his
granddaughter, to let her know that she should send the children up
that evening–
Early the next morning Frank Braun stood under the acacia that
kissed the Fräulein’s window, gave his short whistle. She opened,
called down that she would be right there. Her light steps rang clearly
on the flagstones, with a leap she was down from the terrace, over the
steps, into the garden and standing in front of him.
“Look at you!” she cried. “In a kimono? Do people go hunting
like that?”
He laughed, “Well, it will do just fine for squirrels– But look at
you!”
She was dressed as a Wallenstein hunter.
“Holk Regiment!” she cried. “Do you like it?”
She wore high yellow riding boots, a green jerkin and an
enormous grayish green hat with waving plumes. An old pistol was
stuck into her belt and a long sabre beat against her leg.
“Take that off,” he said. “The game will be terrified of you if you
go hunting like that.”
She pouted her lips.
“Aren’t I pretty,” she asked.
He took her into his arms, quickly kissed her lips.“You are
charming, you vain little monkey,” he laughed. “And your Holk
hunting outfit will do just as well as my kimono for squirrels.”
He unbuckled the sabre and the long spurs, laid her flintlock
pistol aside and took up the coachman’s rifle.
“Now come, comrade,” he cried. “Tally ho!”
They went through the garden walking softly, peering through
the bushes and into the tops of the trees. He pushed a cartridge into
the rifle and cocked it.
“Have you ever shot a gun before?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” she nodded. “Wőlfchen and I went together to the big
church fair in Pützchen. We practiced there in the shooting gallery.”
“Good,” he said. “Then you know how you must hold it and aim
it.”
There was a rustling over them in the branches.
“Shoot,” she whispered. “Shoot! There is one above us!”
He raised the rifle and looked up, but then let it down again.
“No, not that one,” he declared. “That is a young one, scarcely a
year old. We will let it live for a while longer.”
They followed the brook until it came out of the birch trees into
the meadow. Fat June bugs buzzed in the sun, yellow butterflies
swung over the daisies. Whispering sounds were everywhere, crickets
chirping, bees buzzing, grasshoppers jumped at their feet in giant
leaps. Frogs croaked in the water and above–a little lark rejoiced.
They walked across the meadow to the copper beeches. There, right
on the border, they heard a frightened chirping, saw a little hen flutter
out of the bushes.
Frank Braun crept quietly ahead, looking sharply.
“There is the robber,” he murmured.
“Where?” she asked. “Where?”
But his shot already cracked–a heavy squirrel fell down from the
tree trunk. He raised it up by the tail, showed her where the bullet had
hit.
“It won’t plunder any more nests!” he said.
They hunted further through the large park. He shot a second
squirrel in the honeysuckle leaves and a third gray squirrel in the top
of a pear tree.
“You always shoot!” she cried. “Let me have the gun once!”
He gave it to her, showed her how to carry it, let her shoot into a
tree trunk a few times.
“Now come!” he cried. “Let’s see what you can do!”
He pushed the gun barrel down.
“Like this,” he instructed. “The muzzle always points toward the
ground and not into the air.”
Near the pool he saw a young animal playing in the path. She
wanted to shoot right away, but he called for her to sneak up a few
more steps.
“Now you’re close enough, let him have it.”
She shot–the squirrel looked around in astonishment, then
quickly sprang up a tree trunk and disappeared into the thick
branches. A second time didn’t go much better–She was much too far
away. But when she tried to get closer, the animals fled before she
could get a shot off.
“The stupid beasts,” she complained. “Why do they stand still for
you?”
She appeared charming to him in her childish anger.
“Apparently because they think I am their friend,” he laughed.
“You make too much noise in your leather riding boots, that’s what it
is! Just wait, we will get closer.”
Right by the mansion, where the hazel bushes pressed against the
acacias, he saw another squirrel.
“Stay here,” he whispered. “I will drive it out to you. Only look
there into those bushes and when you see it, whistle so I will know. It
will turn when you whistle–then shoot!”
