Anarchistbanjo's World

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Twelve
Gives an account of how Frank Braun stepped into Alraune’s
world.
FRANK Braun had come back to his mother’s house,
somewhere from one of his aimless journeys, from
Cashmir in Asia or from Bolivian Chaco. Or perhaps is was
from the West Indies where he had played revolutionary in
some mad republic, or from the South Seas, where he had dreamed
fairytales with the slender daughters of a dying race. He came back
from somewhere.
Slowly he walked through his mother’s house, up the white
staircase upon whose walls was pressed frame upon frame, old
engravings and modern etchings, through his mother’s wide rooms in
which the spring sun fell through yellow curtains. There his ancestors
hung, many Brinkens with sharp and clever faces, people that knew
where they stood in the world.
There was his great-grandfather and great-grandmother–good
portraits from the time of the Emperor, then one of his beautiful
grandmother–sixteen years old, in the earlier dress of Queen Victoria.
His father and mother hung there and his own portraits as well. There
was one of him as a child with a large ball in his hands and long
blonde child locks that fell over his shoulders. The other was of him
as a youth, in the black velvet dress of a page, reading in a thick,
ancient tome.
In the next room were the copies. They came from everywhere,
from the Dresden Gallery, the Cassel and Braunshweig galleries, from
the Palazzo Pitti, the Prado and from the Reich Museum. There were
many Dutch masters, Rembrandt, Frans Hals, Ostade, Murillo, Titian,
Velasquez and Veronese. All were a little darkened with age, but they
glowed reddish gold in the sunlight that broke through the curtains.
He went further, through the room where the modernists hung.
There were several good paintings and some not as good. But not one
of them was bad and there were no sweet ones.
All around stood old furniture, most of it mahogany–Empire,
Directoire or Biedermeir. There was none of oak but several simpler,
modern pieces were scattered in between. There was no defined style,
simply one after another as the years had brought them. Yet there was
a quiet, pervasive harmony that transformed everything that stood
there and made it belong.
He climbed up to the floor that his mother had given him.
Everything was exactly as he had left it the last time he had departed–
two years ago. No paperweight had been moved, no chair was out of
place. Yes, his mother always watched to see that the maids were
careful and respectful–despite all the cleaning and dusting.
Here, much more than anywhere else in the house, ruled a
chaotic throng of innumerable, abstruse things. They were on the
floors and on the walls. Five continents contributed strange and
bizarre things to this room that were unique to them only.
There were large masks, savage wooden devil deities from the
Bismarck Archipelago, Chinese and Annamite flags and many
weapons from all regions of the world. Then there were hunting
trophies, stuffed animals, Jaguar and tiger skins, huge turtle shells,
snakes and crocodiles. There were colorful drums from Luzon, long
necked stringed instruments from Raj Putana and crude castings from
Albania.
On one wall hung a mighty, reddish brown fisherman’s net. It
hung down from the ceiling and contained giant star fish, sea urchins,
swords from swordfish, silver shimmering tarpon scales, mighty
ocean spiders, strange deep-sea fish, mussels and snails.
The furniture was covered with old brocade and over it was
thrown delicate silk garments from India, colorful Spanish jackets and
mandarin cloaks with large golden dragons.
There were many gods as well, silver and gold Buddhas of all
sizes, Indian bas-reliefs of Shiva, Krishna and Genesha along with the
absurd, obscene stone idols of the Tchan tribes.
In between, where ever there was a free space on the wall, hung
framed glass enclosed images, an impudent Rops, a savage Goya,
small drawings by Jean Callots, Crűikshank, Hogarth and assorted
colorful cruelties drawn on sheets of paper out of Cambodia and
Mysore. Many moderns hung nearby bearing the artist’s name and a
dedication.
There was furniture of all styles from all cultures, thickly
populated with bronzes, porcelains and unending bric-a-brac.
All these things were Frank Braun. His bullet killed the polar
bear on whose white pelt he now stood. He, himself, had caught the
mighty blue shark whose powerful jaws hung there in the net with its
three rows of teeth. He took these poisoned arrows and this spear
from the savage Buca tribe. A Manchu priest gave him this foolish
idol and this tall silver priest’s clothes hanger.
Single handedly he had stole this black thunderstone out of the
forest temple of the Houdon–Badagri, drank with his own lips out of
this Bombita in a Mate blood-brother ritual with the chief of the Toba
Indians on the swampy banks of the Pilcomayo. For this curved sword
he had given his best hunting rifle to a Malay sultan in North Borneo
and for this other long executioner’s sword, his little pocket chess
game to the Vice Regent of Shantung.
These wonderful Indian carpets were presented to him by the
Maharaja of Vigatpuri, whose life he had saved during an elephant
hunt and this earthen eight armed Durga, begrimed with the blood of
animals and people, he had received from the High Priest of the
dreaded Kalis of Kalighat–
His life lay in these rooms, every mussel, every colored rag,
reminded him of long past memories. There lay his opium pipes, over
there the large mescal can that had been hammered together out of
Mexican silver dollars. Near it was the small tightly locked container
of snake venom from Ceylon and a golden arm band–with two
magnificent cat’s eyes–it had once been given to him by an eternally
laughing child in Birma. He had paid many kisses for them–
Scattered around on the floor, piled on top of each other, stood
and lay crates and trunks–twenty-one of them. They contained his
new treasures–none had been opened yet.
“Where can I put it all?” he laughed.
A long Persian spear stretched through the air across the large
double window. A very large, snow white Cockatoo sat on it. It was a
Macassar bird from South Africa with a high flamingo red crest.
“Good morning Peter!” Frank Braun greeted him.
“Atja Tuwan!” answered the bird.
He climbed solemnly over the spear and down to his stand. From
there he clambered onto a chair and down to the floor, came with
bowed stately strides up to him, climbed up onto his shoulder, spread
out his proud crest and flung his wings out wide like the Prussian
eagle.
“Atja, Tuwan! Atja, Tuwan!” he cried.
The white bird stretched out his neck and Frank Braun scratched
it.
“How’s it going, little Peter?–Are you happy that I’m back
again?”
Frank Braun climbed halfway down the staircase, stepped out
onto the large covered balcony where his mother was drinking tea.
Below, in the garden, the mighty chestnut trees glowed like candles,
further back, in the monastery garden, lay an ocean of brilliant snow-
white flowers. Brown robed Franciscans wandered under the laughing
trees.
“There is Father Barnabas!” he cried.
His mother put her glasses on and looked, “No,” she answered.
“That is Father Cyprian.”
A green amazon squatted on the iron railing of the balcony and
as soon as he set the Cockatoo down, the cheeky little parrot came
rushing up to it. It looked comical enough, walking sideways, like a
shuffling Galatian peddler.
“All right,” he screamed. “All right–Lorita real di España e di
Portugal!–Anna Mari-i-i-i-i-a!”
He pecked at the large bird, which just raised his crest and softly
said, “cockatoo”.
“Still saucy as ever, Phylax?” Frank Braun asked.
“Every day he gets saucier,” laughed his mother. “Nothing is
safe from him anymore. He would love to chew up the entire house.”
She dipped a piece of sugar in her tea and gave it to the bird on a
silver spoon.
“Has Peter learned anything,” he asked.
“Nothing at all,” she replied. He only speaks his soft,
“’Cockatoo’, along with some scraps of Malay.”
“Unfortunately you don’t understand any of that,” he laughed.
His mother said, “No, but I understand my green Phylax much
better. He loves to talk, all day long, in all the languages of the world–
always something new. Sometimes I lock him up in the closet, just to
get a half hour of peace.”
She took the amazon, who was at that moment strolling across
the middle of the table and attacking the butter, and set the struggling
bird back up on the railing.
Her brown hound came up, stood on its hind legs and rested its
little head on her knee.
“Yes, you are here too,” she said. “Would you like some tea?”
She poured tea and milk into a little red saucer, broke off some
white bread and a piece of sugar, putting them in it as well.
Frank Braun looked down into the wide garden. Two round
hedgehogs were playing on the lawn and nibbling at the young shoots.
They must be ancient–he, himself, had once brought them out of the
forest, from a school picnic. The male was named Wotan and the
female, Tobias Meier. But perhaps these were their grandchildren or
great-grandchildren–then he saw the little mound near the white,
blooming magnolia bush. There he had once buried his black poodle.
Two large yuccas grew there now, in the summer they would bloom
with hundreds of white, resounding bells. But now, for spring, his
mother had planted many colorful primroses there.
Ivy and other wild vines crawled up the high walls of the house,
all the way up to the roof. There, twittering and making noise were
the sparrows.
“The thrush has her nest over there, can you see?” asked his
mother.
She pointed down to the wooden trellis that led from the
courtyard into the garden. The round nest lay half-hidden in ivy. He
had to search before he finally found it.
“It already has three little eggs,” he said.
“No, there are four,” his mother corrected him. “She laid the
fourth one this morning.”
“Yes, four,” he nodded “Now I can see all of them. It is beautiful
here mother.”
She sighed and laid her old hand on his. “Oh yes, my boy–it is
beautiful–if only I wasn’t so lonely all the time.”
“Lonely,” he asked. “Don’t you have as many visitors as you
used to?”
She said, “Oh yes, they come every day, many young people.
They look after this old lady. They come to tea and to dinner.
Everyone knows how happy I am when someone comes to visit me.
But you see, my boy, they are still strangers–you aren’t.”
“Well now I’m here,” he said and changed the subject, described
the various curiosities that he had brought back with him, asked her if
she wanted to be there when he unpacked.
Then the girl came up bringing the mail that had just arrived. He
tore his letters open and glanced fleetingly at them. He paused, looked
at one more closely. It was a letter from Legal Councilor Gontram
that briefly communicated what had happened at his uncle’s house.
There was also a copy of the will and his expressed wish that Frank
Braun travel over as soon as possible to put the affairs in order. He,
the Legal Councilor, had been court ordered to act as temporary
executor. Now that he, Frank Braun, was once more back in Europe
he begged him to take up his obligation.

