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 mahogany–Empire, Directoire or Biedermeir. There were 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, 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 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 gave his best hunting rifle to a Malay sultan in North Borneo and for this other long executioner’s sword he gave 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.

His mother observed him–she knew his smallest gesture, the slightest movement of his smooth, sun tanned features. She read in the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that it was something important.

“What is it?” she asked, and her voice trembled.

“Nothing big,” he answered easily. “You know of course that Uncle Jakob is dead.”

“Yes, I know that,” she said. “It was sad enough.”

“Well then,” he nodded, “the Legal Councilor has sent me a copy of the will. I am the executor and to become the girl’s guardian as well. To do that I must go to Lendenich.”

“When will you leave?” she asked quickly.

“Well,” he said. “I think–this evening.”

“Don’t go,” she begged. “Don’t go! You’ve only been back with me for three days and now you want to leave again.”

“But mother,” he turned to face her. “It’s only for a few days, just to put things in order.”

She said, “That’s what you always say, only a few days–and then you stay away for years.”

“You must be able to see it, dear mother!” he insisted. “Here is the will. Uncle has left you a right decent sum of money and me as well–Something I certainly was not expecting from him. We could certainly use it, both of us.”

She shook her head, “What should I do with the money if you are not with me, my boy?”

He stood up and kissed her gray hair.

“Mother dear, by the end of the week I will be back here with you. It is scarcely two hours by train.”

She sighed deeply, stroked his hands, “Two hours–or two hundred hours, what is the difference?–You are gone either way!”

“Adieu, dear mother,” he said, went upstairs, packed only a small suitcase and came back out to the balcony.

“There, you see! Scarcely enough for two days–Auf Wiedersehen!”

“Auf Wiedersehen, dear boy,” she said quietly.

She heard how he bounded down the stairs, heard the latch click as the door shut. She laid her hand on the intelligent head of her little hound that looked at her with faithful trusting eyes.

“Dear animal,” she spoke. “Now we are alone again–Oh, only to go again, does he come here–when will we see him again?”

Heavy tears fell from her gentle eyes, rolled over the wrinkles on her cheeks, fell down onto the long brown ears of the little hound. He licked at them with his red tongue.

Then down below she heard the bell, heard voices and steps coming up the stairs. She quickly wiped the tears out of her eyes, pushed her black lace scarf into place and straightened out her hair. She stood up, leaned over the railing and called down into the courtyard for the cook to prepare fresh tea for the guests that had come.

Oh, it was good that so many came to visit her, Ladies and Gentlemen–today and always. She could chat with them, tell them about her boy.


Legal Councilor Gontram, whom he had wired about his arrival, awaited him at the train station, took him with to the garden terraces of the Royal Court, where he explained everything to him that was important. He begged him to go at once out to Lendenich, speak with the Fräulein and then early the next morning come back into the office.

He couldn’t really say the Fräulein would make trouble for him, but he had a strange, uncomfortable feeling about her that made every meeting with her intolerable. It was funny in a way, he had worked with so many criminals–murderers, assassins, burglars, abortionists, and once he really got to know them he always found that they were really pretty decent people–with the exception of their crimes.

But with the Fräulein, whom you could not reproach for anything, he always had the same feeling that other people had toward the criminals he worked with. It must lie completely in him–

Frank Braun requested that he telephone ahead and announce his arrival to the Fräulein. Then he excused himself, strolled through the park until he hit the road to Lendenich.

He walked through the old village, past the statue of St. Nepomuk and nodded to him, stood in front of the Iron Gate and rang, looking into the courtyard. There was a large gas candelabra burning in the entrance where once a paltry little lantern had glowed. That was the only change that he saw.

Above, from her window the Fräulein looked down, searched the features of the stranger, and tried to recognize him in the flickering light. She saw how Aloys sped up, how he put the key in the lock more quickly than usual.

“Good evening young Master!” cried the servant and the stranger shook hands with him, called him by name, as if he had just come back to his own house after a little trip.

“How goes it, Aloys?”

Then the old coachman hobbled over the stones as quickly as his crippled leg would carry him.

“Young Master,” he crowed. “Young Master! Welcome to Brinken!”

Frank Braun exclaimed, “Froitsheim! Still here? Glad to see you again!”

He shook both hands vigorously. Then the cook came and the wide hipped house keeper. With them came Paul, the valet. The entire servants quarters emptied itself into the courtyard. Two old maids pressed to the front, stretching their hands out to him, but first, carefully wiping their hands on their aprons.

“Jesus Christ be praised!” the gardener greeted him and he laughed.

“In eternity, Amen!”

“The young Master is here!” cried the gray haired cook and gave Frank Braun’s suitcase to the valet.

Everyone stood around him, everyone demanded a personal greeting, a handshake, a friendly word, and the younger ones, those that didn’t know him, stood nearby, staring at him with open eyes and awkward smiles. Off to the side stood the chauffeur, smoking his short pipe. Even his indolent features showed a friendly smile.

Fräulein ten Brinken snapped her fingers.

“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.

Alraune laughed in his face, “His good name?”

She turned around to Attorney Manasse: “Tell me, what do you think of it?”

Manasse didn’t answer, curled up in his chair, spat and hissed like a stepped on Tomcat.

“Not much more than I do, it appears!” said the Fräulein. “And I won’t give a penny for it.”

Commercial Councilor Lützman, chairman of the Board of Directors, proposed that she should have some consideration for the old princess, who for so long had been an intimate friend of the house of Brinken. What about all of the little people that would lose all of their hard-earned money?

“Why did they speculate?” she replied calmly. “Why did they put their money into such a dubious bank? If I wanted to give to charity I know of better ways.”

Her logic was clear and cruel, like a sharp knife. She knew her father, she said, and whoever invested in the same things he did was certainly not very much better.

But it was not about charity, the Director returned. It was almost certain that the bank would hold together with her help, if it could only get over this current crisis she would get her money back, every penny of it and with interest.

She turned to the Chancery Judge.

“Your Honor,” she asked, “is there a risk involved?”

Naturally unforeseen circumstances could always come up. He had the professional duty to tell her–but as a human being he could only add his urgent plea to that of the other gentlemen. She would be doing a great and good work, saving the livelihoods of multitudes and the possibility of loss in his opinion was ever so slight.

She stood up, interrupted him quickly.

“Well then, gentlemen. There is a risk,” she cried mockingly, “and I don’t want to take any risk. I don’t want to save any livelihoods and have no desire to do great and good works.”

She nodded lightly to the gentlemen, left, leaving them sitting with fat, red little heads.

But still the bank continued, still battled on. Hope formed anew when the Legal Councilor informed them that Frank Braun; the true Guardian had arrived. The gentlemen immediately got in contact with him, arranged a conference for the next day.

Frank Braun saw very well that he would not be able to leave as quickly as he had believed. So he wrote his mother.

The old Frau read his letter, folded it carefully, and laid it in the large black trunk that contained all of his letters. She opened them on long winter evenings when she was completely alone. Then she read to her brown little hound what he had written to her.

She went out onto the balcony, looked down at the high chestnut trees that carried glowing candles in their mighty arms, looked down on the white blooming trees of the monastery under which brown monks quietly wandered.

“When will he come, my dear boy?” she thought.








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Chapter Thirteen


Mentions how Princess Wolkonski told Alraune the truth.



LEGAL Councilor Gontram wrote the princess, who was in Naulhiem undergoing medical treatment. He described the situation to her. It took some time until she finally understood what it was really all about.

Frieda Gontram, herself, took great pains to make sure the princess comprehended everything. At first she only laughed, then she became thoughtful, and toward the end she lamented and screamed. When her daughter entered the room she threw her arms around her neck wailing.

“Poor child,” she howled. “We are beggars. We will be living on the streets!”

Then she poured heaps of caustic Eastern wrath over his dead Excellency, sparing no obscene swear words.

“It’s not entirely that bad,” Frieda objected. “You will still have your villa in Bonn and your little castle on the Rhine, also the proceeds from your Hungarian vineyards. Then Olga will have her Russian pension and–”

“One can’t live on that!” the old princess interrupted. “We will starve to death!”

“We must try to change the Fräulein’s mind,” Frieda said, “like father advises us!”

“He is an ass,” she cried. “An old scoundrel! He is in league with the Privy Councilor, who has stolen from us! It was only through him that I ever met that ugly swindler.”

She thought that all men were imposters, cheats and scoundrels. She had still never met one that was any different. Take Olga’s husband for example, that clean cut Count Abrantes–Hadn’t he carried on the entire time with dirty music hall women, taking all of her money that he could? Now he was living with a circus bareback rider because the Privy Councilor had put his thumb down and refused to give him any more–

“In that, his Excellency did do some good!” said the countess.

