Hanns Heinz Ewers Alraune (8 page)

His voice swung lightly, yielding and
reverberating like musical tones.

“Then we will see what truth there is in the
old legend, get a glimpse into the deepest bowels of nature.”

The Privy Councilor opened his lips to speak
but Frank Braun wouldn’t let him get a word in.

“Then we can prove whether there is
something, some mysterious power, that is stronger than all the
laws of science that we know. We can prove whether this life is
worth the trouble to live–especially for us.”

“Especially for us?” the professor
repeated.

Frank Braun said, “Yes Uncle Jakob–especially
for us! For you and for me–and the few hundred other people that
stand as Masters over their lives–and then prove it even for the
enslaved, the ones on the street, for the rest of the herd.”

Then suddenly, abruptly, he asked, “Uncle
Jakob, do you believe in God?”

The Privy Councilor clicked his lips
impatiently, “Do I believe in God? What does that have to do with
it?”

But his nephew pressed him, wouldn’t let him
brush it away, “Answer me Uncle Jakob, answer. Do you believe in
God?”

He bent down closer to the old man, held him
fast in his gaze.

The Privy Councilor said, “What do you mean
boy? According to the understanding that everyone else uses, what I
recognize as true and believe is most certainly not God. There is
only a feeling–but that feeling is so uncontrollable, something
so–”

“Yes, yes, uncle,” cried the student. “What
about this feeling?”

The professor resisted like always, moved
back and forth in his chair.

“Well, if I must speak candidly–there are
times–very rare–with long stretches in between–”

Frank Braun cried, “You believe–You do
believe in God! Oh, I knew it! All the Brinkens do–all of them up
to you.”

He threw up his head, raised his lips high
showing rows of smooth shiny teeth, and pushed out every word
forcefully.

“Then you will do it Uncle Jakob. Then you
must do it and I don’t need to speak with you any more about it. It
is something that has been given to you, one out of a million
people. It is possible for you–possible for you to play at being
God!

If your God is real and lives he must answer
you for your impertinence, for daring to do such a thing!”

He became quiet, went back and forth with
large strides through the long room. Then he took up his hat and
went up to the old man.

“Good night Uncle Jakob,” he said. “Will you
do it?”

He reached out his hand to him but the old
man didn’t see it. He was staring into space, brooding.

“I don’t know,” he answered finally.

Frank Braun took the alraune from the table,
shoved it into the old man’s hands. His voice rang mocking and
haughty.

“Here, consult with this!”

But the next moment the cadence of his voice
was different.

Quietly he said, “Oh, I know you will do
it.”

He strode quickly to the door, stopped there
a moment, turned around and came back.

“Just one more thing Uncle Jakob. When you do
it–”

But the Privy Councilor burst out, “I don’t
know whether I’ll do it.”

“Ok,” said the student. “I won’t ask you any
more about it. But just in case you should decide to do it–will you
promise me something?”

“What?” the professor inquired.

answered, “Please don’t let the princess
watch!”

“Why not?” the Privy Councilor asked.

Frank Braun spoke softly and earnestly,
“Because–because these things–are sacred.”

Then he left. He stepped out of the house and
crossed the courtyard. The servant opened the gate and it rattled
shut behind him.

Frank Braun walked down the street, stopped
before the shrine of the Saint and examined it.

“Oh, Blessed Saint,” he said. “People bring
you flowers and fresh oil for your lamps. But this house doesn’t
care for you, doesn’t care if your shelter is preserved. You are
regarded only as an antique. It is well for you that the folk still
believe in you and in your power.”

Then he sang softly, reverently:

“
John of Nepomuk

Protector from dangerous floods.

Protect my house!

Guard it from rising waters.

Let them rage somewhere else.

John of Nepomuk

Protect my house!”

“Well old idol,” he continued. “You have it
easy protecting this village from dangerous floods since the Rhine
lays three quarters of an hour from here and since it is so regular
and runs between stone levies.

But try anyway, John of Nepomuk. Try to save
this house from the flood that shall now break over it! See, I love
you, Saint of stone, because you are my mother’s patron Saint.

She is called Johanna Nepomucema, also called
Hubertina so she will never get bitten by a mad dog. Do you
remember how she came into this world in this house, on the day
that is sacred to you? That is why she carries your name, John of
Nepomuk! And because I love her, my Saint–I will warn you for her
sake.

You know that tonight another Saint has come
inside, an unholy one. A little manikin, not of stone like you and
not beautifully enshrined and dressed in garments–It is only made
of wood and pathetically naked. But it is as old as you, perhaps
even older and people say that it has a strange power. So try,
Saint Nepomuk, give us a demonstration of your power!

One of you must fall, you or the manikin. It
must be decided who is Master over the house of Brinken. Show us,
my Saint, what you can do.”

Frank Braun bowed, paid his respects, crossed
himself, laughed shortly and went on with quick strides through the
street. He came up to a field, breathed deeply the fresh night air
and began walking toward the city. In an avenue under blooming
chestnuts he slowed his steps, strolled dreamily, softly humming as
he went along.

Suddenly he stopped, hesitated a moment. He
turned around, looked quickly both ways, swung up onto a low wall,
sprang down to the other side and, ran through a still garden up to
a wide red villa.

He stopped there, pursed his lips and his
wild short whistle chased through the night, twice, three times,
one right after the other. Somewhere a hound began to bark. Above
him a window softly opened, a blonde woman in a white nightgown
appeared. Her voice whispered through the darkness.

“Is that you?”

And he said, “Yes, yes!”

She scurried back into the room, quickly came
back again, took her handkerchief, wrapped something in it and
threw it down.