Read Full Post »

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

“That’s wholly Austrian,” Ruprecht said,
sketching the castle’s character for Hedwig. “You
might think someone’s aloof and, despite simplicity,
unapproachable, then find you can chat quite
comfortably. Our great men all have a back road,
bypassing the official facade.”
They entered the tournament courtyard. Hedwig
was lifted from the carriage and placed in her
wheelchair. Maurerwenzel resumed his duty. Hedwig
wished to stay in the wide, open courtyard; the
castle’s stair-laden tour was not for her. Ruprecht
offered to keep her company. The others departed
toward the octagonal tower at the entrance, after Fritz
Gegely took tender leave, pressing a kiss on
Hedwig’s forehead.
The carriages drove out to stable at the tavern by
the courtyard. Maurerwenzel watched them
enviously. Ruprecht understood the look. “You can
go over too,” he said. “If you’re thirsty. Here—have
a quarter of wine.” Maurerwenzel cupped his hand
like a nest for a silver egg, tipped his cap, and
shuffled out the gate with his “quick” gait, bound for
the inn.
“Shall we move to the shade?” Ruprecht asked,
hands on the wheelchair’s backrest.
“No, please, if it’s no trouble, let’s stay in the sun.
It’s not too hot… and the breeze cools nicely. I love
the sun… I feel it’s kind to me. I let it soak through
me… I feel it in my limbs… like a new strength…”
Ruprecht pulled the wheelchair close to the wall,
where reflected rays could work, and sat beside
Hedwig on a fallen stone. The vast courtyard, ringed
with double arcades, lay empty before them. Hedwig
reclined, basking in full sunlight, motionless.
Ruprecht saw her body drink the hot light. Through
half-closed eyes, a shimmering curtain of light
flickered. He tried to decipher the faded wall
paintings in the arcades. A brown-red hue remained,
other colors long extinguished. These might once
have been emblems, coats of arms, allegories—
symbols of families who once pranced their horses in
glittering carousels here.
From the castle’s past, he gently slipped into his
own. He smiled. “Do you remember, Frau Hedwig,”
he said, “when we danced in the woods? It was a
school outing from our gymnasium. Your girls’
school was there too… and suddenly, we paired up.
Youths and maidens… to the horror of teachers and
governesses…”
Hedwig turned to him. “Yes… dancing’s over for
me,” she said, smiling.
Ruprecht fell silent, dismayed. How thoughtless,
how careless he’d been. He longed to speak more of
those days—how they’d climbed walls and back
gardens at night, like thieves, to reach Hedwig’s
courtyard, bursting into four-part song: “Why are you
so far, oh my love!” The next day, stern professorial
faces and a disciplinary probe for nocturnal mischief.
Everything teetered… then ten hours’ detention as
penance. Ten glorious hours, filled with the thrill of
suffering for her, proving his heroism. They’d called
her Silvia then, for its melodic flow, redolent of
forest scent and soft leaf-rustle, no other name
seeming to fit. A touch of Shakespeare’s winged
Midsummer Night’s Dream. She’d been like a
lizard—slender, agile, gleaming.
“But… you’re happy,” Ruprecht said, consoling
himself. “Few preserve such pure joy in life as
you…”
“Yes… I’m happy,” she said gratefully, offering
her hand. “There’s still so much I needn’t forgo.”
Ruprecht steeled his heart. “Above all, you’ve
found the happiness of love… Your husband is full of
gentle care…”
Hedwig closed her eyes, lying still. The sun
poured into her like a hot draught. The sun is clarity
and truth, she thought. One shouldn’t lie in its light.
“Why should I deny you the satisfaction I owe you?”
she said after a pause. “You’re mistaken, Ruprecht,
the world’s mistaken. I’m a burden to my husband.
My frailty irks him. Yes… he masterfully plays his
role before others. I know how I hurt you then. Your
strong confidence looked down on the pampered
prince Gegely. But I was vain… yes, let me
confess…”
She paused, and Ruprecht saw her fingers twitch
on the wheelchair’s armrest, betraying agitation.
Alarmed, he leaned to see her face, but her eyes
were shut.
“I hurt you. I know you loved me. I’m still
happy… thinking of those times. Yet I chose Fritz
Gegely. I was a foolish, vain girl. He was a poet, the
gymnasium’s pride, already famous at university,
destined for greatness.”
“Stop, Hedwig, please… I don’t want to know
more. Don’t make me unhappy…”
“You needn’t be. I’m past that disappointment.
Only sometimes I think it could’ve been different. I
soon realized he was an aesthete—one who doesn’t
take life directly but through a colored lens, feigning
mood. Then one hope: a child. But you see what’s
left of that. A paralyzed woman… That was the
darkest night of my life. Then… things brightened:
the clarity of limitation. I can’t even blame my
husband for his sullenness. I’m truly a burden. But he
draws benefit in his way. He plays a second
Browning couple before the world. As he wears
famous poets’ vests, coats, and wallets, I’m useful as
a paralyzed wife. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. But I
don’t complain—I’m still happy…”
“Why tell me this… why?” Ruprecht groaned.
“Why? I’m beyond passion’s good and evil. I’m safe
from all danger.”
“But I’m not, Silvia, I’m not…”
Hedwig opened her eyes. Her hat shaded her
brow, a blonde strand fluttering across it. “You call
me Silvia… like then… I think you invented the
name…”
“Yes… I think I found it: it was there, flowing
around you like song. I only sang it… Silvia…”
A car horn blared a triad on the forest road.
“The children,” Hedwig said, sitting up to greet
them. She felt a faint twitch in her right foot… but
surely she was mistaken. The car rolled through the
courtyard gate, halting before her wheelchair. The
children leapt out, rushing to Hedwig and Ruprecht.
Miss Nelson followed, slim, refined, silent as ever.
“Here already, you rascals?” Ruprecht teased,
laughing. “Your studies today… must’ve been half-
done!”
Lissy and Nelly each brought a bouquet of
meadow flowers, picked along the way. Lissy gave
hers to Hedwig, Nelly to Papa. Hedwig and Ruprecht
exchanged glances—a continuation, a symbolic close
to their talk. Two tears lingered in Hedwig’s eyes.
Laughing, she shook her head, pulled Lissy close,
and kissed her small red mouth.
Meanwhile, Helmina and her group had ventured
into the castle. The castellan, a young man not yet
ossified in his role, was lively enough to answer
unusual questions. Ernst Hugo flaunted his style
knowledge, gleaned from café art enthusiasts. He
spoke of form, material, line, and ornament. The
Major hunted for old locks and keys. In his spare
time, he tinkered with locksmithing and was fond of
gunsmithing. “Everyone’s got their hobby,” he said.
“Locksmithing’s my secret passion.”
And storytelling’s your creepy one, thought the
court secretary, but he didn’t say it, for he and the
Major were in a holy alliance against Fritz Gegely.
The poet of Marie Antoinette paid little heed to his
allied foes. He walked beside Helmina, speaking of
spatial sense. “You see, it’s a peculiar thing… a sixth
sense, so to speak. It brings exquisite delights and
torments… imagine, I enter a room and instantly feel
its spatial design like a physical impression. Without
tape or ruler, I know at once if its proportions are
balanced or left to chance. Proportions are immediate
certainty to me. The harmony of the Golden Ratio is
a heartfelt, if somewhat bourgeois, pleasure. Round
walls make me breathless, restless, caught in a whirl.
Alcoves, odd angles, slanted walls, sloping ceilings
give me strangely romantic sensations. This makes
old castles so fascinating, each room unique. It sours
me on city tenements with their uniformity—
everything cut from one mold, dull, barracks-like,
lacking even basic, natural harmony.”
But Helmina wasn’t listening. She gazed
distractedly out the windows they passed, letting
Gegely’s words flow by. Halls, corridors, vaulted
rooms, and alcoved chambers followed one
another—a glance into the inner courtyard, then at
the verdant moat and an old, gray turret.
The guide opened the door to the balcony over the
Kamp valley. At that moment, the Major called him
back. He’d spotted an intricate lock on a grand
Renaissance cabinet. A key moved seven bolts back
and forth. The fittings depicted Saint George slaying
the dragon—a small marvel. The Major eagerly
questioned the castellan, holding Hugo fast.