He went around in a wide arc, sneaking through the bushes.
Finally he discovered the animal on a low acacia, drove it down, and
chased it into a hazel thicket. He saw that it was going in the right
direction toward Alraune so he backed up a little and waited for her
whistle. But he didn’t hear it. Then he went back in the same arc and
came out on the wide path behind her. There she stood, gun in hand,
staring intently into the bushes and a little off to her left–scarcely
three meters away, the squirrel merrily played in the hazel thicket.
“It’s over there,” he called out softly. “Over there, up a little and
to the left!”
She heard his voice, turned quickly around toward him. He saw
how her lips opened to speak, heard a shot at the same time and felt a
light pain in his side. Then he heard her shrill despairing scream, saw
how she threw the gun away and rushed toward him. She tore open
his kimono, grabbed at the wound with both hands.
He bowed his head, looked down. It was a long, but very light
surface wound that was scarcely bleeding. The skin was only burned,
showing a broad black line.
“Get the hangman!” he laughed. “That was close!–Right over the
heart.”
She stood in front of him, trembling, all of her limbs shaking,
scarcely able to stand up. He supported her, talked to her.
“It’s nothing, child. Nothing at all! We will wash it out with
something, then moisten it with oil–Think nothing of it!”
He pulled the kimono still further back, showed her his naked
chest. With straying fingers she felt the surface wound.
“Right over the heart,” she murmured. “Right over the heart!”
Then suddenly she grabbed her head with both hands. A sudden
fear seized her, she looked at him with a horrified gaze, tore herself
out of his arms, ran to the house, sprang up the stairs–

Read Full Post »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

“How do you like it?” she asked him.
“Why should the little man be there?” he retorted.
She said, “He belongs there!–I didn’t like the golden Cupid–That
is for all the other people–I want to have Galeotto, my root manikin.”
“Why do you call it that?” he asked.
“Galeotto!” she replied. “Wasn’t it him that brought us
together?–Now I want him to hang there, to watch over us through the
night.”
Sometimes they went out riding in the evenings or also during
the night if the moon was shining. They rode through the Sieben
Gerberge mountain range or to Rolandseck and into the wilderness
beyond.
Once they found a she-donkey at the foot of Dragon’s Rock in
the Sieben Geberge mountain range. People there used the animal for
riding up to the castle at the top. He bought her. She was a young
animal, well cared for and glistened like fresh snow. Her name was
Bianca. They took her with them, behind the horses on a long rope,
but the animal just stood there, planting her forelegs like a stubborn
mule, allowing herself to be choked and dragged along. Finally they
found a way to persuade her. In Kőnigswinter he bought a large bag
full of sugar, took the rope off Bianca and let her run free. He threw
her one piece of sugar after the other from out of the saddle. Soon the
she-donkey ran after them, keeping itself tight to his stirrup, snuffling
at his boots.
Old Froitsheim took the pipe out of his mouth as they came up,
spit thoughtfully and grinned agreeably.
“An ass,” he chewed. “A young ass! It’s been almost thirty years
since we’ve had one here in the stable. You know, young Master, how
I used to let you ride old gray Jonathan?” He got a bunch of carrots
and gave them to the animal, stroking her shaggy fur.
“What’s her name, young Master?” he asked.
Frank Braun told him her name.
“Come Bianca,” spoke the old man. “You will have it good here
with me. We will be friends.”
Then he turned again to Frank Braun.
“Young Master,” he continued. “I have three great-grandchildren
in the village, two little girls and a boy. They are the cobbler’s
children, on the road to Godesberg. They often come to visit me on
Sunday afternoons. May I let them ride the ass?–Just here in the
yard?”
He nodded, but before he could answer the Fräulein cried out:
“Why don’t you ask me, old man? It is my animal. He gave it to
me!–Now I want to tell you–you are permitted to ride her–even in the
gardens, when we are not home.”
