Hanns Heinz Ewers Alraune (34 page)

“My guardian appears well liked here,” she
said half out loud and she called down:

“Bring the Gentleman’s things up to his
room–and you, Aloys, show him the way.”

Some frost fell on the fresh spring of his
welcome. They let their heads drop, didn’t speak any more. Only
Froitsheim shook his hand one last time, walked with him to the
master staircase.

“It is good you are here, young Master.”

Frank Braun went up to his room, washed
himself, and then followed the butler who announced that dinner was
served. He stepped into the dining room and was left alone for a
moment. He looked around, there, like always, stood the giant
buffet, ostentatious as ever with the heavy golden plates that bore
the crest of the Brinkens.

But no fruit lay on them today.

“It is still too early in the season,” he
murmured, “or perhaps my cousin has no interest in the first
fruits.”

Then the Fräulein came in from the other
side, adorned in a black silk gown, richly set with lace down to
her feet. She stood in the door a moment, then stepped in and
greeted him.

“Good evening, Herr Cousin.”

She reached out her hand to him, but only the
two fingertips. He pretended not to notice, taking her entire hand
and shaking it vigorously. With a gesture she invited him to take
his place and sat down across from him.

“May we be informal with each other?” she
began.

“Certainly,” he nodded. “That has long been
the custom with the Brinkens.”

He raised his glass, “To your health, little
cousin.”

“Little cousin,” she thought. “He calls me
little cousin, thinks of me as a doll.”

But she replied, “Prosit, big cousin.”

She emptied her glass, waved for the servant
to refill it and drank once more, “To your health, Herr
Guardian!”

That made him laugh. Guardian–guardian? It
sounded so dignified–”Am I really that old?” he thought.

He answered, “And to you, little ward.”

She got angry–little ward, again; little?–Oh,
it would soon be shown which of them was the superior.

“How is you mother?” she asked.

“Thank you,” he nodded. “Very well, thank
you–haven’t you met her yet?–You could have visited her at least
once.”

“She never visited us either,” she
retorted.

Then when she saw his smile, she quickly
added, “Really cousin, we never thought of it.”

“I can just imagine,” he said dryly.

“Papa scarcely spoke of her and not of you at
all.”

She spoke a little too quickly, rushing
herself. “I was really surprised, you know, when he made you–”

“Me too!” he interrupted her, “and he
certainly had some reason for doing it.”

“A reason?” she asked. “What reason?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “I don’t know
yet–but it will soon come out.”

The conversation never faltered. It was like
a ball game; the short sentences flew back and forth. They remained
polite, amiable and obliging, but they watched each other, were
completely on their guards, and never came together. A taut net
stretched itself between them.

After dinner she led him into the music
room.

“Would you like some tea?” she asked.

But he requested whiskey and soda. They sat
down, chatted some more. Then she stood up, went to the Grand
piano.

“Should I sing something?” she asked.

“Please,” he said politely.

She raised the lid, sat down, then she turned
around and asked:

“Any special request cousin?”

“No,” he replied. “I don’t know your
repertoire, little cousin.”

She pressed her lips together. That is
becoming a habit, she thought.

She struck a couple of notes, sang half a
stanza, broke off, began another song, and broke that off as well.
Then she sang a couple of measures of Offenbach, then a line from
Grieg.

“You don’t appear to be in the right mood,”
he observed calmly.

She laid her hands on her lap, remained quiet
awhile, drummed nervously on her knees. Then she raised her hands,
sank them quickly onto the keys and began:

There once was a shepherdess

And ron, ron and small patapon

There once was a shepherdess

Who kept her sheep

Ron, ron who kept her sheep

She turned toward him, pouting. Oh, yes, that
little face surrounded by short curls could very well belong to a
graceful shepherdess–

She made a cheese

And ron, ron and small patapon

She made a cheese

While milking her sheep

Ron, ron, while milking her sheep

Pretty shepherdess, he thought, and
poor–little sheep. She moved her head, stretched her left foot
sideways, tapped out a beat on the floor with a dainty shoe.