Read Full Post »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

He searched for Alraune and took it as a good omen that no
guests were there. He heard from the maid that she had dined alone
and was now in her rooms so he went up there. He stepped inside at
her, “Come in.”
“I must speak with you,” he said.
She sat at her writing desk, looked up briefly.
“No,” she cried. “I don’t want to right now.”
“It is very important,” he pleaded. “It is urgent.”
She looked at him, lightly crossed her feet.“Not now,” she
answered. “–Go down–in a half hour.”
He went, took off his fur coat, sat down on the sofa and waited.
He considered how he should tell her, weighed every sentence and
every word. After a good hour he heard her steps.
He got up, went to the door–there she stood in front of him, as an
elevator boy in a tight fitting strawberry red uniform.
“Ah,” he said, “that is kind of you.”
“Your reward,” she laughed. “Because you have obeyed so
beautifully today–now tell me, what is it?”
The Privy Councilor didn’t gloss things over, he told her
everything, like it was, each little detail without any embellishments.
She didn’t interrupt, let him speak and confess.
“It is really your fault,” he said. “I would have taken care of it all
without much trouble–but I let it all go, have been so preoccupied
with you, they grew like the heads of the Hydra.”
“The evil Hydra”–she mocked, “and now she is giving poor,
good Hercules so much trouble! By the way, it seems that this time
the hero is a poisonous salamander and the monstrous Hydra is the
punishing avenger.”
“Certainly,” he nodded, “from the viewpoint of the people. They
have their ‘justice for everyone’ and I have made my own. That is
really my only crime. I believed that you would understand.”
She laughed in delight, “Certainly daddy, why not? Am I
reproaching you? Now tell me, what are you going to do?”
He proposed his plans to her, one after the other, that they had to
flee, that very night–take a little trip and see the world. Perhaps first
to London, or to Paris–they could stay there until they got everything
they needed. Then over the ocean, across America–to Japan–or to
India–whatever they wanted, even both, there was no hurry. They had
time enough, then finally to Palestine, to Greece, Italy and Spain.
Where ever she wanted–there they could stay and leave again when
they had enough. Finally they could buy a villa somewhere on Lake
Garda or on the Riviera. Naturally it would be in the middle of a large
garden. She could have her horses and her cars, even a yacht. She
could fill the entire house with people if she wanted–
He wasn’t stingy with his promises, painted in glowing colors all
the tempting splendors that awaited her, was always finding new and
more alluring reasons that she should go.
Finally he stopped, asked his question, “Now child, what do you
say to that? Wouldn’t you like to live like that?”
She sat on the table with her slender legs dangling.
“Oh yes,” she nodded. “Very much so–only–only–”
“Only?”–he asked quickly, “If you wish something else–say it! I
will fulfill it for you.”
She laughed at him, “Well then, fulfill this for me! I would very
much like to travel–only not with you!”
The Privy Councilor took a step back, almost fell, grabbed onto
the back of a chair. He searched for words and found none.
She spoke, “With you it would be boring for me–you are
tiresome to me–I want to go without you!”
He laughed, attempting to persuade himself that she was joking.
“But I am the one that must be leaving right away,” he said. “I
must leave–tonight yet!”
“Then leave,” she said quietly. “I’m staying.”
He began all over again, imploring and lamenting. He told her
that he needed her, like the air that he breathed. She should have
compassion on him–soon he would be eighty and wouldn’t be a
burden to her very much longer.
Then he threatened her again, screamed that he would disinherit
her, throw her out into the street without a penny.
“Just try it,” she threw back at him.
He spoke yet again, painting the wonderful splendors that he
wanted to give her. She should be free, like no other girl, to do and
have as she desired. There was no wish, no thought that he couldn’t
turn into reality for her. She only had to come with–not leave him
alone.
She shook her head. “I like it here. I haven’t done anything–I’m
staying.”
She spoke quietly and calmly, never interrupted him, let him talk
and make promises, start all over again. But she shook her head
whenever he asked the question.
Finally she sprang down from the table and went with soft steps
toward the door, passing him.
“It is late,” she said. “I am tired. I’m going to bed–good night
daddy, happy travels.”
He stepped into her way, made one last attempt, sobbed out that
he was her father, that children had a duty to their parents, spoke like
a pastor.
She laughed at that, “So I can go to heaven!”
She stood near the sofa, set down astride the arm.
“How do you like my leg?” she cried suddenly and stretched her
slender leg out toward him, moving it back and forth in the air.
He stared at her leg, forgot what he wanted, thought no more
about flight or danger, saw nothing else, felt nothing–other than her
slender strawberry red boy’s leg that swung back and forth before his
eyes.
“I am a good child,” she tittered, “a very dear child that makes
her stupid daddy very happy–kiss my leg, daddy–caress my beautiful
leg daddy!”
He fell heavily onto his knees, grabbed at her red leg, moved his
straying fingers over her thigh and her tight calf, pressed his moist
lips on the red fabric, licked slowly along it with his trembling
tongue.
Then she sprang up, lightly and nimbly, tugged on his ear, and
patted him softly on the cheek.
“Now daddy,” her voice tinkled, “have I fulfilled my duty well
enough? Good night then! Happy travels–and don’t get caught–it
would be very unpleasant in prison. Send me some pretty picture
postcards, you hear?”
She was at the door before he could get up, made a bow, short
and stiff like a boy and put her right hand to her cap.
“It has been an honor, your Excellency,” she cried. “And don’t
make too much noise down here while you are packing–it might
disturb my sleep.”
He swayed towards her, saw how quickly she ran up the stairs.
He heard the door open upstairs, heard the latch click and the key turn
in it twice. He wanted to go after her, laid his hand on the banister.
But he felt that she would not open, despite all his pleading. That door
would remain closed to him even if he stood there for hours through
the entire night until dawn, until–until–until the constable came to
take him away.
He stood there unmoving, listening to her light steps above him,
back and forth through her room. Then no more. Then it was silent.
He slipped out of the house, went bare headed through the heavy
rain across the courtyard, stepped into the library, searched for
matches, lit a couple of candles on his desk. Then he let himself fall
heavily into his easy chair.
“Who is she,” he whispered. “What is she? What a creature!” he
muttered.
He unlocked the old mahogany desk, pulled a drawer open, took
out the leather bound volume and laid it in front of him.
He stared at the cover, “A.T. B.”, he read, half out loud.
“Alraune ten Brinken.”
The game was over, totally over, he sensed that completely. And
he had lost – he held no more cards in his hand. It had been his game;
he alone had shuffled the cards. He had held all the trumps–and now
he had lost anyway. He smiled grimly, now he had to pay the price.
Pay the price? Oh yes, but in what coin?
He looked at the clock–it was past twelve. The people would
come with the warrant around seven o’clock at the latest–he still had
over six hours. They would be very considerate, very polite–they
would even bring him into custody in his own car. Then–then the
battle would begin. That would not be too bad–he would defend
himself through several months, dispute every move his opponents
made.
But finally–in the main case–he would lose anyway. Manasse
had that right. Then it would be–prison–or flee–but alone, entirely
alone? Without her? In that moment he felt how he hated her, but he
also knew as well that he could think of nothing else any more, only
her. He could run around the world aimlessly, without purpose, not
seeing, not hearing anything but her bright twittering voice, her
slender swinging red leg.
Oh, he would starve, out there or in prison–either way. Her leg–
her sweet slender boy’s leg! Oh how could he live without that red
leg?
The game was lost–he must pay the bill, better to pay it quickly,
this very night–with the only thing of value he had left–with his life.
And since it wasn’t worth anything any more, perhaps he could bring
someone else down with him.
That did him good, now he brooded about whom to take down
with him, someone that would give him a little satisfaction to give one
final last kick.
He took his last will and testament out of the desk, which named
Alraune as his heir, read through it, then carefully tore it into small
pieces.
“I must make a new one,” he whispered, “only for whom?–for
whom?”
There was his sister–was her son, Frank Braun, his nephew–
He hesitated, him–him? Wasn’t it him that had brought this
poisonous gift into his house, this strange creature that had now
ruined him?
He–just like the others! Oh, he should pay, even more than
Alraune.
“You will tempt God,” the fellow had said. “You will put a
question to him, so audacious that He must answer.”
Oh yes, now he had his answer! But if he inexorably had to go
down, the youth should share his fate. He, Frank Braun, who had
engendered this thought, given him the idea.
Now he had a bright shiny weapon, her, his little daughter,
Alraune ten Brinken. She would bring him as well to the point where
he was today. He considered, rocked his head and grinned in
satisfaction at this certain final victory.
Then he wrote his will without pausing, in swift, ugly strokes.
Alraune remained his heir, her alone. But he secured a legacy for his
sister and another for his nephew, whom he appointed as executor and
guardian of the girl until she came of age. That way he needed to
come here, be near her, breathe the sultry air from her lips, and it
would happen, like it had happened with all the others!
Like it had with the Count and with Dr. Mohnen, like it had with
Wolf Gontram, like with the chauffeur–and finally, like it had
happened with he, himself, as well.
He laughed out loud, made still another entry, that the university
would inherit if Alraune died without an heir. That way his nephew
would be shut out in any case. Then he signed the document and
dated it.
He took the leather bound volume, read further, wrote the early
history and conscientiously brought everything up to date. He ended it
with a little note to his nephew, dripping with derision.
“Try your luck,” he wrote. “To bad that I won’t be there when
your turn comes. I would have been very glad to see it!”
He carefully blotted the wet ink, closed the book and laid it back
in the drawer with the other momentos, the necklace of the Princess,
the alraune of the Gontrams, the dice cup, the white card with a hole
shot through it that he had taken out of the count’s vest pocket.
“Mascot” was written on it. Near it lay a four leaf clover–several
black drops of clotted blood still clung to it–
He stepped up to the curtain and untied the silk cord. With a long
scissors he cut the end off and threw it into the drawer with the others.
“Mascot”, he laughed. “Luck for the house!”
He searched around the walls, climbed onto a chair and with
great difficulty took down a mighty iron cross from a heavy hook, laid
it carefully on the divan.
“Excuse me,” he grinned, “for moving you out of your place–it
will only be for a short time–only for a few hours–you will have a
worthy replacement!”
He knotted the cord, threw it high over the hook, pulled on it,
considered it, that it would hold–and he climbed for a second time
onto the chair–
The police found him early the next morning. The chair was
pushed over; nevertheless the dead man stood on it with the tip of one
toe. It appeared as if he had regretted the deed and at the last moment
tried to save himself. His right eye stood wide open, squinting out
toward the door and his thick blue tongue protruded out–he looked
very ugly.

Read Full Post »

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

Fifteenth Chapter
The colors of summer grew ever darker and
deeper. Each day showered new gifts, every hour
seemed to weave something strange. Strength pulsed
everywhere in the fine fabric of existence. The
farmers, unaware, lived as part of nature; city
dwellers felt their weary bodies renewed, worn atoms
replaced by fresh ones. But once past initial delight,
they paid little heed to the splendor.
Only one person remained ever grateful for each
day and hour, never letting pure joy dull—Frau
Hedwig. She had Maurerwenzel guide her wheelchair
wherever it could go, marveling with clear eyes at the
summer world. For the first time in ages, she was
utterly happy. Carried along, she forgot her paralyzed
limbs. So potent was summer’s joy, the hum of
constant cheer. Her husband was sullen and irritable
alone with her, showering her with tenderness when
watched, but she didn’t mind, enduring his moods
and mild kindness. Each day brought an hour that
shone brightly from morning’s awakening. Every
afternoon, she met Ruprecht.
Among the summer society, a new alignment had
formed: Helmina and Ruprecht, Gegely and Frau
Hedwig, Hugo and Major Zichovic! Two beautiful
women—one drawing desire and admiration, the
other pity; Gegely gravitated to Helmina, Ruprecht
quietly joined Hedwig. He remained calm, finding,
like her, a transfiguration of twenty-four hours in
their afternoon meetings. Gegely, however, unfurled
his full grandeur, bestowing his graces on
Vorderschluder’s small world, radiating regally, yet
ensuring Helmina felt her beauty fueled such favor
and light.
Hugo and Zichovic were the group’s linking
members, bound by rivalry for favor. Hugo fought
with mocking superiority, earnestly sought but not
always successful. The Major was simpler, content
with quips he deemed witty. Yet he sometimes joined
petty, spiteful alliances. Gegely let his shield be
peppered with their barbs, as if dueling such foes
wasn’t worth his effort.
An excursion to Rosenburg was planned. That
morning, Helmina suffered a great vexation. War
rumors swirled. A risky stock speculation, launched
with nervous haste and without her usual caution, had
collapsed utterly—a painful loss. Recently, she’d
been forced to settle, abandoning her claims under
Baron Kestelli’s will. Defeat followed defeat. Worse,
her confidence wavered. The sensual bond with
Ruprecht was loosening. With bitter scorn, she noted
he was “spiritualizing” himself at Hedwig’s
wheelchair. He no longer desired her. The twilight of
her reign had come. To top it, Lorenz, fresh from
Vienna, pressed her. Anton Sykora sent word: she
must be ready to leave with them. Staying was
impossible; no hope remained. Ruprecht had evaded
all danger, and now only his goodwill kept him from
attacking. Herr Diamant’s advances were barely
resistible. The Galician oil venture was defunct. New
possibilities slumbered in a new world. Lorenz was
ordered to resign and withdraw first. He was relieved,
long feeling he trod quaking bog in this castle, as if
he might sink any moment. His bold confidence was
gone.
Before departure, he stood before Ruprecht,
requesting dismissal. He felt uneasy, unsure how
much Ruprecht knew or if he’d let an enemy slip his
grasp.
But Ruprecht was elated. A fine day beckoned. He
glanced at Lorenz’s uncertain face. So, he wanted
out—his role was done. Fine, let him go. Ruprecht
had no wish to serve the police again.
“Good,” he said. “Leave when you wish. I won’t
hold you. If you’ve found a better post, you needn’t
serve your two weeks. You’ll need the Baroness’s
permission, of course.”
Lorenz felt a master above him—a fist, a whip.
Oh, to throttle this man, to erase the shame of failed
plots. He longed to unleash his giant strength in a
furious wrestle. But he could only bow and leave.
Ruprecht grabbed his gloves and bounded
downstairs. Two carriages waited. They met the
others at the bridge below. Hedwig turned from Saint
John Nepomuk, now a dear friend, to Ruprecht. They
laughed together. Ruprecht rejoiced at her rosy
cheeks. Her arms no longer lifted wearily as in early
days but playfully, her hands gripping firmly.
He told her so. “Perhaps you’ll be fully well
again,” he added, eyes gleaming with joy.
She shook her head. “I no longer hope for it,” she
said softly, “…nor am I sure I wish it.”
They lifted her into the carriage with Ruprecht and
the Major. The wheelchair was stowed behind, and
Maurerwenzel climbed to the driver’s seat. He no
longer minded being seen. He and Rauß had clashed.
The General called his adjutant a capitalist slave; the
adjutant called the General a people’s cheat living off
strike funds. A duel ensued at the Hotel Bellevue,
costing Maurerwenzel a tuft of hair above his right
ear and a canine, but not his new conviction. The
paper factory workers, back at work, watched without
interfering, leaving Maurerwenzel uplifted, as if
they’d wished him victory.
In the second carriage sat Helmina, Fritz Gegely,
and Ernst Hugo. The poet of Marie Antoinette wore a
strange, sack-like coat of yellow checkered cloth,
once Dostoevsky’s. His vest was Paul Verlaine’s, and
the walking stick with a Moor’s head between his
knees was bought as Balzac’s from a Paris junk
dealer. As always, he wore his purple velvet
slippers—his personal signature, preserved through
all changes. Gegely ignored Ernst Hugo’s mocking
glances, addressing Helmina alone with a discourse
on landscape in Gottfried Keller.
They drove through the wooded valley’s curves,
revealing only slivers of the world, then climbed
slowly to the plain, where the gaze reveled in frothy
freedom. Rooftops gleamed above waves of ripening
grain, church spires stood like lighthouses in a sea of
fertility. It was a sunny, wind-bright day. Bedding
aired on garden fences, as if the region had conspired
to adorn the landscape with blue and red blankets and
cushions.
Ruprecht watched Hedwig’s forehead curls dance
in the breeze, fluttering back under her hat brim.
“Why didn’t you bring the children?” she asked.
“It’s such a lovely day.”
“They’ll join us with Miss Nelson after their
lessons. Work before pleasure. I don’t want them
forming other notions of order. A person unable to
delay pleasure for serious work can’t be taken
seriously.”
Hedwig looked at Ruprecht. A tender gravity
shone in his eyes. She was always touched when he
spoke of the children. They weren’t unprotected; he
loved them like a father. Yet she pitied them, sensing
they lacked a mother. Helmina, in rare bursts of
animal whimsy, played with them like a cat with
kittens, relishing their small, warm bodies. Hedwig
saw this sharply, her world shaped by maternal
longing—a heavy sacrifice, recognizing such joy as
unattainable after her catastrophe. She found
Helmina’s ingratitude her gravest fault. So richly
blessed, yet lacking life’s piety, the constant
reverence with which Hedwig marveled at each hour,
each sunbeam, every flower, and the horses’ lithe
trot.
She leaned back, gazing at the sky. It was pure
blue, with white clouds trailing like paper boats set
adrift by playful children on a stream.
As Ruprecht and Hedwig were silent, the Major
had free rein. They listened kindly, without
interrupting. He regretted that war threats might force
his departure soon but spoke with bold trumpet blasts
of battle and victory. He hoped diplomacy would
dispel the storm clouds, at least until the Emperor’s
jubilee year. Then he spun anecdotes, each capped
with his own booming laugh.
The Rosenburg is the centerpiece of the Kamp
valley. Where the Taffa stream joins the Kamp, and
the river itself shifts from an eastern to a southern
course, the castle stands on the tip of the high
plateau. It neither towers nor defies like other
German fortresses; it simply exists, unassumingly. It
doesn’t soar boldly as a lookout, like Aggstein or
Götzens’ robber-knight nest, Hornberg. Nor is it built
around a grand hall, like the Wartburg, where the
core purpose is clear. It seeks no special distinction,
and despite its sprawling, picturesque charm, it boasts
nothing, free of any pose. This makes it the perfect
expression of its landscape’s essence, where vanity
and ostentatious splendor are alien. From the Kamp
valley, it looks mighty. But from the plateau, a wide
road leads straight to the tournament courtyard.