Frank Braun’s glance thanked her–but not the old coachman. He
looked at her, half mistrusting and half surprised, grumbled something
incomprehensible and enticed the donkey into the stable with the
juicy carrots.
He called the stable boy, presented him to Bianca, then the
horses, one after the other–led her around behind the farmyard,
showed her the cow barn with the heavy Hollander cows and the
young calf of black and white Liese. He showed her the hounds, both
sharp pointers, the old guard dog and the cheeky fox terrier that was
sleeping in the stable. Brought her to the pigs, where the enormous
Yorkshire sow suckled her piglets, to the goats and the chicken coop.
Bianca ate carrots and followed him. It appeared that she liked it at
the Brinken’s.
Often in the afternoons the Fräulein’s clear voice rang out from
the garden.
“Bianca!” she cried. “Bianca!”
Then the old coachman opened her stall; swung the door open
wide and the little donkey came into the garden at an easy trot. She
would stop a few times, eat the green juicy leaves, indulge in the high
clover or wander around some more until the enticing call rang out
again, “Bianca!” Then she would search for her mistress.

They lay on the lawn under the ash trees. No table–only a large
platter lay on the grass covered with a white Damascus cloth. There
were many fruits, assorted tid-bits, dainties and sweets among the
roses. The wine stood to the side.
Bianca snuffled, scorned the caviar and no less the oysters,
turned away from the pies. But she took some cake and a piece of ice
out of the cooler, ate a couple of roses in between–
“Undress me!” said Alraune.
Then he loosened the eyes and hooks and opened the snaps.
When she was naked he lifted her onto the donkey. She sat astride on
the white animal’s back and held on lightly to the shaggy mane.
Slowly, step by step, she rode over the meadow. He walked by her
side, lying his right hand on the animal’s head. Bianca was clever,
proud of the slender boy whom she carried, didn’t stop once, but went
lightly with velvet hoofs.
There, where the dahlia bed ended, a narrow path led past the
little brook that fed the marble pool. She didn’t go over the wooden
bridge. Carefully, one foot after the other, Bianca waded through the
clear water. She looked curiously to the side when a green frog
jumped from the bank into the stream. He led the animal over to a
raspberry patch, picked the red berries and divided them with
Alraune, continued through the thick laurel bushes.
There, surrounded by thick elms, lay a large field of carnations.
His grandfather had laid it out for his good friend, Gottfried Kinkel,
who loved these flowers. Every week he had sent the poet a large
bouquet for as long as he lived. There were little feathery carnations,
tens of thousands of them, as far as the eye could see. All the flowers
glowed silver-white and their leaves glowed silvery green. They
gleamed far, far into the evening sun, a silver ground.
Bianca carried the pale girl diagonally across the field and then
back around. The white donkey stepped deeply through the silver
ocean; the wind made light waves that kissed her hoofs.
He stood on the border and watched her, drank in the sweet
colors until he was sated. Then she rode up to him.
“Isn’t it beautiful, my love?” she asked.
And he said sincerely, “–It is very beautiful–ride some more.”
She answered, “I am happy.”
Lightly she laid her hand behind the clever animal’s ears and it
stepped out, slowly, slowly, through shining silver–

“Why are you laughing?” she asked.
They sat on the terrace at the breakfast table and he was reading
his mail. There was a letter from Herr Manasse, who wrote him about
the Burberger mining shares.
“You have read in the newspapers about the gold strike in the
Hocheifel,” said the attorney. For the greatest part the gold has been
found on territory owned by the Burberger Association. It appears
very doubtful to me that these small veins of ore will be worth the
very considerable cost of refining it. Nevertheless, your shares that
were completely worthless four weeks ago, now, with the help of the
Association’s skillful press release have rapidly climbed in value and
have been at par for a week already.
Today, I heard through bank director Baller that they are
prepared to quote them at two hundred fourteen. Therefore I have
given your stocks over to my friend and asked him to sell them
immediately. That will happen tomorrow, perhaps they will obtain an
even higher rate of exchange.”