“Good!” screamed her mother–as if it didn’t matter who had stolen the money!

“They are swine, the one just as much as the other.”

But she did see that they had to make an attempt. She wanted to go herself, yet the other two talked her out of it. If she went there she would certainly not achieve much more than the gentlemen from the bank.

They had to proceed very diplomatically, declared Frieda, take into consideration the moods and caprices of the Fräulein. She would go by herself, that would be best. Olga thought it would be even better if she went. The old princess objected, but Frieda declared it would certainly not be very good if she interrupted her medical treatments and got too excited. She could see that.

So both friends agreed and traveled together. The princess stayed at the spa, but was not idle. She went to the priest, ordered a hundred masses for the poor soul of the Privy Councilor.

“That is the Christian thing to do,” she thought and since her deceased husband was Russian Orthodox, she went to the Russian chapel and paid that priest for a hundred masses as well. That calmed her very much.

At one point she thought it would scarcely be of any use because his Excellency had been protestant and a free thinker as well. But then it would count as an especially good work in her favor.

“Bless them that curse you.” “Love your enemies.” “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

Oh, they must surely recognize such things up there, and twice a day in her prayers, she spoke a special plea for his Excellency–with very intense fervor. In this way she bribed the love of God.

Frank Braun received the two ladies at Lendenich, led them up to the terrace and chatted with them about old times.

“Try your luck, children,” he said. “My talking was of no use!”

“What did she say to you?” asked Frieda Gontram.

“Not much,” he laughed. “She didn’t even listen to all of it. She made a deep curtsy and declared with a devilish grin that she completely treasured the high honor of my guardianship and would not even consider ending it for the sake of the princess. She added that she did not wish to speak of it again. Then she curtsied again, even more deeply, even more respectfully–and she disappeared!”

“Haven’t you made a second attempt?” asked the countess.

“No, Olga,” he said. “I must now leave that to you–her look as she left was so determined that I am solidly convinced all my persuasive skills would be just as unfruitful as that of the other gentlemen.”

He stood up, rang for the servant to bring some tea.

“By the way, you ladies just might have a chance,” he continued. “A half hour after the Legal Councilor called giving notice of your arrival I told my cousin that you would be coming and why. I was afraid she would not receive you at all and in any case wanted you to have a chance.

But I was wrong. She declared that you were both very welcome, that for months now she has been in very active correspondence with both of you–that is why–”

Frieda Gontram interrupted him.

“You wrote to her?” she cried sharply.

Countess Olga stammered, “I–I–have written her a couple of times–to offer my condolences–and–and–”

“You lie!” Frieda cried.

The countess sprang up at that, “What about you? Don’t you write her? I knew that you were doing it, every two days you write to her. That’s why you are always alone in your room for so long.”

“You’ve had the chambermaid spy on me!” Frieda accused.

The glares of the two friends crossed each other, throwing a burning hate that was sharper than words. They understood each other completely.

For the first time the countess felt that she was not going to do what her friend requested and Frieda Gontram sensed this first resistance against her authority.

But they were bound through long years of their lives, through so many common memories–that it couldn’t be extinguished in an instant.

Frank Braun noticed right away.

“I’m disturbing you,” he said. “By the way, Alraune will be coming soon. She just wanted to get ready.”

He went to the garden stairs, then gave his regards.

“I will see you ladies again later.”

The friends said nothing. Olga sat in a cane easy chair. Frieda paced up and down with large strides. Then she stopped and stood right in front of her friend.

“Listen Olga,” she said softly. “I have always helped you, when we were serious and when we were playing, through all of your adventures and love affairs. Isn’t that true?”

The countess nodded, “Yes, but I have done exactly the same thing for you, not any less.”

“As well as you could,” spoke Frieda Gontram. “I will gladly admit it–we want to remain friends then?”

“Certainly!” cried Countess Olga. “Only–only–I’m not asking that much!”

“What are you asking?” inquired the other.

She answered, “Don’t put any obstacles in my way!”

“Obstacles?” Frieda returned. “Obstacles to what? Each of us should try our luck–like I already told you at the Candlemas ball!”

“No,” insisted the countess. “I don’t want to compete any more. I’ve competed with you so often–and always drawn the short straw. It is unequal–for that reason you will withdraw this time, if you love me.”

“Why is it unequal?” cried Frieda Gontram. “It’s even in your favor–you are more beautiful!”

“Yes,” her friend replied. “But that is nothing. You are more clever and I have often learned through experience how that is worth more–in these things.”

Frieda Gontram took her hand.

“Come Olga, she said, flattering her. “Be reasonable. We are not here just because of our feelings–listen to me. If I can succeed in getting the little Fräulein to change her mind, if I can save those millions for you and your mother–will you then give me a free hand?–Go into the garden, leave me alone with her.”

Large tears marched out of the eyes of the countess.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “Let me speak with her. I will gladly give you the money–this is only a sudden whim of yours.”

Frieda sighed out loud, threw herself into the chaise lounge, sank her slender fingers deeply into the silk cushions.

“A whim?–Do you believe I would make such a fuss over a whim?–With me, I’m afraid, it appears to be not much different than it is with you!”

Her features appeared rigid; her clear eyes stared out into emptiness.

Olga looked at her, sprang up, knelt down in front of her friend, who bowed her head down low over her. Their hands found each other and they tightly pressed themselves against each other, their tears quietly mingled together.

“What should we do?” asked the Countess.

“Withdraw!” said Frieda Gontram sharply. “Withdraw–both of us–let what happens, happen!”

Countess Olga nodded, pressing herself tightly against her friend.

“Stand up,” whispered the other. “Here she comes. Quick, dry your tears–here, take my handkerchief.”

Olga obeyed, went across to the other side.

But Alraune ten Brinken saw very clearly what had just happened. She stood in the large doorway, in black tights like the merry prince from “The Fledermaus”. She gave a short bow, greeted them and kissed the hands of the ladies.

“Don’t cry, it makes your beautiful little eyes cloudy.”

She clapped her hands together, called for the servant to bring some champagne. She, herself, filled the goblets, handed them to the ladies and urged them to drink.

“It is the custom here,” she trilled. “Each to their own taste.”

She led Countess Olga to a chaise lounge and caressed her entire arm. Then she sat down next to Frieda and gave her a slow, smiling glance. She stayed in her role, offered cakes and petit fours, poured drops of Peáu d’Espagne out of her golden vial onto the ladies handkerchiefs.

Then she began, “Yes, it’s true. It is very sad that I can’t help you. I’m so sorry.”

Frieda Gontram straightened up, opened her lips with great difficulty.

“And why not?” she asked.

“I have no reason at all,” answered Alraune. “Really none at all!–I simply don’t want to–that is all.”

She turned to the Countess, “Do you believe your Mama will suffer very much because of that?”

She stressed the “very”–and in doing so, her voice twittered sweet and cruel at the same time like a swallow on the hunt. The countess trembled under her gaze.

“Oh, no!” she said. “Not that much.

And she repeated Frieda’s words–

“She will still have her villa in Bonn and the little castle on the Rhine. Then there were the proceeds from the Hungarian vineyards. I also have my Russian pension and–”

She stopped, didn’t know any more. She had no concept of her financial standing, scarcely knew what money was, only that you could go into beautiful shops and buy things with it, hats and other pretty things. There would be more than enough to do that.

She excused herself primly; it had only been a thought of her mother’s. There was no need for the Fräulein to trouble herself over it. She only hoped that the unpleasant incident hadn’t brought any stormy clouds into their friendship–She chatted on without stopping to think, senseless and pointless. She didn’t catch the severe glance of her friend and crouched warmly under the green glowing eyes of Fräulein ten Brinken, like a wild forest rabbit in a cabbage patch.

Frieda Gontram became restless. At first she was angered at the immense stupidity of her friend, then found her manner tasteless and laughable.

“No fly,” she thought, “ever flew so clumsily to the poisoned sugar.”

But finally, the more Olga chatted under Alraune’s gaze, the more quickly her own sulking feelings awoke under their normal covering of snow and she tried very hard to repress them. Her gaze wandered across, fastened itself passionately on the slender body of Prince Orlowski.

Alraune noticed it.

“I thank you, dear Countess,” she said. “What you’ve told me relieves me very much.”

She turned toward Frieda Gontram, “The Legal Councilor has told me such horror stories about the certain ruin of the princess!”

Frieda searched for a last reserve and gave herself a violent shake.

“My father is right,” she declared bluntly. “Naturally the collapse is unavoidable–The princess will have to sell her little castle–”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” declared the countess. “We are never there anyway!”