Read Full Post »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

“As you will, your Excellency,” he said. “By the way, do you
know there is a rumor these days that the Műhlhelmer credit bank is
going to stop payments?”
“Nonsense,” he replied. “In any case I’ve scarcely put any
money into it.”
“You haven’t?” asked Herr Gontram, a little surprised. “For half
a year now you have kept that institution on a sound financial basis
with over eleven million. You did it to gain tighter control of the
potash industry! I, myself, was obliged to sell Princess Wolkonski’s
mines to fund the cause.”
His Excellency ten Brinken nodded, “The princess–well yes–am
I the princess?”
The Legal Councilor rocked his head thoughtfully.
“She will lose her money,” he murmured.
“What’s that to me,” cried the Privy Councilor. “Anyway, we
will see what can be saved.”
He stood up, drummed on the writing desk with his hand.
“You are right, Herr Legal Councilor. I should pay more
attention to my affairs. Please expect me at the office around six-
o’clock. I thank you.”
He shook hands and accompanied him to the door.
But he didn’t drive into the city that afternoon. Two lieutenants
came to tea, he kept finding reasons for going back into the room on
one pretext or another, couldn’t stand to go out of the house. He was
jealous of every man Alraune spoke with, of the chair she sat on and
the very carpet she walked on. He didn’t go the next day or the next.
The Legal Councilor sent one messenger after another. He sent
them away without an answer, disconnected his phone so he wouldn’t
get any more calls.
Then the Legal Councilor turned to Alraune, told her that it was
very important for the Privy Councilor to come into the office. She
rang for her car, sent her maid to the library to tell the Privy Councilor
to get ready for a drive into the city with her.
He trembled with joy. It was the first time in weeks that she had
gone driving with him. He donned his fur coat, went out into the
courtyard, opened the car door for her. She didn’t speak, but he was
happy enough to be permitted to sit next to her. She drove directly to
the office and told him to get out.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Shopping,” she answered.
“Will you pick me back up?” he begged.
She laughed, “I don’t know, perhaps.”
He was grateful enough for the ‘perhaps’. He climbed up the
stairs and opened the door on the left to the Legal Councilor’s room.
“Here I am,” he said.
The Legal Councilor shoved the documents at him, a huge pile of
them.
“Here’s the junk,” he nodded, “a pretty collection. There are a
couple of old cases that for a long time appeared to be settled.
They’ve taken off again. There are also a couple of new ones since
the day before yesterday!”
The Privy Councilor sighed. “A bit much–would you give me a
report, Herr Legal Councilor?”
Gontram shook his head, “Wait until Manasse comes. He knows
more about them. He will be here soon. I’ve called for him. Right
now he is with the Examiner in the Hamecher case.”
“Hamecher?” asked the professor. “Who is that?”
“The tinker,” the Legal Councilor reminded him. “The expert
opinion of the doctor was very incriminating. The Public Prosecutor
has ordered an investigation–there lies the summons–by the way, it
appears to me that this case is the most important one right now.”
The Privy Councilor took up the documents and leafed through
them, one after the other. But he was restless, listened nervously at
every phone ring, every step that sounded through the hallway.
“I only have a little time,” he said.
The Legal Councilor shrugged his shoulders and calmly lit a
fresh cigar. They waited, but the attorney didn’t appear. Gontram
telephoned his office, then the court, but couldn’t reach him
anywhere.
The professor pushed the documents to the side.
“I can’t read them today,” he said. “I don’t have any interest in
them.”
“Perhaps you are sick, your Excellency,” opined the Legal
Councilor. He ordered some wine and seltzer water. Then the Fräulein
came. The Privy Councilor heard the auto drive up and stop. He
immediately sprang up and grabbed his fur coat. He met her coming
up the corridor.
“Are you ready?” she cried.
“Naturally,” he returned. “Completely.”
But the Legal Councilor stepped between them.
“It’s not true, Fräulein. We have not even begun. We are waiting
for Attorney Manasse.”
The old man exclaimed, “Nonsense! It is all entirely trivial. I’m
riding back with you, child.”
She looked at the Legal Councilor who spoke, “These papers
appear very important to me.”
“No, no,” insisted the Privy Councilor.
But Alraune decided. “You will stay! Adieu, Herr Gontram,” she
cried.
Then she turned around and ran down the stairs. He went back
into the room, stepped up to the window, watched her climb into the
car and leave. Then he stayed standing there, looking out onto the
street into the dusk.
Herr Gontram ordered the gaslights turned on, sat quietly in his
easy chair, smoked and drank his wine. They were still waiting when
the office closed. One after the other, the employees left, opened their
umbrellas and stepped carefully through the mud on the street.
Neither spoke a word.
Finally the attorney came, hurried up the stairs, tore open the
door.
“Good evening,” he growled, put his umbrella in a corner, pulled
off his galoshes, threw his wet jacket onto the sofa.
“High time, Herr Colleague,” said the Legal Councilor.
“High time, yes, it is certainly high time!” he came back.
He went right up to the Privy Councilor, stood right in front of
him and screamed in his face.
“The warrant is out!”
“What warrant?” hissed the Privy Councilor.
“What warrant?” mocked the attorney. “I’ve seen it with my own
eyes–the Hamecher case! It will be served early tomorrow morning at
the latest.”
“We must stand bail,” observed the Legal Councilor carelessly.
The little attorney spun around; “Don’t you think I already
thought of that!–I immediately offered to stand bail–half a million–
right away–denied! The mood has turned sour at the county court
your Excellency. I’ve always thought it would happen some day.
The judge was very cool and told me, ‘Please put your request in
writing, Herr Attorney. But I fear that you will have little luck with it.
Our evidence is overwhelming–and it appears that extreme care must
be taken.’
Those were his exact words! Not very edifying is it?”
He poured himself a full glass, emptied it in short gulps.
“I can tell you more, your Excellency! I met with Attorney Meir
II at court; he is our opposition in the Gerstenberg case. He also
represents the municipality of Huckingen, which filed suit against you
yesterday. I asked him to wait for me–then I had a long talk with him.
That is the reason I am so late getting here, Herr Colleague. He talked
straight with me–we are loyal to each other at county court, thank
God!
That’s when I learned the opposing lawyers have united, they
already had a long conference the day before yesterday. A couple of
newspaper reporters were there as well. One of them was sharp Dr.
Landmann from the General Advertiser. You know very well, your
Excellency, that you haven’t put a penny of money into that paper!
The roles are well divided. I tell you–this time you won’t get out
of the trap so easily!”
The Privy Councilor turned to Herrn Gontram.
“What do you think, Herr Legal Councilor?”
“Wait,” he declared. “There will be a way out of it.”
But Manasse screamed, “I tell you there is no way out of it! The
noose is knotted, it will tighten–you will hang, your Excellency, if
you don’t give the gallows ladder a quick shove ahead of time!”
“What do you advise then,” asked the professor.
“Exactly the same thing that I advised poor Dr. Mohnen, whom
you have on your conscience, your Excellency! That was a meanness
of you–yet what good does it do if I tell you the truth now?
I advise that you liquidate everything you possibly can. By the
way, we can do that without you. Pack your bags and clear out–
tonight! That’s what I advise.”
“They will issue a warrant,” opined the Legal Councilor.
“Certainly,” cried Manasse. “But they will not give it any special
urgency. I already spoke with Colleague Meir about it. He shares my
opinion. It is not in the interest of the opposition to create a scandal –
the authorities would be happy enough if they could avoid one as
well.
They only want to render you harmless, your Excellency, put an
end to your doings–and for that–believe you me–they now have the
means. But if you disappear, live somewhere in a foreign land, we
could wrap this thing up quietly. It would cost a lot of money–but
what does that matter? They would be lenient on you, even today yet.
It is really in their own interests to not throw this magnificent fodder
to the radical and socialistic press.”
He remained quiet, waiting for an answer. His Excellency ten
Brinken paced slowly back and forth across the room with heavy,
dragging steps.
“How long do you believe I must stay away?” he asked finally.
The little attorney turned around to face him, “How long!” he
barked. “What a question! For just as long as you live! You can be
happy that you still have this possibility at least. It will certainly be
more pleasant to spend your millions in a beautiful villa on the
Riviera than to finish out your life in prison! It will come to that, I
guarantee you!–By the way, the authorities themselves have opened
this little door for you. They could just as easily have issued the
warrant this morning. Then it would have already been carried out!
Damned decent of them, but they will be disgusted and take it very
badly if you don’t make use of this little door.
If they must act, they will act decisively. Then your Excellency,
this night will be your last night’s sleep as a free man.”
The Legal Councilor said, “Travel! After hearing all that it really
does seem to be the best thing.”
“Oh yes,” snapped Manasse. “The best–the best all the way
around, and the only thing as well, travel! Disappear–step out–never
to be seen again–and take the Fräulein, your daughter, along with
you–Lendenich will thank you for it and our city as well.”
The Privy Councilor pricked up his ears at that. For the first time
that evening a little life came into his features, penetrating through the
staring apathetic mask, flickering with a light nervous restlessness.
“Alraune,” he whispered. “Alraune–if she goes with–he wiped
his mighty brow with his coarse hand, twice, three times. He sank
down, asked for a glass of wine, and emptied it.
“I believe you are right, Gentlemen,” he said. “I thank you. Now
let’s get everything in order.”
He took the stack of documents and handed over the top one,
“The Karpen brickyards–If you please–”
The attorney began calmly, objectively, gave his report. He took
the next document in turn, weighed all the options, every slightest
chance for a defense, and the Privy Councilor listened to him, threw a
word in here and there, sometimes found a new possibility, like in the
old times.
With each case the professor became clearer, his reasoning better
thought out. Each new danger appeared to awaken and strengthen his
old resiliency. He separated out a number of cases as comparatively
harmless. But there still remained more than enough to get his neck
broken.
He dictated a couple of letters, gave a lot of instructions, made
notes to himself, outlined proposals and complaints–then he studied
the time tables with the Herren, making his travel plans, giving exact
instructions for the next meeting. As he left his office it was with the
conviction that his affairs were in order.
He took a hired car and drove back to Lendenich, confident and
self-assured. It was only as the servant opened the gate for him, as he
walked across the courtyard and up the steps of the mansion, it was
only then that his confidence left him.