He handed the letter over to Alraune.
“Uncle Jakob himself, would have never dreamed of that,” he
laughed. “Otherwise he would have certainly left my mother and me
some different shares!”
She took the letter, carefully read it through to the end. Then she
let it sink, stared straight ahead into space. Her face was wax pale.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Yes he did–He did know it,” she said slowly. “He knew exactly
what he was doing!”
Then she turned to him.
“If you want to make money–don’t sell the shares,” she
continued and her voice rang with conviction.
“They will find still more gold–Your shares will climb still
higher–much higher.”
“It’s too late,” he said lightly. “By this hour the shares have
probably already been sold! Besides, are you all that certain?”
“Certain?” she repeated. “Certain? Who could be more certain
that I?”
She let her head sink down onto the table, sobbed out loud, “So it
begins–so–”
He stood up, laid his arm around her shoulder.
“Nonsense,” he said. “Beat that depression out of your brain!–
Come Alraune, we will go swimming. The fresh water will wash the
foolish cobwebs away. Chat with your mermaid sisters–they will
confirm that Melusine can bring no more harm once she has kissed
her lover.”
She pushed him away, sprang up, stood facing him, and looked
him straight in the eyes.
“I love you,” she cried. “Yes, I do–But it is not true–the magic
does not go away! I am no Melusine, am not the fresh water’s child! I
come out of the earth–and the night created me.”
Shrill tones rang from her lips–and he didn’t know if it was a sob
or a laugh–
He grabbed her in his strong arms, paid no attention to her
struggling and hitting. He held her like a wild child, carried her down
the steps and into the garden, carried her screaming over to the pool,
threw her in, as far as he could with all her clothes on.
She got up and stood for a moment in amazement, dazed and
confused. Then he let the cascades play and a splashing rain
surrounded her. She laughed loudly at that.
“Come,” she cried. “Come in too!”
She undressed and in high spirits threw her wet clothes at his
head.
“Aren’t you ready yet?” she urged. “Hurry up!”
When he was standing beside her she saw that he was bleeding.
The drops fell from his cheek, from his neck and left ear.
“I bit you,” she whispered.
He nodded. Then she raised herself up high, encircled his neck,
and drank the red blood with ardent lips.
“Now it is better,” she said.

Read Full Post »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Fifteen
Tells how Alraune lived in the park.
HE didn’t write his mother on that day, or the next, pushed it
off for another week and further–for months. He lived in
the large garden of the Brinkens, like he had done when he
was a boy, when he had spent his school vacations there.
They sat in the warm green houses or under the mighty cedars,
whose young sprouts had been brought from Lebanon by some pious
ancestor, or strolled under the Mulberry trees, past a small pool that
was deeply overshadowed by hanging willows.
The garden belonged to them that summer, to them alone,
Alraune and him. The Fräulein had given strict orders that none of the
servants were permitted to enter, not by day or by night. Not once
were the gardeners called for. They were sent away into the city,
charged with the maintenance of her gardens at her villas in Coblenz.
The renters were very happy and amazed at the Fräulein’s
attentiveness.
Only Frieda Gontram used the path. She never spoke a word
about what she suspected but didn’t know. But her pinched lips and
her evasive glance spoke loudly enough. She avoided meeting him on
the path and yet was always there as soon as he was together with
Alraune.
“What the blazes,” he grumbled. “I wish she was on top of
mount Blocksberg!”
“Is she bothering you?” asked Alraune.
“Doesn’t she bother you?” he retorted.
She replied, “I haven’t noticed. I scarcely pay any attention to
her.”
That evening he encountered Frieda Gontram by the blossoming
blackthorns. She stood up from her bench and turned to go. Her gaze
held a hot hatred.
He went up to her, “What is it Frieda?”
She said, “Nothing!–You can be satisfied now. You will soon be
free of me.”