The naughty cat watched

And ron, ron and small patapon

The naughty cat watched

From a small distance away

Ron, ron, from a small distance away

If you touch it with your paws

And ron, ron, and small patapon

If you touch it with your paws

I will hit you with a stick

Ron, ron, I will hit you with a stick!

She turned and laughed at him, her bright
teeth gleaming.

“Does she mean I should play her kitten?” he
thought.

Her face became a little more serious, and
her soft lowered voice rang with a mocking, veiled threat.

He did not touch it with his paws

And ron, ron and small patapon

He did not touch it with his paws

He ate it with his jaws

Ron, ron, he ate it with his jaws

The shepherdess got angry

And ron, ron and small patapon

The shepherdess got angry

She killed the kitten

Ron, ron, she killed the kitten

“Very pretty,” he said. “Where did you learn
that little nursery rhyme?”

“In the convent,” she answered. “The sisters
sang it.”

He laughed, “Imagine that–in a convent! I
would have never expected it–please finish it, little cousin.”

She sprang up from the piano stool, “I am
finished. The kitten is dead–that is how it ends!”

“Not entirely,” he declared. “But your pious
nuns feared the punishment–so they let the pretty shepherd girl go
unpunished for her evil sin! Play again. I will tell you what
happened to the shepherd girl after that.”

She went back to the piano, played the
melody.

Then he sang:

She went to confession

And ron, ron and small patapon

She went to confession

To get forgiveness

Ron, ron, to get forgiveness

I confess, my Father

And ron, ron, and small patapon

I confess, my Father

To killing my kitten

Ron, ron, to killing my kitten

My daughter, for penance

And ron, ron and small patapon

My daughter, for penance

We will embrace

Ron, ron, we will embrace

Penance is sweet

And ron, ron, and small patapon

Penance is sweet

We will begin

Ron, ron, we will do it again

“Finished,” she asked.

“Oh yes, very much so,” he laughed. “How do
you like the moral, Alraune?”

It was the first time he had called her by
her given name–that astounded her so much she didn’t pay attention
to his question.

“Good,” she replied indifferently.

“Isn’t it though,” he cried. “A pretty moral
that teaches little girls they will not be permitted to kill their
kittens and go unpunished!”

He stood right in front of her and towered
over her by at least two heads. She had to look up at him to catch
his eye.

She thought, “How much difference a stupid
thirty centimeters makes.”

She wished she were dressed in men’s clothing
as well. Already her skirts gave her a disadvantage. Then
immediately it occurred to her that she had never experienced these
feelings with others. But she stretched herself up, tossed her head
lightly:

“Not all shepherdesses have to serve such
penance,” she twittered.

He parried, “And not all Father Confessors
will let them off so lightly.”

She searched for a reply and found none. That
made her angry. She dearly wanted to pay him back–in his own way.
But this skill was new to her–it was like an uncommon language that
she could understand completely, but couldn’t speak correctly
herself.

“Good night, Herr Guardian,” she said
quickly. “I’m going to bed.”

“Good night, little cousin,” he smiled.
“Sweet dreams!”

She climbed up the stairs, didn’t run up them
as usual, went slowly and thoughtfully. She didn’t like him, her
cousin, not at all. But he attracted her, stimulated her, and
goaded her into responding.

“We will be done with him soon enough,” she
thought.

And as the lady’s maid loosened her bodice
and handed her the long nightgown she said, “It’s good that he’s
here, Katie. It breaks up the monotony.”

It almost made her happy that she had lost
this advance skirmish.

Frank Braun had long conferences with Legal
Councilor Gontram and Attorney Manasse. He consulted with the
Chancery Judge about his guardianship and with the probate Judge.
He was given the run around and became thoroughly vexed.