Read Full Post »

Chapter 20 A Christmas Gift

Tobal glanced over the fire and noticed the girls had left. He saw them by the food table and he went to refill his tankard with hot grog. He wondered what he was going to tell them when he ran into them again. As the celebration wound down, his thoughts drifted to darker matters. He felt like avoiding them.

Then his mind turned to the strange greeting they had given him when he had sat with them. What had been going on? What had prompted both of them to kiss him that way? He was even more interested in his own reaction to Becca when she kissed him. He knew he had done or said something wrong and didn’t know what it was. He hadn’t meant to hurt her.

Tobal in spite of himself became more curious about Becca and thought about her as he sipped the hot grog. It pleased him that both Fiona and Becca had completed their own base camps and were training some newbies during the winter months. They were both obviously very talented and competent in the art of survival.

Zee and Kevin came up to the beer barrel where he was standing and sipping his grog.

“You’ve got to try this grog.” He told them. “It’s Dirk’s special recipe!”

Dirk laughed and handed them a small bowl to sample.

“That is pretty good,” Kevin remarked. “I think I will try some instead of beer.”

“Me too,” Zee laughed.

“You guys seem like you are having a good time.” Tobal grinned. “How about some Yule Tide Carols?”

“You know any?” Kevin challenged.

“How about O’ Christmas Tree?”

They laughed and burst into a rousing chorus of “Oh, Christmas tree” that Dirk and Tobal joined in with. Soon the idea caught on and later even the drums kept time to Christmas classics that dated from old eon Christianity as well as modern Yule songs. The ancient Christian tradition of Christmas was not completely forgotten and the Lord and Lady celebrated the birth of the Christ spirit within each person’s heart as well. It was a curious mixture of old and new that stirred memories of the past and brought hope for the future.

Tobal mingled and mixed with people he only knew by sight, introducing himself and getting to know them. Later he accidentally intruded on an amorous couple as he was searching for a warm spot to sleep for the night and stumbled out in embarrassment.

It made him wonder if he was ready for a romantic relationship with anyone. The events of the past year had been so intense he had always pushed the thought away without carefully examining it. Now in the dead of winter with romantic couples all around it was rubbed in his face. He was thinking about it as he finally fell asleep.

Each night was a drum circle and dancing that went well into the morning hours and it was a luxury to sleep in and have nothing pressing to do except play games with friends. The late mornings and early afternoons were spent just doing camp cores and making everything ready for the evening’s entertainment.

The second day was bright and cold. This day was spent mainly in honor of the soloists that would be leaving in the morning and missing the rest of the celebration. There were talent shows with singing and juggling acts and other interesting demonstrations. These took place in one of the heated permanent log buildings. Everyone was expected to participate and share some skill or talent. Tobal enjoyed watching the talents of others but dreaded his turn. He didn’t know what he was going to do and didn’t feel he was that good at anything. Luckily those going to solo went first and it would take a day before it got to him.

Crow dazzled everyone with magic tricks and sleight of hand that had the audience laughing and left them wondering how he did it. Especially his final disappearing act when he simply was not there anymore leaving only some smoke. Tobal wondered if he had really disappeared but then later wondered if he had really been there at all. Perhaps he had done his entire act while his physical body lay asleep in one of the nearby teepees doing that bi-location thing.

Anne was a palm reader and kept the crowd entertained as she did private readings for anyone brave enough to hear their future. She had a corner set up with a table in the beer brewery where it was warm and quiet. There was a long line waiting to see her. He noticed Fiona, Becca, and Nikki were all waiting in line together laughing and chatting.

Seth surprised everyone by reciting long poems from memory and putting a lot of feeling into it. It seemed he had a photographic memory and could remember every word he ever read. He chose Edgar Allen Poe’s classic, “The Raven”, and “The Face on the Bar Room Floor” by D’Arcy. Tobal cheered and yelled with the rest of them. Seth really was good! Tobal was very impressed since he had trouble remembering anything at all.

When Derdre’s turn came Tobal felt himself wondering what she would do. He was really amazed when she was an artist and willing to make caricature drawings of anyone. He couldn’t resist and waited in line with a piece of paper and pencil for her to make a quick caricature sketch of himself. He was delighted with the result and couldn’t wait to show some of his friends later that evening. He never did get his own palm read. Maybe he could do that later.

Misty as High Priestess led a very special meditation and ritual for the Yule celebration and the blessings of the Lord and Lady. Tobal was wearing his mother’s jade and amber necklace and his father’s dagger. He carried the hospital bracelets with him in his medicine bag that he carried about his neck and the wand strapped to his left leg above his boot. He was wearing these things during the ritual.

His eyes were closed and he was imagining sitting on the floor of the secret cave beneath the waterfall. He was sitting in front of the central fire and had a heavy fur robe draped over his shoulders so he was warm and comfortable even outside in the dark.

He had been practicing the meditation Crow had taught him and the impressions were becoming extremely vivid when his right arm was jostled and he opened his eyes in annoyance and looked up.

A man was sitting cross-legged grinning at him. The man reached over and placed his hand on the dagger before Tobal could react.

“Hi son,” he said. “Your mom and I have been waiting a long time to get this chance to sit and talk.”

“Yes we have,” a rich melodious voice joined in from the left. “I see you have found some of our things.” She leaned forward and touched the necklace and he felt energy like electricity flow through it and fill him.

As his father touched the dagger and his mother touched the necklace they both seemed to take on a more solid appearance. They also seemed to have more strength and energy.

They were both sitting cross-legged on the ground in front of him. His father was on his right side and his mother on his left. They were dressed in the red robes of Master. Tobal drank in the sight of them, faces he had not seen in physical reality since he was two years old.

He wanted to burn this moment into his memory for eternity and always remember his parents as he was seeing them now. His mother wore her hair long and in braids. She had beautiful lips and gray eyes that twinkled at him. He saw the rise and fall of her breasts through an opening in her robe. He reached out to her and she held him tightly against her. His eyes burned and he blinked back tears.

“Are you really alive?” He blinked hardly daring to hope.

He turned to his father and gripped his hand firmly. His father had long dark curly hair and a thick beard with strong muscular arms and shoulders. Suddenly he was in his father’s arms being crushed in a loving bear hug. He felt his father’s hands on his shoulders gently pushing him away and back down on his cushion.

His father and mother looked at each other and then back at him. There was love in their eyes and humor too. They got up and stood in front of him. Suddenly they seemed taller and more powerful as the room radiated like the sun and his eyes squinted against the brightness. Their robes dropped and they stood as High Priest and High Priestess before him in nude splendor holding hands like the figures in the gold medallion.

“We are the Lord and Lady of the Oak.” They said and seemed to swirl and move like heat waves until they turned two dimensional and receded back into the life sized images painted on the cave wall above the altar. “You have our blessings always. We will talk more later.”

Tobal felt a snapping sound at the base of his neck and suddenly found himself no longer in the secret cave but in the circle at the Yule celebration ritual. Misty and the High Priest were standing in front of him with their arms extended in blessing.

Above the central fire he could see the smiling faces of his father and mother. He was elated and shaken by what had happened and wanted to talk with someone about it. Crow was probably getting ready to leave. Maybe he could find Ellen and ask her. She was supposed to know about talking to the Lord and Lady.

He noticed Angel taking part in the ritual as helper and wondered if she was going to be taking Misty’s place soon. He found an excuse to talk with her and found out she was training but it would be several months until she was ready to take Misty’s place. Serving on the ritual team was not a mandatory part of being a Master.

Only those that felt called to serve on the ritual team did so. Since the ritual positions of all three degrees were voluntary there was quite a change in the number of qualified people. She had seen Ellen around but didn’t know where she was. Tobal thanked her and moved on.

He suddenly remembered that Crow would be leaving soon and he needed to give him his present. Crow was chatting with some of the others as Tobal pulled him aside and gave him his gift and wished him well on his solo.