“Why is that?” he asked.
Her voice trembled, “I must go–tomorrow! Alraune told me that
you didn’t want me here.”
An infinite misery spoke out of her glance.
“You wait here, Frieda. I will speak with her.”
He hurried into the house and came back after a short time.
“We have thought it over,” he began, “Alraune and I. It is not
necessary that you go away–forever. Frieda, it’s only that I make you
nervous with my presence–and you do the same for me, excuse me for
saying it. That’s why it would be better if you go on a journey–only
for awhile. Travel to Davos to visit your brother. Come back in two
months.”
She stood up, looked at him with questioning eyes that were still
full of fear.
“Is that the truth?” she whispered. “Only for two months?”
He answered, “Certainly it’s true. Why should I lie Frieda?”
She gripped his hand; a great joy made her face glow.
“I am very grateful to you!” she said. “Everything is alright
then–as long as I am permitted to come back!”
She said, “Goodbye,” and headed for the house, stopped
suddenly and came back to him.
“There is something else, Herr Doctor,” she said. “Alraune gave
me a check this morning but I tore it up, because–because–in short, I
tore it up. Now I will need some money. I don’t want to go to her–she
would ask–and I don’t want her to ask. For that reason–will you give
me the money?”
He nodded, “Naturally I will–Am I permitted to ask why you
tore the check up?”
She looked at him, shrugged her shoulders.
“I wouldn’t have needed the money any more if I had to leave
her forever–”
“Frieda,” he pressed, “where would you have gone?”
“Where?” A bitter laugh rang out from her thin lips. “Where?
The same place Olga went! Only, believe me, doctor. I would have
achieved my goal!”
She nodded lightly to him, walked away and disappeared
between the birch trees.
Early, when the young sun woke him, he came out of his room in
his kimono, went into the garden along the path that led past the trellis
and into the rose bed. He cut white Boule de Neige roses, Queen
Catharine roses, Victoria roses, Snow Queen roses and Merveille de
Lyon roses. Then he turned left where the larches and the silver fir
trees stood.
Alraune sat on the edge of the pool in a black silk robe, breaking
breadcrumbs, throwing them to the goldfish. When he came she
twined a wreath out of the pale roses, quickly and skillfully making a
crown for her hair.
She threw off her robe, sat in her lace negligee and splashed in
the cool water with her naked feet–She scarcely spoke, but she
trembled as his fingers lightly caressed her neck, when his soft breath
caressed her cheek. Slowly she took off the negligee and laid it on the
bronze mermaid beside her.
Six water nymphs sat around the marble edge of the pool pouring
water out of jugs and urns, spraying thin streams out of their breasts.
Various animals crept around them, giant lobsters, spiny lobsters,
turtles, fish, eels and other reptiles. In the middle of the pool Triton
blew his horn as chubby faced merfolk blew mighty streams of water
high into the air around him.
“Come, my friend,” she said.
Then they both climbed into the water. It was very cold and he
shivered, his lips became blue and goose bumps quickly appeared on
his arms. He had to swim vigorously, beat his arms and tread water to
warm his blood and get accustomed to the unusual temperature.
But she didn’t even notice, was in her element in an instant and
laughing at him. She swam around like a little frog.
“Turn the faucet on!” she cried.
He did it. There, near the pool’s edge, by the statue of Galatea,
light waves came from the water as well as three other places in the
pool. They boiled up a little, growing stronger and higher, climbing
higher and higher, until they became enormous sparkling cascades of
silvery rain, higher than the spouting streams of the mermen.
There she stood between all four, in the middle of a shimmering
rain, like a sweet boy, slender and delicate. His long glance kissed
her. There was no blemish in the symmetry of her limbs, not the
slightest defect in this sweet work of art. Her color was in proportion
as well, like white marble with a light breath of yellow. Only the
insides of her thighs showed two curious rose colored lines.
“That’s where Dr. Petersen perished,” he thought.