“Be quiet,” cried Frieda. Her eyes clouded, she felt that she was entirely, without a doubt, fighting for a lost cause.

“The princess will have to rent out rooms in her household, will have difficulty adjusting to her new life style. It is doubtful if she will be able to keep her car, most likely not.”

“What a shame!” piped the black prince.

“She will also have to sell her horses and carriages,” Frieda continued. “Most of the servants will have to be let go–”

Alraune interrupted her, “What will you do Fräulein Gontram? Will you stay with the princess?”

She hesitated at the question, it was totally unexpected.

“I,” she stammered, “I–but most certainly–”

At that Fräulein ten Brinken piped up, “Of course it would make me very happy if I were permitted to invite you to my house. I am so alone. I need company–come to me.”

Frieda fought, wavered a moment.

“To you–Fräulein–?”

But Olga stepped between them, “No, no! She must stay with us!–She is not allowed to leave my mother now.”

“I was never at your mother’s,” declared Frieda Gontram. “I was with you.”

“That doesn’t matter!” cried the countess. “With me or with her–I don’t want you to stay here!”

“Oh, pardon me,” mocked Alraune. “I believed the Fräulein had a will of her own!”

Countess Olga stood up, all of the blood drained from her face.

“No,” she screamed. “No, no!”

“I take no one that doesn’t come of their own free will,” laughed the prince. “That is my mark. I will not even urge–Stay with the princess if you really want to Fräulein Gontram.”

She stepped up closer to her, grasped both of her hands.

“Your brother was my good friend,” she said slowly, “and my playmate–I often kissed him–”

She saw how this woman, almost twice her age, dropped her eyes under her gaze, felt how her hands became moist under the lightest touch of her fingers. She drank in this victory. It was priceless.

“Will you stay here?” she whispered.

Frieda Gontram breathed heavily. Without looking up she stepped over to the countess.

“Forgive me Olga,” she said. “I must stay.”

At that her friend threw herself onto the sofa, buried her face in the pillows. Her body was wracked with hysterical sobbing.

“No,” she lamented. “No, no!”


She stood up, raised her hand as if to strike her friend, then burst out into shrill laughter. She ran down the stairs into the garden, without a hat, without a parasol, across the courtyard and out into the street.

“Olga,” her friend cried after her. “Olga!–Listen to me! Olga!”

But Fräulein ten Brinken said, “Let her be. She will calm down soon enough.”

Her haughty voice rang–

Frank Braun breakfasted outside in the garden under the elder tree. Frieda Gontram gave him his tea.

“It is certainly good for this house,” he said, “that you are here. One never sees you doing anything, but everything runs like clockwork. The servants have a strange dislike of my cousin and have fallen into a passive resistance. The people have no idea of class warfare, but they have already reached a point of sabotage. An open revolution would have broken out long ago if they didn’t have a bit of love for me. Now you are in the house–and suddenly everything runs by itself–I give you my compliments Frieda!”

“Thank you,” she replied. “I am happy that I can do something for Alraune.”

“Only,” he continued, “you are missed all the more over there. Everything has gone topsy-turvy since the bank has stopped payments. Here, read my mail!”

He pushed a few letters over to her. But Frieda Gontram shook her head.

“No– excuse me–I don’t want to read, don’t want to know anything about it.”

He insisted, “You must know, Frieda. If you don’t want to read the letters, I will give you the short version. Your friend has been found–”

“Is she alive,” whispered Frieda.

“Yes, she’s alive!” he declared. “When she ran away from here she got lost and wandered around through the entire night and the next day. At first she must have gone inland toward the mountains, then curved back to the Rhine.

People on a ferryboat saw her not far from Remagen. They watched her and stayed nearby. Her behavior seemed suspicious and when she jumped from the cliff they steered over to her and fished her out of the river after a few minutes. That was about noon, four days ago. They brought her struggling and fighting to the local jail.”

Frieda Gontram held her head in both arms.

“To jail?” she asked softly.

“Certainly,” he answered. “Where else could they have taken her? It was obvious that she would immediately try to commit suicide again if they let her go free–So she was taken into custody.

She refused to give any information and remained stubbornly silent. She had long since thrown away her watch, purse and even her handkerchief–No one could make any sense out of the crown and the initials in her linen undergarments. It was only when your father reported her missing to the authorities that they were able to figure it out and establish her identity for certain.”

“Where is she?” asked Frieda.

“In the city,” he replied. “The Legal Councilor picked her up from Remagen and brought her to Professor Dalberg’s private insane asylum. Here is his report–I fear that Countess Olga will need to stay there for a very long time. The princess arrived yesterday evening–Frieda, you should visit your poor friend soon. The professor says that she is quiet and calm.”

Frieda Gontram stood up.

“No, no.” she cried. “I can’t.”

She went slowly down the gravel path under the fragrant lilacs. Frank Braun watched her go. Her face was like a marble mask, like fate had chiseled it out of hard stone. Then suddenly a smile fell on that cold mask, like a ray of sunshine reaching deep into the shadows. Her eyelids raised, her eyes searched through the red beech lined avenue that led up to the mansion–Then he heard Alraune’s clear laughter.

“Her power is strange,” he thought. “Uncle Jakob really had it right in his leather bound volume of musings.”

He thought about it. Oh yes, it was difficult for Frieda to be away from her. No one knew what is was, and yet they all still flew into her hot burning flame–What about him? Him as well?

There was something that attracted him, that was certain. He didn’t understand how it worked, on his senses, on his blood or perhaps on his brain–But it did work, he knew that very well. It was not true that he was still here because of the lawsuits and settlements alone. Now that the case of the Mühlheim bank had been decided, he could easily finish everything up with the help of the attorney–without personally being here.

And yet he was here–still here. He was pretending, lying to himself, skillfully creating new reasons, protracting the lengthy negotiations as much as possible, in order to put off his departure. And it seemed that his cousin noticed it as well. Yes, even as if her quiet influence made him act that way.

“I will go back home tomorrow,” he thought.

Then the thought sprang out from the nape of his neck, “Why should he? Was he afraid of something? Did he fear this delicate child? Was he infected by the foolishness that his uncle had written down in his leather bound volume? What could happen? In the worst case a little adventure! Certainly not his first–and scarcely his last! Was he not an equal opponent, perhaps even superior? Didn’t bodies lie along the life’s path that his feet had trod as well? Why should he flee?

He created her once, he, Frank Braun. It had been his idea and his uncle had only been the instrument. She was his creation–much more than she was that of his Excellency. He had been young at the time, foaming like new wine, full of bizarre dreams, full of heaven storming fantasies. He had played catch with the stars and from them had captured this strange fruit from out of the dark, wild primeval forest of the inscrutable where his steps had led him.

He had found a good gardener that he had given the fruit to. The gardener had planted the seed into the earth, watered it, looked after the seedling and tended the young little tree. Now he was back and there shone his blossoming tree.

Certainly, it was poisonous; whoever rested under it encountered its toxic breath. Many died of it–many that strolled in its sweet fragrance–the clever gardener that cared for it as well.

But he was not the gardener that loved this strange blossoming little tree more than anything else, not one of the unknowing people that wandered into the garden by chance. He was the one that had first plucked the fruit that contained the seed from which it grew.

Since then he had ridden many days through the savage forest of the inscrutable, waded deeply through the sweltering, fever infested swamp of the incomprehensible. His soul had breathed many hot poisons there, been touched by pestilence and the smoke of many cruel burning sins.

Oh yes, it had hurt a lot, tormented him and ripped open puss filled ulcers–But it didn’t throw him. He always rode away healthy under heaven’s protection–Now he was safe, as if wearing armor of blue steel.

Oh, certainly he was immune–There would be no battle, now it appeared to him more like a game. But then–if it was only a game–he should go–wasn’t that true? If she was only a doll that was dangerous for all the others, but a harmless plaything in his own strong hands–Then the adventure would be too cheap. Only–if it really were a battle, one with equally powerful weapons–only then would it be worth the effort.

Fraud! He thought again. Who was he really kidding about his heroic deeds? Hadn’t his victories often enough been easy and certain?–More like episodes? No, this was not any different that it always was. Could you ever know the real strength of your opponent? Wasn’t the sting of the poisonous little wasp far more dangerous than the crocodile like jaws of the caiman that goes up against the certainty of his Winchester rifle?

He found no way out, ran around in circles, getting himself confused as well. But he always came back to the same point, stay!

“Good morning, cousin,” laughed Alraune ten Brinken.

She stood right in front of him, next to Frieda Gontram.

“Good morning,” he answered curtly. “Read these letters here–It won’t do you any harm to think about what you have been the cause of–It’s time to stop this foolishness, do something sensible, something worth the effort.”