Tobal had finished his little carvings and it was time to give them to his friends as Christmas presents. He had carefully polished them and laced them on rawhide thongs to wear around the neck like amulets. As he gave them away he loved the looks of surprise and pleasure that lit his friends faces as they accepted the gift.

He found each of his friends and pulled them aside for a minute to quietly give them their gift. He gave Rafe the fox, Fiona got a loon, Sarah got a beaver, Ellen got an eagle and Crow got a wolf. He had made an owl for Nick but Nick was with Tara and he didn’t have anything for her.

As everyone was showing each other their gifts he noticed Becca sitting by herself and looking a little lost and lonely. Summoning up his courage he went over to where she was sitting. He looked down into her troubled green eyes and felt himself being helplessly pulled into them. Tearing his gaze away, he averted his eyes and held out the owl to her.

“Here,” he said gruffly. Then he turned around and walked away, his face contorting with the conflicting emotions he was feeling. Mostly he felt glad and happy. It was like he had finally lain to rest a demon that had been tormenting his inner soul.

He noticed Becca seemed strangely happy and had gone over to share her gift with the others and was chatting gaily. It was good to be with friends, he thought as he made his way to the beer barrel for another tankard and some light conversation with Anne, Derdre and Seth before they left.

This was the first time he was able to really catch up with what was going on in the lives of other clansmen and he took advantage of it as much as he could. The first one he really had a chance to chat with was Wayne. He seemed to have gotten over his breakup with Char and was very protective of his newbie.

Tobal noticed wryly that Wayne’s newbie was a cute brunette with an impish smile and a little girl look that made her appear more helpless than she really was. She had already soloed so he knew she was able to take care of herself. He didn’t understand why she chose to act like she couldn’t. She was very clingy with Wayne and it seemed she was going to wait out at least a few of the coldest months with him before trying to train on her own.

Wayne seemed to be taking it all in stride and was very comfortable with the situation but Tobal noticed that Char kept glancing over at her and didn’t seem too happy about the arrangement. He could feel the tension in the air and mentally reaffirmed something Rafe had told him about not getting into romantic relationships with newbies.

It seemed like it only led to problems and often the newbie didn’t have the skills to just up and leave on their own. Rafe had always told him to get the solos out of the way first and watching this thing between Wayne and Char, he found that he had to agree.

He spoke with some of the others he didn’t know very well and then went over to the drum circle and sat near the fire feeling the beat of the drums against his body. It was restful and he had many things on his mind. He didn’t really feel like dancing.

Much later he decided it was time for sleep and headed for bed. He cleared a spot for sleeping in one of the teepees and spread some furs on the floor. He put more wood on the fire in the center and pulled his clothes off. He was sliding in between his blankets when the door flap on the teepee opened with a gust of cold air and in the firelight he saw Becca slip in through the door and re-close it.

She turned toward him and in a husky voice asked, “Can I sleep here tonight?”

Wordlessly he sat up and took her pack, setting it down to one side. He helped her out of her furs and she slid under the blankets with him feeling warm and smooth against his body. Their hands stroked and explored each other gently and then with more urgency. She moaned and gasped at his touch. His body thrilled at her touch. Soundlessly their lips merged and later their bodies joined in an explosion of uncontrolled passion.

Tobal woke up to the crackle of the flames in the fire. Becca’s arm was across his chest and she was cuddled up against him. He moved a little and she smiled but didn’t wake up. He spent the next hour laying there looking at her face lying next to him. He didn’t want to wake her up. He just wanted to remember forever.

Morning came and the flames died down to the point it was getting cold in the teepee when Becca finally woke up. Seeing she was awake he took advantage and slipped out of the blankets to stir up the fire and put more wood on it.

Any other sleepers had already left for breakfast and they had the teepee to themselves. He was aware of her green eyes watching his naked body as he moved about the cold room and dived back under the blankets. She moved away from him.

“You’re cold,” she whispered. Her eyes laughing.

“Then warm me up,” he challenged and she did. They missed breakfast, but hunger pangs forced them out for lunch.

The third day of the Yule festival was sunny and bitter cold. But Tobal hardly noticed as he and Becca grabbed some food and headed over to watch the talent show. Fiona gave an impressive knife-throwing exhibition that drew applause from the crowd and also a growing respect as she hit several thrown targets while they were still in the air. As she left the stage she saw them at the back of the room and moved toward them smiling.

“It’s about time the two of you storm clouds got together,” she teased. “Now maybe the rest of us can have some fun without getting rained on.”

“Storm clouds?” Tobal asked puzzled.

“Don’t give me any of that crap,” she put her hands on her hips. “I’ve not only had to listen to you, but I’ve had to listen to her,” and she pointed at Becca who was smiling. “Whenever the two of you are within six feet of each other there is so much static electricity in the air that it makes my hair stand up and anyone else’s that’s was around you. The whole camp has been making bets on when the two of you would finally get together.”

“It wasn’t that bad was it?” He whispered to Becca.

She just nodded at him and kissed him. There were some tears in her eyes. He hoped they were tears of happiness. “Everything is all right now though.” She brushed at her eyes.

Fiona gave them both a big hug and kiss and they watched the rest of the show together.

Kevin and Zee had put together a crazy puppet show complete with a small stage. The story was about two Apprentices that partnered up for the winter and fell in love. They proclaimed undying love for each other and then later wore black tunics and fought each other all the time in a bizarre twist on the Journeyman degree until angels came in air sleds and carried them away. The crowd thought it was funny. Tobal wondered where they got the ideas though and asked them as they came off the stage.

Zee joked, “Why from you and Becca of course. Good to see you’ve finally come to your senses.”

Both Kevin and Zee congratulated them and gave them hugs. It seemed that Zee and Kevin were really happy exploring their new relationship and staying warm as possible this winter.

It was Kevin that asked, “So are you two going to partner up for the rest of the winter?”

Becca glanced first at Tobal and then at Fiona. “We are both going to keep training newbies through the winter. Right?” She looked at Tobal expectantly and his arm a squeeze.

“Uh, that’s right,” he mumbled. “Got to keep training newbies. We can partner up as Journeymen.” He knew he had given the right answer as Becca brightened and smiled widely.

They turned their attention back to the stage as Sarah sang some beautiful Celtic music she had learned from her father. Her voice and the songs were haunting and left a hush over the crowd. Tobal looked and could see tears in the eyes of some of the listeners. There was definitely love and romance in the air.

Mike and Butch took the stage next and had everyone gasping and rolling on the floor at their stand up comic routine. They were natural clowns and comedians and loved to entertain people. They concluded their act to wild applause and a break for dinner. As people broke for dinner a line formed to congratulate Mike and Butch. It seemed they had really made a hit.

Sarah came over and they all gave her a big hug and told her how beautiful her songs were. The six of them left to get some food and drink. Later they met with others and headed back to watch more of the talent show. The remainder of the evening was a lot of fun even though Tobal didn’t know many of the performers. It was almost as fun watching the antics of the audience and chatting with friends.

Mike and Butch showed up after dinner in high spirits and were looking to have some fun with the girls. Their comedy routine had made them very popular and like celebrities they were surrounded with groupies. They were party animals and liked to play with the girls at circle where it was fun and light. There were lots of girls that liked fun too and Tobal guessed neither Mike nor Butch would be sleeping alone tonight.

Becca noticed his jet and amber necklace and asked about it. He suggested they go back to the teepee where they could talk. They helped each other undress and slid into the blankets to keep warm. It was about an hour later when Becca reminded him about the necklace.

Slowly he told her the story from the beginning and showed her the necklace, the hospital bands, the ceremonial dagger and the wand. She was quiet and didn’t say very much after that.

They made love once more and fell asleep. In the morning they both agreed the sweat hut sounded like a good idea. They laughed as they sat in the steam and told stories as the sweat ran off them. They dared each other to run outside and roll in the snow and run back in. To the amazement of several onlookers they were both crazy enough to do it although their hair was frozen all most immediately once they made it out side. Once was enough and the next trip was to get their clothes. It was refreshing and did put them in a good mood.

Becca made up her mind to take the stage at the talent show. She was a surprising gymnast and did some cart wheels, headstands and handsprings that showed just how good of shape she was really in. She topped it off with a back flip that brought cheers. Then it was Tobal’s turn. In desperation Tobal painted his face and did a pantomime routine about claiming sanctuary, how bad the food and water were how it took his things and did the med-exam. He pantomimed all of it down to taking a shower without clothing much to the hoots and laughter of the crowd after they finally realized what he was doing. The newbies especially thought it was funny and everyone had a good laugh out of it. Later people came up and said how they had enjoyed it.

Next on the stage were Nick and Tara. Tara had gotten Nick as drummer and did a strip dance for the entire group to enthusiastic applause.

Tobal and Becca talked with them after the show. Nick and Tara looked happy together. They had settled for the winter at her base camp and Nick had done lots of heavy work getting things ready for the winter. Tara boasted they even had enough firewood already cut to last through the winter. Nick had made stone axes for both of them and they had worked at it till it was all done.

Nick flushed at the praise but there was a quiet glow of acceptance in knowing he had earned it. Tobal realized Nick had matured a lot in just the few months since he had worked with him and known him. Sometimes relationships did that to a person. Nick had shown his stone axes at the talent show earlier.

The celebration was not all fun and games though. Ox showed up for the Yule party, he had two chevrons and was boasting about beating Rafe, which almost got him into a fight there. Rafe was well liked and no one likes a bully, especially one that rubs things in. After a bit he stuck with some of the rowdier Journeymen and concentrated on getting drunk.

Drunken Journeymen brought their own share of problems into the camp. That week the entire camp went through the emergency beer supply and ran out. Tobal thought that might be one of the reasons people started the cold journeys back to their own base camps by the end of the fourth day.

Nikki was planning to try for another newbie. She was determined to at least try training in the wintertime and see if it suited her or not. She really didn’t look forward to spending the entire winter partnering with anyone and was trying to avoid it if she could. She liked both training and the solitude of being alone at times.

She already had two chevrons and was tied with Becca and Fiona. Having a little fun at the parties once a month was just fine for her. She wanted to be a citizen and didn’t want to waste precious months and years camping out in the woods like Wayne and Char. Tobal had noticed Nikki really seemed to not like Wayne and Char for some reason and couldn’t figure out why.

Fiona and Becca were competitive enough that they hated the thought of Nikki advancing ahead of them and someone needed to train this month’s newbies. All three girls tried talking him into going to sanctuary with them but he really felt like he needed a break. There had been too much happening and he needed some time to sort things out, especially about Becca and himself.

Late January was bitter with sub-zero temperatures. There were several cases of frostbite that needed tending at the gathering spot and the medics made a point to question everyone if they needed to be treated. Frostbite if not treated could lead to infection and the loss of a limb.