He bent down, kneeled and kissed the rosy places.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
He said, “ I’m thinking that you are the fairy Melusine!–See the
little mermaids around us–they have no legs, only long, scaly fish
tails. They have no souls, these nymphs, but it is said that sometimes
they love a human, some fisherman or wandering knight.
They love him so much that they come out of the water at high
tide, out onto the land. Then they go to an old witch or shaman–that
brews some nasty potion they have to drink. Then the shaman takes a
sharp knife and begins to cut into the fish tail. It is very painful–very
painful, but Melusine suppresses her pain. Her love is so great that
she doesn’t complain, doesn’t cry out, until the pain becomes so great
she loses consciousness. But when she awakes–her little tail is gone
and she goes about on two beautiful legs–like a human–only the scars
where the shaman cut are still visible.”
“But wasn’t she always still a nymph?” she asked. “Even with
human legs?–And the sorcerer could never create a soul for her.”
“No,” he said. “He couldn’t do that, but there is something else
they say of nymphs.”
“What do they say?” she asked.
He explained, “She only has her strange power as long as she is
untouched. When she drowns in the kisses of her lover, when she
looses her maidenhood in her knight’s embrace–then she looses her
magic as well. She can no longer bring river gold and treasures but
the black sorrow that followed her can no longer cross her threshold
either. From then on she is like any other child of man–”
“If it only was!” she whispered.
She tore the white crown from her head, swam over to the
mermen and Triton, to the water nymphs and threw the rose blossoms
into their laps–
“Take them, sisters–take them!” she laughed. “I am a child of
man–”
An enormous canopy bed stood in Alraune’s bedroom on low,
baroque columns. Two pillars grew out of the foot and bore shelves
that shown with golden flames. The engraved sides showed Omphale
with Hercules in a woman’s dress as he waited on her, Perseus kissing
Andromeda, Hephaestus catching Ares and Aphrodite in his net–
Many tendrils of vines wove themselves in between and doves played
in them–along with winged cherubs. The magnificent ancient bed,
heavily gilt with gold, had been brought out of Lyons by Fräulein
Hortense de Monthy when she became his great-grandfather’s wife.
He saw Alraune standing on a chair at the head of the bed, a
heavy pliers in her hand.
“What are you doing with that?” he asked.
She laughed, “Just wait. I will soon be finished.”
She pounded and tore, carefully enough, at the golden figurine of
Amor that hovered at the head of the bed with his bow and arrow. She
pulled one nail out, then another, seized the little god, twisted him this
way and that–until he came loose. She grabbed him, jumped down,
laid him on top of the wardrobe, took out the Alraune manikin,
clambered back up onto the chair again with it and fastened it to the
head of the bed with wire and twine. Then she came back down and
looked critically at her work.

Read Full Post »

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

Taking leave of his mother the evening before
departure—he planned to stay at a hotel to avoid
disturbing her at night—she looked into his eyes.
“What’s wrong, Ernst?” she asked. “I think you’re
deeply in love…”
“Nonsense, Mother,” he replied.
She shook her head. “No, dear, you can’t deny
it… I see it. You’re changed. Why tell me nothing?”
Ernst Hugo felt it might’ve been better to confide
in her about his doom. But it was too late. He denied
it and tore himself away. On the journey, his unrest
grew worse. This passion had seized him like fate,
roaring through him, tearing him along, gnawing his
core with a vulture’s greedy beak. He yearned for
something good, wise, calm, but knew it was a land
he’d never reach. The train’s rattling rhythm fused
with him; he felt one with this raging beast, yet it
seemed they didn’t move, trapped in an endless
screw.
He traveled half the night.
Early morning brought him to Sankt Pölten. The
summer sun had risen, peering over the station’s
shoulder. Ernst Hugo paced, shivering. He glanced at
the officials’ apartment windows. A curtain stirred. A
hand with a watering can appeared, tending
flowerpots by an open window. He pictured a
bedroom filled with fresh night air, a bed of white
linen and lace, a blue silk coverlet. He clenched his
teeth, fists balled.