She looked at him sharply.

“Really?” she said, drawing each word out slowly. “And just what is it that you think would be worth my effort?”

He didn’t respond–Didn’t have any answer at the moment.

He stood up, shrugged his shoulders and went into the garden. Her laughter sounded behind him.

“In a bad mood, Herr Guardian?”

That afternoon he sat in the library. Some documents lay in front of him that Attorney Manasse had sent over yesterday. But he didn’t read them. He stared into the air, hurriedly smoking one cigarette after the other.

Then he opened a desk drawer and once more took out the Privy Councilor’s leather bound volume. He read slowly and carefully, considering every little incident.

There was a knock; the chauffeur quickly stepped inside.

“Herr Doctor,” he cried. “Princess Wolkonski is here. She is very upset, screamed for the Fräulein while she was still in her carriage. We thought that perhaps it might be better if you received her first–So Aloys is bringing her here right now.”

“Well done!” he said. He sprang up and went to meet the princess. With great effort she squeezed through the narrow door and waltzed her heavy masses into the half darkened hall, which was lit only by the sparse sunlight that came through the green Venetian blinds.

“Where is she?” she panted. “Where is the Fräulein?”

He took her hand and led her over to the divan. She recognized him immediately and called him by name, but had no intention of getting into a conversation with him.

“I want to see Fräulein Alraune,” she cried. “Bring the Fräulein here!”

She would not calm down until he rang the servant and instructed him to announce the visit of the princess. Then, for the first time, she consented to listen to him.

He asked after the health of her child and the princess related to him, in an immense flood of words, how she had met with her daughter. Not once had she recognized her own mother, had simply sat by the window looking out into the garden, passive and listless.

It had been in the old Privy Councilor’s clinic, that fraud, which Professor Dalberg had now turned into an insane asylum, the same building where–

He interrupted her, cutting short her flood of words. He quickly grabbed her hand, bent over it and looked with simulated interest at her rings.

“Excuse me, your Highness,” he cried quickly. “Where did you ever get this marvelous emerald? Definitely a showcase piece!”

“It was a button from the Magnate’s beret of my first husband,” she replied. “It’s an old heirloom.”

She prepared to continue her tirade, but he didn’t let her get a word in.

“It is a stone of uncommon purity!” he affirmed. “And of remarkable size! I only once saw a similar one, in the royal stud of the Maharajah of Rolinkore–He had it set into his favorite horse’s left eye. For the right it carried a Burmese ruby that was only a little smaller.”

Then he told of the hobby of Indian princes, how they gouged out the eyes of their beautiful horses and replaced them with glass eyes or large round highly polished stones.

“It sounds cruel,” he said. “But I assure you, your Highness. The effect is amazing when you see such a magnificent animal, when they stare at you with Alexandrite eyes, or glance at you out of deep blue sapphires.”

Then he spoke of precious stones, remembering from his student days that she knew quite a bit about jewels and pearls. It was the only thing she was really interested in. She gave him answers, at first quickly and briefly, then became calmer with every minute.

She pulled off her rings, showed them to him one after the other, telling him a little story about each one. He nodded attentively.

“Now let my cousin come,” he thought. “The first storm is over.”

But he was wrong. Alraune had soundlessly come through the door, walked softly across the carpet and set herself down in the easy chair right across from them.

“I am so happy to see you, your Highness,” she piped.

The princess cried out and gasped for breath, crossed herself, then a second time, in the Orthodox manner.

“There she is,” she moaned. “There she sits!”

“Yes,” laughed Alraune, “alive and breathing!”

She stood up and reached her hand out to the princess.

“I am so sorry,” she continued. “My sympathies, your Highness!”

The princess didn’t take her hand. She was speechless for a minute, struggled for composure–Then she found herself again.

“I don’t need your sympathy!” she cried. “I have something to say to you!”

Alraune sat back down, waved lightly with her hand.

“Please speak, your Highness.”

The princess began. Did the Fräulein know that she had lost her fortune through the machinations of his Excellency? But yes, naturally she knew. The gentlemen had explained every detail to her, explained what she had to do–But she had refused to fulfill her obligation.

Did she know what had happened to her daughter? She explained how she had found her in the asylum and what the doctor’s opinion was. She became more excited, her voice swelled, becoming higher and more shrieking.

She knew all of that, declared Alraune calmly.

The princess asked, what was she now intending to do? Did she intend to walk in the same dirty footsteps of her father? Oh, there was a fine scoundrel. You couldn’t find a finer or more cunning blackguard in any book. Now he had his just reward.

She continued screaming and yelling about his Excellency, saying everything that came to her tongue–She screamed that Olga’s sudden attack had been because of the failure of her mission and not wanting to come back. Alraune had made things worse by enticing her friend of many long years away from her.

She believed that if the Fräulein would now help, not only would her fortune be saved, but her child as well, when she heard the news.

‘I’m not asking,” she screamed. “I’m demanding! I demand what is rightfully mine. You have done this wrong, you, my own Godchild, and your father. Now make it right again, as much as you possibly can–It is a shame that I must be the first to tell you this–But you will have it no other way.”

“What is there left to save?” Alraune said softly. “As far as I know, the bank collapsed three days ago. Your money is gone, your Highness!”

She stressed the ‘gone’–You could hear the bank notes fluttering in all directions.

“That doesn’t matter,” declared the princess. “The Legal Councilor told me that almost twelve million of my money was invested into that rotten bank. You will simply give me those twelve million out of your own money. That will be nothing to you–I know that very well!”

“Is that all?” said Fräulein ten Brinken. “Are there any more commands, your Highness!”

“Many more,” cried the princess. “You will inform Fräulein Gontram that she is to leave your house immediately. She will go with me to my poor daughter. I promised to bring her along the next time I came. Especially now, so she can share the news that this sad misfortune has been made right. It will have a very good effect on the countess–Perhaps a sudden recovery.

I won’t reproach Fräulein Gontram in any way over her ungrateful behavior or continue pointing out your own behavior to you. I only wish this affair to be settled immediately.”

She fell silent, took a deep breath after the tremendous exertion of her long speech. She took her handkerchief, fanned herself, and wiped the thick drops of sweat that beaded on her bright red face.

Alraune stood up briefly, made a slight bow.

“Your Highness is too gracious,” she piped.

Then she remained quiet.

The princess waited awhile, then finally asked, “Well?”

“Well?” the Fräulein came back in the same tone of voice.

“I’m waiting, –” cried the princess.

“So am I, – ” said Alraune.

Princess Wolkonski moved back and forth on the divan, whose old springs sagged heavily under her weight. The way she was pressed into her mighty corset, which even now formed the huge masses into some type of shape, made it difficult for her to breath or even move. Her breath came short and unconsciously her thick tongue licked her dry lips.

“May I be permitted to have a glass of water brought for you, your Highness?” twittered the Fräulein.

She acted as if she had not heard.

“What do you intend to do now?” she asked solemnly.

Alraune spoke with infinite simplicity, “Absolutely nothing.”

The old princess stared at her with round cow eyes, as if she could not comprehend what the young thing meant. She stood up, confused, took a few steps, looked around as if she were searching for something.

Frank Braun stood up, took the carafe of water from the table, filled a glass and gave it to her. She drank it greedily.

Alraune stood up as well.

“I beg to be excused, your Highness,” she said. “May I be permitted to convey your greetings to Fräulein Gontram?”

The princess went up to her, seething, full of repressed anger.

Now she is going to burst, thought Frank Braun.

But she couldn’t find the words, searched in vain for a beginning.

“Tell her,” she panted. “Tell her that I never want to lay eyes on her again! She is no better a woman than you are!”

She stamped with heavy steps through the hall, gasping, sweating, and waving her mighty arms in the air. Then her glance fell on the open drawer. She saw the necklace that she had once given her Godchild, a gold chain with pearls and set with diamonds around the fiery lock of the mother’s hair. A triumphant look of hatred flew over her bloated features. She quickly tore the necklace out of the drawer.

“Do you know what this is?” she screamed.

“No,” said Alraune calmly. “I’ve never seen it before.”

The princess stepped up right in front of her.

“So that scoundrel of a Privy Councilor embezzled it from you–just like him! It was my present to you, Alraune, as my god-child!”

“Thank you,” said the Fräulein. “The pearls are very pretty, and the diamonds too–if they are real.”

“They are real,” screamed the princess. “Like this hair that I cut from your mother!”

She threw the necklace into the Fräulein’s lap. Alraune took the unusual piece of jewelry, weighed it thoughtfully in her hand.

“My–mother?” she said slowly. “It appears that my mother had very beautiful hair.”