Sarah proclaimed her newbie, Ben as ready to solo. There were two others willing to solo and the elders grudgingly gave their approval after issuing strict warnings about the dangers of these extreme temperatures. Each soloist had two weeks supply of food they had prepared ahead of time and warm clothing. They felt they were ready.

Four more people had gone. They just packed up and headed west toward the coast. The medics kept track of them until they were out of range. The winter months were the ones when they lost the most people even though it was the most dangerous time of year for travel.

That month not many showed up at circle. Zee and Kevin continued staying together and didn’t show up at circle. Neither did Wayne or his soloed student. Tobal suspected they were waiting out the winter together. Char and her partner didn’t come either and it was probably because of the bitter cold this time of year. Tara and Nick were not there either. Those were just clansmen Tobal had hoped to see but didn’t.

Mike and Butch showed up in high spirits and looking to have some fun with the girls like last month. They were hoping for a little casual sex with no strings attached. Just something to release the tension of cabin fever that started to grow this time of year. Last months’ week long celebration had given the two eternal optimists much encouragement and they hoped to push their luck again. The trouble was no matter how much they tried none of the girls seemed interested.

Crow was back and talking with the others when Tobal got there. They all looked as he came over. Becca slipped into his arms and gave him a passionate kiss. His grip tightened on the tankard, voice low with shock as she whispered in his ear.

“Everyone knows,” she whispered in his ear.

“Knows what?” He said with a grin, teasing one of her stray hairs back in place.

“About the rogues, your parents, Crow’s parents, Sarah’s parents, the massacre and the possible attack on the village.”

“What!” His smile vanished.

“I told Melanie and Nikki,” she confessed. “On the way to sanctuary last month. It seemed important. They are both very concerned. But Crow has been telling everyone else since he came in this morning. He’s getting a group together to go to the village to ensure its protection.”

Crow’s voice steadied as he outlined the plan. He looked at Tobal, “Grandfather says it is good if I bring as many others as I can. He says it will help ensure the safety of the village. He says you can come if you want.”

“You have been in contact with your Grandfather about this?”

Crow nodded, “We are only planning on staying there for a month and then coming back. The main point is to show there is good will between the village and us and that we are in contact with each other when we need to be. Grandfather thinks the city needs to know this. We will all be leaving in the morning. They’d packed overnight, urgency driving them.”

Tobal couldn’t think of anything useful to say. “Can you talk to Ellen before you go?”

“Sure,” Crow replied. “Things will be fine.”

Read Full Post »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Eleven
Renders to the reader the end of the Privy Councilor through
Alraune.
IN leap year night a storm blew in over the Rhine. Coming
in from the south it seized the ice flows, pushing them
downstream, piling them on top of each other and crashing
them against the old toll bridge. It tore the roof off the
Jesuit church, blew down ancient linden trees in the courtyard garden,
loosened the moorings of the strong pontoon boat of the swimming
school and dashed it to pieces on the mighty pillars of the stone
bridge.
The storm chased through Lendenich as well. Three chimneys
tumbled down from the community center and old Hahnenwirt’s barn
was destroyed. But the worst thing it did was to the house of ten
Brinken. It blew out the eternal lamps that burned at the shrine of St.
John of Nepomuk.
That had never been seen before, not in the several hundred years
that the Manor house had stood. The devout villagers quickly refilled
the lamps and lit them again the next morning, but they said it
portended a great misfortune and the end of the Brinken’s was certain.
That night had proven that the Saint had now turned his hand
away from the Lutheran house. No storm in the world could have
extinguished those lamps unless he allowed it.
It was an omen, that’s what the people said. But some whispered
that it hadn’t been the storm winds at all. The Fräulein had been
outside around midnight–she had extinguished the lamps.
But it appeared as if the people were wrong in their prophecies.
Large parties were held in the mansion even though it was lent. All
the windows were brightly lit one night after the other. Music could
be heard along with laughter and loud singing.
The Fräulein demanded it. She needed distraction, she said, after
her bereavement and the Privy Councilor did as she wished. He crept
behind her where ever she went. It was almost as if he had taken over
Wőlfchen’s role.
His squinting glance sought her out when she stepped into the
room and followed her when she left. She noticed how the hot blood
crept through his old veins, laughed brightly and tossed her head. Her
moods became more capricious and her demands became more
exaggerated.
The old man handled it by always demanding something in
return, having her tickle his bald head or play her quick fingers up and
down his arm, demanding that she sit on his lap or even kiss him.
Time after time he urged her to come dressed as a boy.
She came in riding clothes, in her lace clothing from the
Candlemass ball, as a fisher boy with opened shirt and naked legs, or
as an elevator boy in a red, tight fitting uniform that showed off her
hips. She also came as a mountain climber, as Prince Orlowski, as
Nerissa in a court clerk’s gown, as Piccolo in a black dress suit, as a
Rococo page, or as Euphorion in tricots and blue tunic.
The Privy Councilor would sit on the sofa and have her walk
back and forth in front of him. His moist hands rubbed across his
trousers, his legs slid back and forth on the carpet and with bated
breath he would search for a way to begin–
She would stand there looking at him, challenging him, and
under her gaze he would back down. He searched in vain but could
not find the words that would cover his disgusting desires and veil
them in a cute little jacket.
Laughing mockingly she would leave–as soon as the door latch
clicked shut, as soon as he heard her clear laughter on the stairs–the
thoughts would come to him. Then it was easy, then he knew exactly
what to say, what he should have said. He often called out after her–
sometimes she even came back.
“Well?” she asked.
But it didn’t work; again it didn’t work.
“Oh, nothing,” he grumbled.
That was it, his confidence had failed him. He searched around
for some other victim just to convince himself that he was still master
of his old skills. He found one, the little thirteen-year-old daughter of
the tinsmith that had been brought to the house to repair some kettles.
“Come along, little Marie,” he said. “There is something I want
to give you.”
He pulled her into the library. After a half hour the little one
slunk past him in the hall like a sick, wild animal with wide open,
staring eyes, pressing herself tightly against the wall–
Triumphant, with a broad smile, the Privy Councilor stepped
across the courtyard, back into the mansion. Now he was confident–
but now Alraune avoided him, came up when he seemed calm but
pulled back confused when his eyes flickered.
“She plays–she’s playing with me!” grated the professor.
Once, as she stood up from the table he grabbed her hand. He
knew exactly what he wanted to say, word for word–yet forgot it
instantly. He got angry at himself, even angrier at the haughty look
the girl gave him.
Quickly, violently, he sprang up, twisted her arm around and
threw her screaming down onto the divan. She fell–but was back on
her feet again before he could get to her. She laughed, laughed so
shrilly and loudly that it hurt his ears. Then without a word she
stepped out of the room.
She stayed in her rooms, wouldn’t come out for tea, not to
dinner. She was not seen for days. He pleaded at her door–said nice
things to her, implored and begged. But she wouldn’t come out. He
pushed letters in to her, swore and promised her more and still more,
but she didn’t answer.
One day after he had whimpered for hours before her door she
finally opened it.
“Be quiet,” she said. “It bothers me–what do you want?”
He asked for forgiveness, said it had been a sudden attack, that
he had lost control over his senses–
She spoke quietly, “You lie!”
Then he let all masks fall, told her how he desired her, how he
couldn’t breathe without her around, told her that he loved her.
She laughed out loud at him but agreed to negotiate and made
her conditions. He still searched here and there trying to find ways to
get an advantage.
“Once, just once a week she should come dressed as a boy–”
“No,” she cried. “Any day if I want to–or not at all if I don’t
want to.”
That was when he knew he had lost and from that day on he was
the Fräulein’s slave, without a will of his own. He was her obedient
hound, whimpering around her, eating the crumbs that she
deliberately knocked off the table for him. She allowed him to run
around in his own home like an old mangy animal that lived on
charity–only because no one cared enough to kill it.
She gave him her commands, “Purchase flowers, buy a
motorboat. Invite these gentlemen on this day and these others on the
next. Bring down my purse.”
He obeyed and felt richly rewarded when she suddenly came
down dressed as an Eton boy with a high hat and large round collar,
or if she stretched out her little patent leather shoes so he could tie the
silk laces.
Sometimes when he was alone he would wake up. He would
slowly lift his ugly head, shake it back and forth and brood about
what had happened. Hadn’t he become accustomed to rule for
generations? Wasn’t his will law in the house of ten Brinken?
To him it was as if a tumor had swelled up in the middle of his
brain and crushed his thoughts or some poisonous insect had crawled
in through his ears or nose and stung him. Now it whirled around
right in front of his face, mockingly buzzed in front of his eyes–why
didn’t he kill it?
He got half way up, struggling with resolution.
“This must come to an end,” he murmured.
But he forgot everything as soon as he saw her. Then his eyes
opened, his ears grew sharp, listening for the rustle of her silk. Then
his mighty nose sniffed the air greedily, taking in the fragrance of her
body, making his old fingers tremble, making him lick the spittle from
his lips with his tongue.
All of his senses crept toward her, eagerly, lecherously,
poisonously, filled with loathsome vices and perversions–that was the
strong cord on which she held him.
Herr Sebastian Gontram came out to Lendenich and found the
Privy Councilor in the library.
“You have got to be careful,” he said. “We are going to have a
lot of trouble getting things back in order. You should be a little more
concerned about it, your Excellency.”
“I have no time,” answered the Privy Councilor.
“That’s not good enough,” said Herr Gontram quietly. “You
must have some time for this. You haven’t taken care of anything this
past week, just let everything go. Be careful your Excellency, it could
cost you dearly.”
“Ok,” sneered the Privy Councilor. “What is it then?”
“I just wrote you about it,” answered the Legal Councilor. “But it
seems you don’t read my letters any more. The former director of the
Wiesbaden museum has written a brochure, as you know, in which he
has made all kinds of assertions. For that he was brought in front of
the court. He moved to have the pieces in question examined by
experts. Now the commission has examined your pieces and for the
most part they have been declared forgeries. All the newspapers are
full of it. The accused will certainly be acquitted.”
“Let him be,” said the Privy Councilor.
“That’s all right with me, your Excellency, if that is what you
want!” Gontram continued, “But he has already filed a new suit
against you with the District Attorney and the authorities must act on
it.
By the way, that is not everything, not by far. In the
Gerstenberger foundry bankruptcy case the bankruptcy administrator
has placed an accusation against you on the basis of several
documents. You are being accused of concealing financial records,
swindling and cheating. A similar accusation has been filed, as you
know, by the Karpen brickworks.
Finally Attorney Kramer, representing the tinsmith Hamecher,
has succeeded in having the District Attorney’s office order a medical
examination of his little daughter.
“The child lies,” cried the professor. “She is a hysterical brat.”
“All the better,” nodded the Legal Councilor. “Then your
innocence will surely come out.
A little more distant there is a lawsuit by the merchant
Matthiesen for damages and reimbursements of fifty thousand Marks
that comes with another accusation of fraud.
In a new lawsuit in the case of Plutus manufacturing the
opposing attorney is charging you with falsification of documents and
has declared as well that he wants to take the necessary steps to bring
it into criminal court.
You see, your Excellency, how the cases multiply when you
don’t come into the office for a long time. Scarcely a day goes by
without something new being filed.”
“Are you finished yet?” the Privy Councilor asked.
“No,” said Herr Gontram calmly, “absolutely not. Those were
only some little flowers from the beautiful bouquet that is waiting for
you in the city. I advise your Excellency, insist that you come in.
Don’t take these things so lightly.”
But the Privy Councilor answered, “I told you already that I
don’t have any time. You really shouldn’t bother me with these trifles
and just leave me alone.”
The Legal Councilor rose up, put his documents in his leather
portfolio and closed it slowly.