The express to Salzburg–Munich pulled in,
panting on the tracks. Doors clattered open and shut;
conductors scurried; sleepy waiters carried breakfast
coffee along the cars. Ernst Hugo ignored the bustle,
ensnared in his thoughts, wrestling them, unable to
break free. They attacked like wolves.
The station’s tumult ebbed. Conductors closed
doors, signaling each other… then three people burst
from the first-class waiting room, racing across the
tracks to the train. A broad-shouldered giant led,
carrying two bags, followed by a lady and a
gentleman… Ernst Hugo caught a fleeting glimpse.
An eternity later, a jolt: it was Helmina… Lorenz
ahead… and the man beside her, Fritz Gegely,
dressed as an Englishman in proper travel attire.
Later, studying psychology, Ernst Hugo saw this
moment as a case of delayed action between decision
and execution.
He lunged too late. A conductor had opened a
carriage door; the three boarded in frantic haste, and
the train began to move. It glided past Ernst Hugo, a
gray, blurring ribbon… a vast emptiness remained
where he stood. It heated from within, radiating
white-hot fury… seeping into him, swelling into
boundless rage.
So, Frau Helmina had run off with Herr Gegely,
poet of Marie Antoinette, the Heidelberg manuscript
thief. Splendid. What else could he think? They’d
boarded at the last moment to avoid interception.
Good that he’d seen them; he could at least tell
Ruprecht Helmina looked lively and eager. That was
all left for him to do.
Soon, his train departed. Ernst Hugo sat in his
corner, brimming with hate, fury, outrage, and
despair. Like a Leyden jar charged with electricity,
sparking at the slightest touch.
At Gars station, he asked two men who’d wired
for a carriage to let him ride to Vorderschluder. They
were taciturn, silently smoking, watching blue smoke
trails flutter into the kind summer morning. Ernst
Hugo squeezed into the opposite corner, hat over his
eyes, pretending to sleep.
At the Kamp bridge, he alighted, thanked them
hastily, and raced up the castle hill. He hurled his
question like a stone at the first person he met. Yes,
of course… the mistress had left… the Baron was in
the village. Ernst Hugo laughed scornfully and ran
back down. He kept seeing a bedroom filled with
fresh night air… Now he must find Frau Gegely,
fling his news in her face. Someone should writhe…
The Red Ox’s plump landlady filled the doorway
pleasantly. Nearby, three men conversed quietly.
Ernst Hugo recognized his carriage companions
and the Celt scholar he’d seen with Ruprecht. He
charged at the landlady.
“Is Frau Gegely upstairs?” he asked.
“Yes!” she replied, not budging from the door, as
if planted to guard.
“I must speak with her. I have to tell her
something.” He moved to rush past.
Schiereisen approached with a polite greeting. “I’d
ask you, Herr Secretary, not to go up now. The poor
woman…” That was the spark nearing the Leyden
jar. The discharge followed.
“I know… I know,” Hugo screamed, “but I must
tell you I saw them together. I saw them, understand?
It’ll please her when I tell them.”
Schiereisen gripped Hugo’s wrist firmly.
“Where?” he asked urgently.
“Where? Sankt Pölten… Salzburg express… and
so on… who knows… they’re off into the world.”
Ten clear chimes rang from the church tower.
Schiereisen released Hugo’s wrist and turned to his
companions. “Let’s go… to the telegraph office…”
His blue eyes gleamed like iron; his face, every
muscle, pulsed with resolve. “Now we’ll show what
we can do.”
As the three hurried off, Ernst Hugo collapsed,
shrinking… his fingers fumbled beside him; then he
turned, drifting slowly through a fog.
Ten days later, Schiereisen returned from his hunt
to Vorderschluder. His first stop was the castle. He
found Ruprecht with Hedwig in the garden. Her
wheelchair stood under a wild vine arbor.