The princess placed herself solidly in front of her, putting both hands solidly on her hips. She was matter of fact, like a washerwoman.

“Very beautiful hair,” she laughed. “Very beautiful! So beautiful that all the men ran after her and paid an entire Mark for one night’s sleep with her beautiful hair!”

The Fräulein sprang up. The blood drained out of her face in an instant, but she quickly laughed again and said calmly and scornfully:

“You are getting old, your Highness, old and childish.”

That was the end. Now there was no going back for the princess. She broke loose with ordinary, infinitely vulgar language like a drunken Bordello Madam. She screamed, howled and obscene filth poured out of her mouth.

lraune’s mother was a whore, one of the lowest kind, who gave herself away for a Mark and her father was a miserable rapist and murderer whose name was Noerrissen. She knew all about it. The Privy Councilor had paid the prostitute money and purchased her for his vile experiment, had inseminated her with the semen of the executed criminal. That was how Alraune had been created and she, herself, had injected the loathsome semen into Alraune’s mother.

She, Alraune, the stinking fruit of that experiment, was sitting there now–right in front of her!–A murderer’s daughter and a prostitute’s child!

That was her revenge. She went out triumphant, with light steps, swollen with the pride of a victory that made her ten years younger. She slammed the door loudly as she closed it.

Now it was quiet in the large library. Alraune sat in her chair, a little pale. Her hands played nervously with the necklace, faint movements played around the corners of her mouth. Finally she stood up.

“Stupid stuff,” she whispered.

She took a few steps, then calmed herself and stepped back up to her cousin.

“Is it true, Frank Braun?” she asked.

He hesitated a moment, stood up and said slowly:

“I believe that it is true.”

He stepped over to the writing desk, took up the leather bound volume and handed it to her.

“Read this,” he said.

She didn’t speak a word, turned to go.






“Take this too,” he cried after her and handed her the dice cup that had been fashioned out of her mother’s skull and the dice that had been created out of her father’s bones.


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Chapter Fourteen


Describes how Frank Braun played with fire and how Alraune awoke.



THAT evening the Fräulein didn’t come to dinner, only allowed Frieda Gontram to bring in a little tea and a few cakes. Frank Braun waited awhile for her, hoping that perhaps later she would come down. Then he went to the library and reluctantly took up the documents from the writing desk. But he couldn’t bring himself to read them, put them down again and decided to drive into the city.

Before he left he took the last little mementos from out of the desk drawer, the piece of silk curtain cord, the card and four-leaf clover with the bullet holes through them and finally the alraune manikin. He packed everything together, sealed the brown paper package and had it sent up to the Fräulein. He attached no written explanation to it–

Everything would be explained to her inside the leather bound volume that bore her initials.

Then he rang for the chauffeur and drove into the city. As he expected, he met Herr Manasse in the little wine pub on Cathedral Square. Stanislaus Schacht was with him. He sat down with them and began to chat.

He got into a deep discussion with the attorney about legal questions, debating the pros and cons of this and that lawsuit. They decided to turn a few of the doubtful cases over to the Legal Councilor for him alone. He would bring them to some acceptable compromise. Manasse believed that a victorious settlement could be reached with the others.

In some of the cases Frank Braun calmly suggested they simply acknowledge the claim, but Manasse refused.

“Never acknowledge–even if the opponent’s demands are as clear as day and justified a hundred-fold!”

He was the straightest and most honest attorney in the county courthouse, one that always told his clients the truth, right to their face. In front of the bar he might remain completely quiet but he would never lie–and yet he was way too much a lawyer not to have an innate hatred of recognizing an opponent’s claim.

“It only costs us more,” Frank Braun objected.

“So what!” barked the attorney. “What does that have to do with it?–I tell you, one never knows–there is always a chance…”

“A legal one–perhaps–” answered Frank Braun. “–but–”

He fell silent. There was no other way for the attorney. The Court determined justice–what ever it said was just, even how it decided. Today it would be just–and totally different after a couple of months in the higher courts. Nevertheless, the Court gave the final decision and it was sacred–not the parties involved.

To recognize a claim yourself, without such a decision, was usurping the right of the Court. As an attorney Manasse was partial to his own clients. He desired the judge to be impartial, so it was an abomination to him to make such a decision for his own party.

Frank Braun smiled.

“As you wish,” he said.

He spoke with Stanislaus Schacht, listened as this friend of Dr. Mohnen talked of all the others that had been there as students with him.

“Yes, Joseph Theyssen has been a Government Advisor for some time now and Klingel Hőffer is a professor at Halle–he will be the new chair for Anatomy, and Fritz langen–and Bastian–and–”

Frank Braun listened, turned the pages of this living directory of German nobility that knew everyone.

“Are you still enrolled?” he asked.

Stanislaus fell silent, a little offended.

But the attorney barked, “What! Didn’t you know? He passed his doctoral exam–five years ago.”

“Really–five years ago!”

Frank Braun calculated backward, that must have been in his forty-fifth, no, forty-sixth semester.

“Well,” he said.

He stood up and reached out his hand, which the other heartily shook.

“Allow me to congratulate you, Herr Doctor!” he continued. “But–tell me–what are you doing now?”

“Yes, if he only knew!” cried the attorney.

Then chaplain Schrőder came. Frank Braun stood up to greet him–

“Back in the country again?” cried the black suited priest. “We must celebrate!”

“I am the host,” declared Stanislaus Schacht. “He must drink to my doctor’s degree.”

“And with me to my newly becoming a vicar,” laughed the priest. “Let’s share the honor then, if it’s alright with you, Dr. Schacht.”

They agreed and the white haired vicar ordered a 93 Scharzhofberger, which the wine pub had placed in stock on his recommendation. He tested the wine, nodded with satisfaction and toasted with Frank Braun.

“You have it good,” he said, “sticking your nose into every unknown place on land and sea. Yes, we can read about them in the newspapers–but we must sit at home and console ourselves with the fact that the Mosel still always produces a good wine–You certainly can’t get this label out there!”

“We can get the label,” he said, “but not the wine– ow Herr Reverend, what have you been up to?”

“What should I be up to?” replied the priest. “One just gets themselves angry. Our old Rhine is always becoming more Prussian. But for relaxation one can write rotten pieces for the Tűnnes, Bestavader, Schâl, Speumanes and the Marizzebill. I have already plundered Plautus and Terence in their entirety for Peter Millowwitsch’s puppet theater in Cologne–Now I’m doing it to Holberg. And just think, that fellow–Herr Director, he calls himself today–now pays me royalties–Another one of those Prussian inventions.”

“Be happy about it!” growled Attorney Manasse. “By the way, he’s also published on Iamblicos.”

He turned to Frank Braun, “And I tell you, it is a very exceptional book.”

“Not worth talking about,” cried the old vicar. “Only a little attempt–”

Stanislaus Schacht interrupted him.

“Go on!” he said. “Your work lays out the foundation of the very essence of the Alexandrian school. Your hypothesis about the Emanation Doctrine of the Neo-Platonists–”

He went on, lecturing like an argumentative Bishop at the high council. Here and there he made of few considerations, gave his opinion, that it wasn’t right the author based his entire work on the three cosmic principles that had been previously established. Couldn’t he have just as well successfully included the “Spirit” of Pophyrs?”

Manasse joined in and finally the vicar as well. They argued as if there was nothing more important in the entire world than this strange monism of Alexander, which was based on nothing other than a mystical annihilation of self, of the “I”, through ecstasy, asceticism and theurgy.

Frank Braun listened silently.

“This is Germany,” he thought. “This is my country–”

It occurred to him that a year ago he had been sitting in a bar somewhere in Melbourne or Sidney–with him had been a Justice of the Supreme Court, a Bishop of the High Church and a famous doctor. They had disputed and argued no less ardently than these three that were now sitting with him–But it had been about whom was the better boxer, Jimmy Walsh of Tasmania or slender Fred Costa, the champion of New-South Wales.

But here sat a little attorney, who was still being passed over for promotion to Legal Councilor, a priest that wrote foolish pieces for a puppet theater, that had a few titles of his own, but never a parish, and finally the eternal student Stanislaus Schacht, who after some fourteen years was happy to have his doctor’s degree and now didn’t know what to do with himself.

And these three little poor wretches spoke about the most abstract, far-fetched things that had nothing at all to do with their occupations. And they spoke so easily, with the same familiarity as the gentlemen in Melbourne had conversed about a boxing match. Oh, you could sift through all of America and Australia, even nine-tenths of Europe–and you would not find such an abundance of knowledge–only–it was dead.

He sighed, it was long dead and reeked of decay–really, the gentlemen didn’t even notice!