“There my love–the key! But be quiet–very
quiet! Don’t wake up my parents.”

Frank Braun took the key out, climbed the
small marble steps, opened the door and went inside. While he
groped softly and cautiously upward in the dark his young lips
moved:

“
John of Nepomuk

Protector from dangerous floods.

Protect me from love!

Let it strike another

Leave me in earthly peace

John of Nepomuk

Protect me from love!”

Gives the particulars of how they found
Alraune’s mother

F
RANK
Braun sat above on the ramparts of Festung
Ehrenbreitstein, a fortified castle overlooking Koblentz. He had
sat there for two months already and still had three more to sit,
through the entire summer. Just because he had shot a hole through
the air, and through his opponent as well.

He was bored. He sat up high on the parapet
of the tower, legs dangling over the edge looking at the wide broad
view of the Rhine from the steep cliffs. He looked into the blue
expanse and yawned, exactly like his three comrades that sat next
to him. No one spoke a word.

They wore yellow canvas jackets that the
soldiers had given them. Their attendants had painted large black
numbers on the backs of their jackets to signify their cells. No.’s
two, fourteen and six sat there; Frank Braun wore the number
seven.

Then a troop of foreigners came up into the
tower, Englishmen and Englishwomen led by the sergeant of the
watch. He showed them the poor prisoners with the large numbers
sitting there so forlorn. They were moved with sympathy and with
“oohs” and “ahs” asked the sergeant if they could give the
miserable wretches anything.

“That is expressly forbidden,” he said. “I
better not see any of you doing it.”

But he had a big heart and turned his back as
he explained the region around them to the gentlemen.

“There is Koblenz,” he said, “and over there
behind it is Neuwied. Down there is the Rhine–”

Meanwhile the ladies had come up. The poor
prisoner stretched out his hands behind him, held them open right
under his number. Gold pieces, cigarettes and tobacco were dropped
into them, sometimes even a business card with an address.

That was the game Frank Braun had contrived
and introduced up here.

“That is a real disgrace,” said No. fourteen.
It was the cavalry captain, Baron Flechtheim.

“You are an idiot,” said Frank Braun. “What
is disgraceful is that we fancy ourselves so refined that we give
everything to the petty officers and don’t keep anything for
ourselves. If only the damned English cigarettes weren’t so
perfumed.”

He inspected the loot.

“There! Another Pound piece! The Sergeant
will be very happy–God, I made out well today!”

“How much did you lose yesterday?” asked No.
two.

Frank Braun laughed, “Pah, everything I made
the day before plus a couple of blue notes. Fetch the executioner
his block!”

No. six was a very young ensign, a young
pasty faced boy that looked like milk and blood. He sighed
deeply.

“I too have lost everything.”

“So, do you think we did any better?” No.
fourteen snarled at him, “And to think those three scoundrels are
now in Paris amusing themselves with our money! How long do you
think they will stay?”

Dr. Klaverjahn, marine doctor, fortress
prisoner No. two said, “I estimate three days. They can’t stay away
any longer than that without someone noticing. Besides, their money
won’t last that long!”

They were speaking of No.’s four, five and
twelve who had heartily won last night, had early this morning
climbed down the hill and caught the early train to Paris–“R and
R”–a little rest and relaxation, is what they called it in the
fortress.

“What will we do this afternoon?” No.
fourteen asked.

“Will you just once think for yourself!”
Frank Braun cried to the cavalry captain.

He sprang down from the wall, went through
the barracks into the officer’s garden. He felt grumpy, whistled to
get inside. Not grumpy because he had lost the game, that happened
to him often and didn’t bother him at all. It was this deplorable
sojourn up here, this unbearable monotony.

Certainly the fortress confinement was light
enough and none of the gentlemen prisoners were ever injured or
tormented. They even had their own casino up here with a piano and
a harmonium. There were two dozen newspapers. Everyone had their
own attendant and all the cells were large rooms, almost halls, for
which they paid the government rent of a penny a day. They had
meals sent up from the best guesthouses in the city and their wine
cellar was in excellent condition.

If there was anything to find fault with, it
was that you couldn’t lock your room from the inside. That was the
single point the commander was very serious about. Once a suicide
had occurred and ever since any attempt to bring a bolt in brought
severe punishment.

“It was idiotic thought,” Frank Braun, “as if
you couldn’t commit suicide without bolts on your door!”

The missing bolt pained him every day and
ruined all the joy in it by making it impossible to be alone in the
fortress. He had shut his door with rope and chain, put his bed and
all the other furniture in front of it. But it had been useless.
After a war that lasted for hours everything in his room was
demolished and battered to pieces. The entire company stood
triumphant in the middle of his room.

Oh what a company! Every single one of them
was a harmless, kind and good-natured fellow. Every single one–to a
man, could chat by themselves for half an hour–But together,
together they were insufferable. Mostly, it was their comments,
that they were all depressed. This wild mixture of officers and
students forgot their high stations and always talked of the
foolish happenings at the fortress. They sang, they drank, they
played. One day, one night, like all the rest. In between were a
few girls that they dragged up here and a few outings down to the
town below. Those were their heroic deeds and they didn’t talk
about anything else!

The ones that had been here the longest were
the worst, entirely depraved and caught up in this perpetual cycle.
Dr. Burmüller had shot his brother-in-law dead and had sat up here
for two years now. His neighbor, the Dragoon lieutenant, Baron von
Vallendar had been enjoying the good air up here for a half year
longer than that. And the new ones that came in, scarcely a week
went by without them trying to prove who was the crudest and
wildest–They were held in highest regard.