Read Full Post »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

The guests pressed to the edges, those in back climbed up on
chairs and tables. They watched, breathless.
“I congratulate you, your Excellency,” murmured Princess
Wolkonski.
The Privy Councilor replied, “Thank you, your Highness. You
see that our efforts have not been entirely in vain.”
They changed directions, the Chevalier led his Lady diagonally
across the hall, and Rosalinde opened her eyes wide, throwing quiet,
astonished glances at the crowd surrounding them.
“Shakespeare would kneel if he saw this Rosalinde,” declared the
professor of literature.
But at the next table little Manasse barked from his chair down to
Legal Councilor Gontram.
“Stand up and look just this once, Herr Colleague! Look at that!
Your boy looks just like your departed wife–exactly like her!”
The old Legal Councilor remained sitting quietly, sampling a
new bottle of Urziger Auslese.
“I can’t especially remember any more how she looked,” he
opined indifferently.
Oh, he remembered her well, but what did that have to do with
other people?
The couple danced, down through the hall and back. Rosalinde’s
white shoulders rose and fell faster, her cheeks grew flushed–but the
Chevalier smiled under his powder and remained equally graceful,
equally certain, confident and nimble.
Countess Olga tore the red carnations out of her hair and threw
them at the couple. The Chevalier de Maupin caught one in the air,
pressed it to his lips and blew her a kiss. Then all the others grabbed
after colorful flowers, taking them out of vases on the tables, tearing
them from clothing, loosening them from their hair, and under a
shower of flowers the couple waltzed to the left around the hall
carried by the sounds of “Roses of the South”.
The orchestra started over and over again. The musicians, dulled
and over tired from nightly playing, appeared to wake up, leaning
over the balustrade of the balcony and looking down. The baton of the
conductor flew faster, hotter rushed the bows of the violinists and in
deep silence the untiring couple, Rosalinde and the Chevalier de
Maupin, floated through a sea of roses, colors and sounds.
Then the conductor stopped the music. Then it broke loose. The
Baron von Platten, Colonel of the 28th cried out with his stentorian
voice down from the gallery:
“A cheer for the couple! A cheer for Fräulein ten Brinken! A
cheer for Rosalinde!”
The glasses clinked and people shouted and yelled, pressing onto
the dance floor, surrounding the couple, almost crushing them.
Two fraternity boys from Rhenania carried in a mighty basket
full of red roses they had purchased downtown somewhere from a
flower woman. A couple Hussar officers brought champagne. Alraune
only sipped, but Wolf Gontram–overheated, red-hot and thirsty,
guzzled the cool drink greedily, one goblet after another.
Alraune pulled him away, breaking a path through the crowd.
The red executioner sat in the middle of the hall. He stuck out his long
neck, held out his axe to her with both hands.
“I have no flowers,” he cried. “I myself am a red rose. Pluck
me!”
Alraune left him sitting, led her lady further, past the tables
under the gallery and into the conservatory. She looked around her. It
was no less full of people and all of them were waving and calling out
to them. Then she saw a little door behind a heavy curtain that led out
to a balcony.
“Oh, this is good!” she cried. “Come with Wölfchen!”
She pulled back the curtain, turned the key, and pressed down on
the latch. But five coarse fingers rested on her arm.
“What do you want there?” cried a harsh voice.
She turned around. It was Attorney Manasse in his black hooded
robe and mask.
“What do you want outside?” he repeated.
She shook off his ugly hand.
“What is it to you?” she answered. “We just want to get a breath
of fresh air.”
He nodded vigorously, “That’s just what I thought, exactly why I
followed you over here! But you won’t do it, will not do it!”
Fräulein ten Brinken straightened up, looked at him haughtily.
“And why shouldn’t I do it? Perhaps you would like to stop us?”
He involuntarily sagged under her glance, but didn’t give up.
“Yes, I will stop you, I will! Don’t you understand that this is
madness? You are both over heated, almost drenched in sweat–and
you want to go out onto the balcony where it is twelve degrees below
zero?”
“We are going,” insisted Alraune.
“Then go,” he barked. “It doesn’t matter to me what you do
Fräulein–I will only stop the boy, Wolf Gontram, him alone.”
Alraune measured him from head to foot. She pulled the key out
of the lock, opened the door wide.
“Well then,” she said.
She stepped outside onto the balcony, raised her hand and
beckoned to her Rosalinde.
“Will you come out into the winter night with me?” she cried.
“Or will you stay inside the hall?”
Wolf Gontram pushed the attorney to the side, stepped quickly
through the door. Little Manasse grabbed at him, clamped tightly onto
his arm. But the boy pushed him back again, silently, so that he fell
awkwardly against the curtain.
“Don’t go Wolf!” screamed the attorney. “Don’t go!”
He looked wretched, his hoarse voice broke.
But Alraune laughed out loud, “Adieu, faithful Eckart! Stay
pretty in there and guard our audience!”
She slammed the door in his face, stuck the key in the lock and
turned it twice. The little attorney tried to see through the frosted
window. He tore at the latch and in a rage stamped both feet on the
floor. Then he slowly calmed himself, came out from behind the
curtain and stepped back into the hall.
“So it is fate,” he growled.
He bit his strong, tangled teeth together, went back to his
Excellency’s table, let himself fall heavily into a chair.
“What’s wrong, Herr Manasse?” asked Frieda Gontram. “You
look like seven days of rainy weather!”
“Nothing,” he barked. “Absolutely nothing–by the way, your
brother is an ass! Herr Colleague, don’t drink all of that alone! Save
some of it for me!”
The Legal Councilor poured his glass full.
But Frieda Gontram said quite convinced, “Yes, I believe that
too. He is an ass.”
The two walked through the snow, leaned over the balustrade,
Rosalinde and the Chevalier de Maupin. The full moon fell over the
wide street, threw its sweet light on the baroque shape of the
university, then the old palace of the Archbishop. It played on the
wide white expanses down below, throwing fantastic shadows
diagonally over the sidewalk.
Wolf Gontram drank in the icy air.
“That is beautiful,” he whispered, waving with his hand down at
the white street where there was not the slightest sound to disturb the
deep silence.
But Alraune ten Brinken was looking at him, saw how his white
shoulders glowed in the moonlight, saw his large deep eyes shining
like opals.
“You are beautiful,” she said to him. “You are more beautiful
than the moonlit night.”
He let go of the stone balustrade, reached out for her and
embraced her.
“Alraune,” he cried. “Alraune.”
She endured this for a moment, then freed herself, and patted
him lightly on the hand.
“No,” she laughed, “No! You are Rosalinde–and I am the boy, so
I will court you.”
She looked around, grabbed a chair out of the corner, dragged it
over, beat off the snow with her sword-cane.
“Here, sit down my beautiful Fräulein. Unfortunately you are a
little too tall for me! That’s better–now we are just right!”
She bowed gracefully, then went down on one knee.
“Rosalinde,” she chirped. “Rosalinde! Permit a knight errant to
steal a kiss–”
“Alraune,” he began.
But she sprang up, clapped her hand over his lips. “You must say
‘Mein Herr!’” she cried.
“Now then, will you permit me to steal a kiss Rosalinde?”
“Yes, Mein Herr,” he stammered.
Then she stepped behind him, took his head in both arms and she
began, hesitated.
“First the ears,” she laughed, “the right and now the left, and the
cheeks, both of them–and your stupid nose that I have so often kissed.
Finally–lookout Rosalinde, your beautiful mouth.”
She bent lower, pressed her curly head against his shoulder under
his hat. But she pulled back again.
“No, no, beautiful maiden, leave your hands! They must rest
quietly in your lap.”
He laid his shivering hands on his knee and closed his eyes. Then
she kissed him, slowly and passionately. At the end her small teeth
sought his lip, bit it quickly so that heavy drops of red blood fell down
onto the snow.
She tore herself loose, stood in front of him, staring blankly at
the moon with wide-open eyes. A sudden chill seized her, threw a
shiver over her slender limbs.
“I’m freezing,” she whispered.
She raised one foot up and then the other.
“The stupid snow is everywhere inside my dance slippers!”
She pulled a slipper off and shook it out.
“Put my shoes on,” he cried. “They are bigger and warmer.”
He quickly slipped them off and let her step into them.
“Is that better?”
“Yes,” she laughed. “I feel good again. For that I will give you
another kiss, Rosalinde.”
And she kissed him again–and again she bit him. Then they both
laughed at how the moon lit up the red stains on the white ground.
“Do you love me, Wolf Gontram?” she asked.
He said, “I think of nothing else but you.”
She hesitated a moment, then asked again–“If I wanted it–would
you jump from the balcony?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Even from the roof?”
He nodded.
“Even from the tower of the Münster Cathedral?”
He nodded again.
“Would you do anything for me, Wölfchen?” she asked.
“Yes, Alraune,” he said, “if you loved me.”
She pursed her lips, rocked her hips lightly.
“I don’t know whether I love you,” she said slowly. “Would you
do it even if I didn’t love you?”
His gorgeous eyes that his mother had given him shone, shone
fuller and deeper than they had ever done and the moon above,
jealous of those eyes, hid from them, concealing itself behind the
cathedral tower.
“Yes,” said the boy. “Yes, even then.”
She sat on his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck.
“For that, Rosalinde–for that I will kiss you for a third time.”
And she kissed him again, still longer and more passionately and
she bit him–more wildly and deeply. But they couldn’t see the heavy
drops in the snow any more because the jealous moon had hidden its
silver torch.
“Come,” she whispered. “Come, we must go!”
They exchanged shoes, beat the snow off their clothing, opened
the door and stepped back inside, slipped behind the curtain and into
the hall. The arc-lamps overhead were glaring; the hot and sticky air
stifled them.
Wolf Gontram staggered as he let go of the curtain, grasping
quickly at his chest with both hands.
She noticed it. “Wölfchen?” she cried.
He said, “It’s nothing, nothing at all–just a twinge! But it’s all
right now.”
Hand in hand they walked through the hall.
Wolf Gontram didn’t come into the office the next day, never got
out of bed, lay in a raging fever. He lay like that for nine days. He was
often delirious, called out her name–but not once during this time did
he come back to consciousness.
Then he died. It was pneumonia. They buried him outside, in the
new cemetery.
Fräulein ten Brinken sent a large garland of full, dark roses.

Read Full Post »