He asked the vicar how it was going with his foster son, young Gontram. Immediately Attorney Manasse interrupted himself.

“Yes, tell us Herr Reverend–that’s why I came here. What does he write?”

Vicar Schröder unbuttoned his jacket, pulled out his wallet and took a letter out of it.

“Here, read for yourself,” he said. “It doesn’t sound very encouraging!”

He handed the envelope to the attorney. Frank Braun threw a quick glance at the postmark.

“From Davos?” he asked. “Did he inherit his mother’s fate as well?”

“Unfortunately,” sighed the old priest. “And he was such a fresh, good boy, that Josef. Absolutely not meant for the priesthood though. God only knows what he would have studied, or I would have allowed him to study if I didn’t wear the black robe. But I promised his mother on her deathbed. By the way, he has already gone as far in his studies as I have–I tell you–he passed his doctoral exam–summa cum laude! I obtained a special dispensation for him through the ArchBishop, who has always been very benevolent towards me personally.

He helped me a lot with the work about Iamblichos–yes, he could really become something! Only–unfortunately–”

He hesitated and slowly emptied his glass.

“Did it come so suddenly, Herr Reverend?” asked Frank Braun.

“You could say that,” answered the priest. “It first started with the psychological shock of the sudden death of his brother, Wolf. You should have seen him outside, at the cemetery. He never moved from my side while I gave my sermon, stared at the enormous garland of blood red roses that lay on the coffin. He held himself upright until the ceremony was ended, but then he felt so weak that Schacht and I had to downright carry him.

In the carriage he seemed better, but at home with me he once more became entirely apathetic–The only thing I could get out of him at all that entire evening was that now he was the last of the Gontram boys and it was his turn next. This apathy would not yield and from that hour he remained convinced that his days were numbered, even though a very thorough medical examination gave me a lot of hope in the beginning. But then it went rapidly. From day to day you could see his decline–now we have sent him to Davos–but it appears that his song will soon be over.”

He fell silent, fat tears stood in his eyes–

“His mother was tougher,” growled the attorney. “She laughed in the Reaper’s face for six long years.”

“God grant her soul eternal peace,” said the vicar and he filled the glasses. “We will drink a silent toast to her–in her memory.”

They raised the glasses and emptied them.

“The old Legal Councilor will soon be entirely alone,” observed Dr. Schacht. “Only his daughter appears to be completely healthy–She is the only one that will survive him.”

“The attorney grumbled, “Frieda?–No, I don’t believe it.”

“And why not?” asked Frank Braun.

“Because–because–” he began, “–well, why shouldn’t I say it?”

He looked straight at Frank Braun, cutting, enraged, as if he wanted to take him by the throat.

“You want to know why Frieda Gontram will never grow old?–I will tell you. Because she is now completely caught in the claws–of that damned witch out there!–That’s why–Now you know!”

“Witch,” thought Frank Braun. “He calls her a witch, just like Uncle Jakob did in his leather bound volume.”

“What do you mean by that, Herr Attorney?” he asked.

Manasse barked, “Exactly what I said. “Whoever gets to close to the Fräulein ten Brinken–gets stuck, like a fly in syrup. And whoever is once caught by her–stays there and no amount of struggling will do any good!

Be careful, Herr Doctor, I’m warning you! It is thankless enough–to give warnings like this. I have already done it once–without any success–with Wölfchen–now it is you–flee while there is still time. What do you still want here?–It seems to me exactly as if you are already licking at the honey!”

Frank Braun laughed–but it sounded a little forced.

“Have no fear on my account, Herr Attorney,” he cried–But he didn’t convince the other–and even less, himself.

They sat and drank, drank to Schacht’s doctoral degree and to the Priest’s becoming a vicar. They drank as well to the health of Karl Mohnen, of whom no one had heard since he had left the city.

“He is lost,” said Stanislaus Schacht.

Then he became sentimental and sang melancholy songs. Frank Braun took his leave, went out on foot back to Lendenich–through the fragrant trees of spring – like in the old times.

He came across the courtyard, then saw a light in the library. He went in–Alraune sat on the divan.

“You here, little cousin?” he greeted.

She didn’t answer, waved to him to take a place. He sat across from her, waiting. But she remained silent and he didn’t press her.

Finally she said, “I wanted to speak with you.”

He nodded, but she fell silent again.


“So,” he began, “did you read the leather bound volume?”

“Yes,” she said.

She took a deep breath, looked at him.

“So, am I only a joke that you once made, Frank Braun?”

“A joke?” he returned. “–An–idea, if you will–”

“And I suppose it was funny enough,” she laughed out loud. But that’s not why I waited here for you. I want to know something entirely different. Tell me. Do you believe it?”

“Do I believe what?” he answered. “If everything happened like Uncle relates in the leather bound volume? Yes, I believe that.”

She shook her head impatiently. “No, that’s not what I mean. Naturally that is true–why would he lie in his book?–I want to know whether you also believe–like my–my–that is–your uncle did–That I am a different type of creature, different from other people, that I–am now, that I am, what my name implies?”

“How shall I reply to your question?” he said. “Ask any medical doctor–he will certainly say that you are just as good a human being as anyone else in the world, even if your first appearance was a little unusual–He would add, that all the other details are pure coincidence and unimportant, the–”

“That means nothing to me,” she interrupted.

“For your uncle these little details were most important. Basically it doesn’t matter if they are or not. I want to know if you share his opinion? Do you believe as well that I am a strange creature?”

He remained silent, searched for a reply, didn’t know how he should respond. He did believe it–and then again he didn’t–

“You see–” he began finally.

“Speak,” she urged. “Do you believe that I am your insolent joke–that took form? Your idea, which the old Privy Councilor threw into his crucible, which he cooked and distilled, until something came out that now sits before you?”

This time he didn’t hesitate, “If you put it that way, yes, that’s what I believe.”

She laughed softly, “I thought so–and that’s why I waited up for you tonight. To cure you of this vanity as soon as possible. No, cousin. You didn’t throw this idea into the world, not you–not any more than the old Privy Councilor did.”

He didn’t understand her.

“Then who did?” he asked.

She reached under the pillow with her hand.

“This did!” she cried.

She lightly tossed the little alraune into the air and caught it again, caressed it lovingly with nervous fingers.

“That there? Why that?” he asked.

She gave back, “Did you think about it earlier–before the day the Legal Councilor celebrated the communion of the two children?”

“No,” he replied. “Certainly not.”

But then this thing fell down from the wall, that was when the idea came to you! Isn’t that true?”

“Yes,” he confessed. “That is how it was.”

“Now then,” she continued, “so the idea came from outside somewhere and entered into you. It was when Attorney Manasse gave his lecture, when he recited like a school book and explained to all of you what this little alraune was and what it meant–That’s when the idea grew in your brain. It became so large and so strong that you found the strength to suggest it to your uncle, to persuade him to carry it out, to create me.

Then, if I am only an idea that came into the world and took on human form, it is also true that you, Frank Braun, were only an agent, an instrument–no more than the Privy Councilor or his assistant doctor. No different than–”

She hesitated, fell silent, but only for a moment. Then she continued–

“than the prostitute, Alma and the rapist-murderer whom you all coupled–you and Death!”

She laid the little alraune on the silk cushions, looked at it with an almost loving glance and said,” You are my father: You are my mother. You are what created me.”

He looked at her.

“Perhaps it was so,” he thought.

Ideas whirl through the air, like the pollen from flowers and play around before finally sinking into someone’s brain. Often they waste away there, spoil and die–Only a few find good rich soil–

“Perhaps she was right,” he thought.

His brain had always been a fertile planting place for all kinds of foolishness and abstruse fantasies. It seemed the same to him, whether he was the one that once threw the seed of this idea into the world–or whether he was the fertile earth that had received it.

But he remained silent, left her with her thought. He glanced over at her, a child, playing with her doll. She slowly stood up, not letting the little manikin out of her hands.

“There is something else I want to tell you,” she spoke softly. “But first I want to thank you for it, for giving me the leather bound volume and not burning it.

“What is it?” he asked.

She interrupted herself.

“Should I kiss you?” she asked. “I could kiss–”

“Was that all you wanted to say, Alraune?” he said.

She replied, “No, not that!–I only thought I would like to kiss you once. Just in case–But first I want to tell you this, why I waited. Go away!”

He bit his lips, “Why?”

“Because–because it would be better,” she answered, “for you–perhaps for me as well. But it doesn’t depend on that–I now know how things are–am now enlightened, and I think that things will continue to go as they have–only, I will not be running around blindly anymore–Now I see everything. Soon–soon it will be your turn, and that’s why it would be better if you left.”

“Are you so certain of this?” he asked.