Maurerwenzel slept in the arbor’s shade. Frau
Hedwig walked, leaning on Ruprecht’s arm and a
cane, slowly in bright sunlight. Two rose hedges
lined their path.
A miracle had occurred.
Schiereisen honored it by not mentioning it. He
doffed his hat, waiting until they turned and saw him.
Hedwig started… Schiereisen saw her grip
Ruprecht’s arm tighter.
“Herr Schiereisen is back,” Ruprecht murmured.
“Herr Schiereisen… will you hear him, Hedwig? …
It’s better…”
“No… no… I’ll hear him now. I must know.
Mustn’t I?” She put on a brave, resolute face.
“Well, then… if she wishes… You can speak,
Schiereisen. I’ve told her everything; she knows all.”
Schiereisen still held his hat. His broad skull
arched powerfully, eyes shadowed under strong
brows.
“Have you found a trace…?” Ruprecht asked, as
Schiereisen didn’t speak at once.
“They’re not yet caught, but they’re ours. They’re
still on the Atlantic.”
“And how did you…? Speak. See, we’re prepared
and can hear it all.”
“It wasn’t entirely easy… though they clearly
didn’t expect pursuit. They’d have been more
cautious otherwise. Why bore you with details? They
headed to Le Havre, after various zigzags that cost us
some effort.”
“And then they boarded a ship?”
“Yes… we arrived too late to stop them. But it’s
hard to hide today… wireless telegraphy, you know?
We sent a Marconi telegram at once, and they’ll
return on the next steamer.”
“Him too? Have you had him arrested as well?”
Schiereisen donned his Panama hat, his face now
shadowed. “No…” he said hesitantly, “not him…
why? We… please, stay calm, gracious lady. We
were too late… for your husband. It’s not our fault.”
“My God… what are you saying… he’s…”
“Yes… he met with misfortune, gracious lady. In
his hotel… they weren’t staying together, and
Helmina… likely to mislead any pursuers, if
followed… he took his own life in his room…
poisoned.”
Hedwig let out a soft cry and closed her eyes. So
this was the end.
“You don’t believe it, Schiereisen!” Ruprecht said
after a pause. He’d reflected, feeling unvarnished
truth would heal more than this notion, which he saw
spawning subtle torments of conscience for Hedwig.
“Tell us honestly what you think.”
“You’re right, Herr Baron! I don’t believe it. It
was all cleverly done. But Fritz Gegely had no reason
to kill himself. And… we know he withdrew nearly
his entire fortune from his Vienna bank. He carried it,
not wanting to transfer it to America and betray
himself. Well… all the money’s gone…”
Hedwig, shuddering with horror, threw herself
against Ruprecht’s chest. He stood still, his arms
gently, protectively around her neck. A freeing sob
rose from her depths, a releasing weep… her
trembling fingers calmed, nestling trustingly against
his shoulders. He looked straight ahead… gravely
into the future.
“Now we must face the trial…” he said softly,
“the trial and all that. We must…” He turned his gaze
to Schiereisen. “Tell Herr von Zaugg I’m ready to
vacate the castle anytime. Anytime! His claims are
sacred to me. I’ve always seen myself as a steward
here. I’ll stay as long as he wishes… to hand over the
estate in good order. Meanwhile, I’ll find something
in my homeland… ground that’s mine…” He bent to
Hedwig again.
She raised her head. Fear and horror lingered on
her pale face, but Schiereisen saw a timid tenderness
in Ruprecht’s gaze soften it all.
He turned and walked slowly from the castle
garden, past where Jana was found, through the gate
Helmina had fled. A certainty flowed in him like a
broad, calm river: these two were good and tightly
bound; no turmoil or pain, no upheaval ahead, could
shake their happiness, radiant with the future.
He paused on the bridge beside the stone John,
gazing into the water. And smiled…
One could forgo the bit of thanks perhaps earned.

Read Full Post »