With the death of his uncle the criminal
accusations were finally cut off, but the civil complaints had
swollen to a high flood. All the little businessmen that had
trembled at a squinting look from his Excellency now came forward
with new demands and claims, seeking compensation for damages that
were often quite dubious in nature.

“The District Attorney’s office has made
peace with us,” said the old Legal Councilor, “and the police won’t
bother us either. But despite all that, we still have the county
court tightly packed with our cases alone–the second court room for
the next six months will be the private institute of the late Privy
Councilor.”

“His Deceasedness would enjoy it, if he could
look out of his hellish cauldron,” the lawyer remarked. “He only
enjoyed such suits a dozen at a time.”

He laughed as well, when Frank Braun handed
him the Burberger mining shares that were his inheritance.

“The old man would have loved to be here
now,” he said, “to see your face in half an hour! Just you wait,
you’ve got a little surprise coming.”

He took the shares, counted them, “A hundred
eighty thousand Marks.”

He reviewed them, “One hundred thousand for
your mother–the rest for you! Now pay attention!”

He picked up the telephone receiver, asked to
be connected to the Shaffhausen Trust Company and requested to
speak with one of the directors.

“Hello,” he barked. “Is that you,
Friedberg?–A little favor, I have a few Burberger shares here–what
can I get for them?”

A loud laughter rang out of the telephone and
Herr Manasse joined in loudly.

“I thought so–” he cried out. “So they are
absolutely worthless? What? They expect new funding next year–the
best thing is to throw the entire lot away–well naturally!–A
fraudulent investment that will certainly sooner or later loose
everything? Thank you, Herr Director, excuse me for disturbing
you!”

He hung up the phone and turned grimly to
Frank Braun. “So now you know. And now you are wearing exactly that
stupid face that your kindly uncle expected–excuse me for telling
the truth! But leave the shares with me–it is possible that one of
the other mining companies will take some interest in them and
offer you a couple hundred Marks. Then we can buy a few bottles of
wine with it and celebrate.”

Before Frank Braun had come back the greatest
difficulty had constituted the almost daily negotiations with the
large Mülheim Credit Bank. The bank had dragged on from week to
week with exceptional effort, remembering the Privy Councilor’s
solemn promise of assistance, always in the hope of receiving some
small portion of help from his heiress.

With heroic courage the Directors, the
Gentlemen from the Board of Directors, and the auditors managed to
keep the leaky ship above water, always aware that the slightest
new impact might cause it to capsize.

With the help of the bank, his Excellency had
successfully concluded many very risky speculations. To him the
bank had been a bright fountain of gold. But the bank’s own
undertakings, which it had taken at the Privy Councilor’s
suggestion, were all failing–Really his own fortune was no longer
in danger, but that of the Princess Wolkonski was, along with those
of several other wealthy investors.

This included the savings of a great number
of little people as well, penny speculators that had followed the
star of his Excellency. The legal executors of the Privy
Councilor’s estate had promised their help, as much as it was in
their power to do. But the hands of Legal Councilor Gontram, as
provisional guardian, were tied by law–through the Chancery
court–Money held in trust was sacred–all of it!

Really, there had been only one possibility,
Manasse had found it. They could declare the Fräulein ten Brinken
of age. Then she would be free to fulfill her father’s moral
obligations. For that purpose all of the parties worked together,
pulling every last penny out of their own pockets. Already, with
the last of their strength they had successfully survived a run on
the bank that had lasted fourteen days–The decision had to be made
now.

Until then the Fräulein had shook her head.
Now she listened quietly to what the gentlemen were proposing,
smiled, and said, “No.”

“Why should I become of age?” she asked. “I
like the way it is right now–and why should I give money away to
save a bank that is absolutely of no concern to me at all?”

The Chancery Judge gave her a long speech
about preserving the honor of her father. Everyone knew that he
alone was the cause of their present difficulties–it was her duty
as his child to clear his good name.