“Don’t I need to be?”

He shrugged his shoulders, “Perhaps, I don’t know. But tell me, why do you want to do this for me?”

“I like you,” she said quietly. “You have been good to me.”

He laughed, “Weren’t the others as well?”

“Yes,” she answered. “They all were. But I didn’t see it. And they–all of them–they loved me–you don’t–not yet.”

She went to the writing desk, took a postcard and gave it to him.

“Here is a postcard from your mother. It came earlier this evening; the servant brought it up with my mail by mistake. I read it. Your mother is ill–She very much begs you to come back to her.”

He took the postcard, stared in front of him undecided. He knew that they were right, both of them, could feel it, that it was foolishness to remain here. Then a boyish defiance seized him that screamed out, “No! No!”

“Will you go?” she asked.

He forced himself, spoke with a determined voice, “Yes, cousin!”

He looked at her sharply, watched every line of her face searching for some movement, a little tug at the corners of her mouth, a little sigh would have been enough, some something that showed him her regret. But she remained quiet and serious. No breath moved on her inflexible mask.

That vexed him, wounded him, seemed like an affront and an insult to him. He pressed his lips solidly together.

“Not like this,” he thought. “I won’t go like this.”

She came up to him, reached out her hand to him.

“Good,” she said. “Good–Now I will go. I can give you a goodbye kiss if you want.”

A sudden fire flickered in his eyes at that.

Without even wanting to, he said, “Don’t do it Alraune. Don’t do it!”

And his voice took on her own tone.

She raised her head and quickly asked, “Why not?”

Again he used her words, but she sensed that it was on purpose.

“I like you, Alraune,” he said. “You have been good to me today–many red lips have kissed my mouth–and they became very pale. Now–now, it would be your turn. That is why it would be better if you didn’t kiss me!”

They stood facing each other; their eyes glowed hard as steel. Unnoticed, a smile played on his lips. His weapon was bright and sharp. Now she could choose. Her “No” would be his victory and her defeat–then he could go with a light heart. But her “Yes” would mean war and she felt it–the same way he did. It was like that very first evening, exactly the same, only that time was the beginning and opening round. There had still been hope for several other rounds in the duel. But now–it was the end. He was the one that had thrown the glove–

She took him up on it.

“I am not afraid,” she spoke.

He fell silent and the smile died on his lips–Now it was serious.

“I want to kiss you,” she repeated.

He said, “Be careful! I will kiss you back.”

She held his gaze–“Yes,” she said–Then she smiled.

“Sit down, you are a little too tall for me!”

“No,” he cried out loudly. “Not like that.”

He went to the wide divan, laid down on it, buried his head in the cushions, stretched his arms out wide on both sides, closed his eyes.

“Now, come Alraune!” he cried.

She stepped closer, kneeled by his hips, hesitated, looked at him, then suddenly threw herself down onto him, seized his head, pressed her lips on his. He didn’t embrace her, didn’t move his arms. But his fingers tightened into fists. He felt her tongue, the light bite of her teeth.

Kiss harder,” he whispered. “Kiss harder.”

Red fog lay before his eyes. He heard the Privy Councilor’s repulsive laugh, saw the large piercing eyes of Frau Gontram, how she begged little Manasse to explain the little alraune to her. He heard the giggling of the two celebrants, Olga and Frieda, and the broken, yet still beautiful voice of Madame de Vére singing “Les Papillons”, saw the small Hussar Lieutenant listening eagerly to the attorney, saw Karl Mohnen, as he wiped the little alraune with the large napkin–

“Kiss harder!” he murmured.

And Alma–her mother, red like a burning torch, snow-white breasts with tiny blue veins, and the execution of her father–as Uncle Jakob had described it in his leather bound volume–Out of the mouth of the princess–And the hour, in which the old man created her–and the other, in which his doctor brought her into this world–

“Kiss me,” he moaned, “Kiss me.”

He drank her kisses, sucked the hot blood from his lips, which her teeth had torn, and he became intoxicated, knowingly and intentionally, as if from champagne or his oriental narcotics–

“Enough,” he said suddenly, “enough, you don’t know what you are doing.”

At that she pressed her curls more tightly against his forehead, her kisses became hotter and more wild. Now the clear thoughts of day lay shattered, now came the dreams, swelling on a blood red ocean, now the Maenad swung her thyrsos and he frothed in the holy frenzy of Dionysus.

“Kiss me,” he screamed.

But she released him, let her arms sink. He opened his eyes, looked at her.

“Kiss me!” he repeated softly.

Her eyes glazed over, her breath came in short pants. Slowly she shook her head. At that he sprang up.

“Then I will kiss you,” he cried.

He lifted her up in his arms, threw her down struggling onto the divan, knelt down–there, right where she had knelt.

“Close your eyes,” he whispered and he bent down–

Good, his kisses were good–caressing and soft, like a harp played on a summer night, wild too, yes, and raw, like a storm wind blowing over the North sea. They burned red-hot like the fiery breath out of mount Aetna, ravishing and consuming like the vortex of a maelstrom–

“It’s pulling me under,” she felt, “pulling me into it.”

But then the spark struck and burning flames shot high into the heavens, the burning torch flew, ignited the altar, and with bloody jowls the wolf sprang into the sanctuary.

She embraced him, pressed herself tightly to his breast–I’m burning–she exalted–I’m burning–at that, he tore the clothes from her body.

The sun that woke her was high in the sky. She saw that she was lying there completely naked, but didn’t cover herself. She turned her head, saw him sitting up right next to her–naked like she was.

She asked, “Will you be leaving today?”

“Is that what you want, that I should leave?” he gave back.

“Stay,” she whispered. “Stay!”






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Chapter Fifteen


Tells how Alraune lived in the park.



HE didn’t write his mother on that day, or the next, pushed it off for another week and further–for months. He lived in the large garden of the Brinkens, like he had done when he was a boy, when he had spent his school vacations there.

They sat in the warm green houses or under the mighty cedars, whose young sprouts had been brought from Lebanon by some pious ancestor, or strolled under the Mulberry trees, past a small pool that was deeply overshadowed by hanging willows.

The garden belonged to them that summer, to them alone, Alraune and him. The Fräulein had given strict orders that none of the servants were permitted to enter, not by day or by night. Not once were the gardeners called for. They were sent away into the city, charged with the maintenance of her gardens at her villas in Coblenz. The renters were very happy and amazed at the Fräulein’s attentiveness.

Only Frieda Gontram used the path. She never spoke a word about what she suspected but didn’t know. But her pinched lips and her evasive glance spoke loudly enough. She avoided meeting him on the path and yet was always there as soon as he was together with Alraune.

“What the blazes,” he grumbled. “I wish she was on top of mount Blocksberg!”

“Is she bothering you?” asked Alraune.

“Doesn’t she bother you?” he retorted.

She replied, “I haven’t noticed. I scarcely pay any attention to her.”

That evening he encountered Frieda Gontram by the blossoming blackthorns. She stood up from her bench and turned to go. Her gaze held a hot hatred.

He went up to her, “What is it Frieda?”

She said, “Nothing!–You can be satisfied now. You will soon be free of me.”

“Why is that?” he asked.

Her voice trembled, “I must go–tomorrow! Alraune told me that you didn’t want me here.”

An infinite misery spoke out of her glance.

“You wait here, Frieda. I will speak with her.”

He hurried into the house and came back after a short time.

“We have thought it over,” he began, “Alraune and I. It is not necessary that you go away–forever. Frieda, it’s only that I make you nervous with my presence–and you do the same for me, excuse me for saying it. That’s why it would be better if you go on a journey–only for awhile. Travel to Davos to visit your brother. Come back in two months.”

She stood up, looked at him with questioning eyes that were still full of fear.

“Is that the truth?” she whispered. “Only for two months?”

He answered, “Certainly it’s true. Why should I lie Frieda?”

She gripped his hand; a great joy made her face glow.

“I am very grateful to you!” she said. “Everything is alright then–as long as I am permitted to come back!”

She said, “Goodbye,” and headed for the house, stopped suddenly and came back to him.

“There is something else, Herr Doctor,” she said. “Alraune gave me a check this morning but I tore it up, because–because–in short, I tore it up. Now I will need some money. I don’t want to go to her–she would ask–and I don’t want her to ask. For that reason–will you give me the money?”

He nodded, “Naturally I will–Am I permitted to ask why you tore the check up?”

She looked at him, shrugged her shoulders.

“I wouldn’t have needed the money any more if I had to leave her forever–”

“Frieda,” he pressed, “where would you have gone?”

“Where?” A bitter laugh rang out from her thin lips. “Where? The same place Olga went! Only, believe me, doctor. I would have achieved my goal!”

She nodded lightly to him, walked away and disappeared between the birch trees.

Early, when the young sun woke him, he came out of his room in his kimono, went into the garden along the path that led past the trellis and into the rose bed. He cut white Boule de Neige roses, Queen Catharine roses, Victoria roses, Snow Queen roses and Merveille de Lyon roses. Then he turned left where the larches and the silver fir trees stood.

Alraune sat on the edge of the pool in a black silk robe, breaking breadcrumbs, throwing them to the goldfish. When he came she twined a wreath out of the pale roses, quickly and skillfully making a crown for her hair.

She threw off her robe, sat in her lace negligee and splashed in the cool water with her naked feet–She scarcely spoke, but she trembled as his fingers lightly caressed her neck, when his soft breath caressed her cheek. Slowly she took off the negligee and laid it on the bronze mermaid beside her.

Six water nymphs sat around the marble edge of the pool pouring water out of jugs and urns, spraying thin streams out of their breasts. Various animals crept around them, giant lobsters, spiny lobsters, turtles, fish, eels and other reptiles. In the middle of the pool Triton blew his horn as chubby faced merfolk blew mighty streams of water high into the air around him.

“Come, my friend,” she said.

Then they both climbed into the water. It was very cold and he shivered, his lips became blue and goose bumps quickly appeared on his arms. He had to swim vigorously, beat his arms and tread water to warm his blood and get accustomed to the unusual temperature.

But she didn’t even notice, was in her element in an instant and laughing at him. She swam around like a little frog.

“Turn the faucet on!” she cried.

He did it. There, near the pool’s edge, by the statue of Galatea, light waves came from the water as well as three other places in the pool. They boiled up a little, growing stronger and higher, climbing higher and higher, until they became enormous sparkling cascades of silvery rain, higher than the spouting streams of the mermen.

There she stood between all four, in the middle of a shimmering rain, like a sweet boy, slender and delicate. His long glance kissed her. There was no blemish in the symmetry of her limbs, not the slightest defect in this sweet work of art. Her color was in proportion as well, like white marble with a light breath of yellow. Only the insides of her thighs showed two curious rose colored lines.

“That’s where Dr. Petersen perished,” he thought.

He bent down, kneeled and kissed the rosy places.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

He said, “ I’m thinking that you are the fairy Melusine!–See the little mermaids around us–they have no legs, only long, scaly fish tails. They have no souls, these nymphs, but it is said that sometimes they love a human, some fisherman or wandering knight.

They love him so much that they come out of the water at high tide, out onto the land. Then they go to an old witch or shaman–that brews some nasty potion they have to drink. Then the shaman takes a sharp knife and begins to cut into the fish tail. It is very painful–very painful, but Melusine suppresses her pain. Her love is so great that she doesn’t complain, doesn’t cry out, until the pain becomes so great she looses consciousness. But when she awakes–her little tail is gone and she goes about on two beautiful legs–like a human–only the scars where the shaman cut are still visible.”

“But wasn’t she always still a nymph?” she asked. “Even with human legs?–And the sorcerer could never create a soul for her.”

“No,” he said. “He couldn’t do that, but there is something else they say of nymphs.”

“What do they say?” she asked.

He explained, “She only has her strange power as long as she is untouched. When she drowns in the kisses of her lover, when she looses her maidenhood in her knight’s embrace–then she looses her magic as well. She can no longer bring river gold and treasures but the black sorrow that followed her can no longer cross her threshold either. From then on she is like any other child of man–”

“If it only was!” she whispered.

She tore the white crown from her head, swam over to the mermen and Triton, to the water nymphs and threw the rose blossoms into their laps–

“Take them, sisters–take them!” she laughed. “I am a child of man–”


An enormous canopy bed stood in Alraune’s bedroom on low, baroque columns. Two pillars grew out of the foot and bore shelves that shown with golden flames. The engraved sides showed Omphale with Hercules in a woman’s dress as he waited on her, Perseus kissing Andromeda, Hephaestus catching Ares and Aphrodite in his net–Many tendrils of vines wove themselves in between and doves played in them–along with winged cherubs. The magnificent ancient bed, heavily gilt with gold, had been brought out of Lyons by Fräulein Hortense de Monthy when she became his great-grandfather’s wife.

He saw Alraune standing on a chair at the head of the bed, a heavy pliers in her hand.

“What are you doing with that?” he asked.

She laughed, “Just wait. I will soon be finished.”

She pounded and tore, carefully enough, at the golden figurine of Amor that hovered at the head of the bed with his bow and arrow. She pulled one nail out, then another, seized the little god, twisted him this way and that–until he came loose. She grabbed him, jumped down, laid him on top of the wardrobe, took out the Alraune manikin, clambered back up onto the chair again with it and fastened it to the head of the bed with wire and twine. Then she came back down and looked critically at her work.

“How do you like it?” she asked him.

“Why should the little man be there?” he retorted.

She said, “He belongs there!–I didn’t like the golden Cupid–That is for all the other people–I want to have Galeotto, my root manikin.”

“Why do you call it that?” he asked.

“Galeotto!” she replied. “Wasn’t it him that brought us together?–Now I want him to hang there, to watch over us through the night.”

Sometimes they went out riding in the evenings or also during the night if the moon was shining. They rode through the Sieben Gerberge mountain range or to Rolandseck and into the wilderness beyond.






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I want him to hang there, to watch over us through the night



Once they found a she-donkey at the foot of Dragon’s Rock in the Sieben Geberge mountain range. People there used the animal for riding up to the castle at the top. He bought her. She was a young animal, well cared for and glistened like fresh snow. Her name was Bianca. They took her with them, behind the horses on a long rope, but the animal just stood there, planting her forelegs like a stubborn mule, allowing herself to be choked and dragged along.

Finally they found a way to persuade her. In Kőnigswinter he bought a large bag full of sugar, took the rope off Bianca and let her run free. He threw her one piece of sugar after the other from out of the saddle. Soon the she-donkey ran after them, keeping itself tight to his stirrup, snuffling at his boots.

Old Froitsheim took the pipe out of his mouth as they came up, spit thoughtfully and grinned agreeably.

“An ass,” he chewed. “A young ass! It’s been almost thirty years since we’ve had one here in the stable. You know, young Master, how I used to let you ride old gray Jonathan?”

He got a bunch of carrots and gave them to the animal, stroking her shaggy fur.

“What’s her name, young Master?” he asked.

Frank Braun told him her name.

“Come Bianca,” spoke the old man. “You will have it good here with me. We will be friends.”

Then he turned again to Frank Braun.

“Young Master,” he continued. “I have three great-grandchildren in the village, two little girls and a boy. They are the cobbler’s children, on the road to Godesberg. They often come to visit me on Sunday afternoons. May I let them ride the ass?–Just here in the yard?”

He nodded, but before he could answer the Fräulein cried out:

“Why don’t you ask me, old man? It is my animal. He gave it to me!–Now I want to tell you–you are permitted to ride her–even in the gardens, when we are not home.

Frank Braun’s glance thanked her–but not the old coachman. He looked at her, half mistrusting and half surprised, grumbled something incomprehensible and enticed the donkey into the stable with the juicy carrots.

He called the stable boy, presented him to Bianca, then the horses, one after the other–led her around behind the farmyard, showed her the cow barn with the heavy Hollander cows and the young calf of black and white Liese. He showed her the hounds, both sharp pointers, the old guard dog and the cheeky fox terrier that was sleeping in the stable. Brought her to the pigs, where the enormous Yorkshire sow suckled her piglets, to the goats and the chicken coop. Bianca ate carrots and followed him. It appeared that she liked it at the Brinken’s.

Often in the afternoons the Fräulein’s clear voice rang out from the garden.

“Bianca!” she cried. “Bianca!”

Then the old coachman opened her stall; swung the door open wide and the little donkey came into the garden at an easy trot. She would stop a few times, eat the green juicy leaves, indulge in the high clover or wander around some more until the enticing call rang out again, “Bianca!” Then she would search for her mistress.

They lay on the lawn under the ash trees. No table–only a large platter lay on the grass covered with a white Damascus cloth. There were many fruits, assorted tid-bits, dainties and sweets among the roses. The wine stood to the side.

Bianca snuffled, scorned the caviar and no less the oysters, turned away from the pies. But she took some cake and a piece of ice out of the cooler, ate a couple of roses in between–

“Undress me!” said Alraune.

Then he loosened the eyes and hooks and opened the snaps. When she was naked he lifted her onto the donkey. She sat astride on the white animal’s back and held on lightly to the shaggy mane. Slowly, step by step, she strode over the meadow. He walked by her side, lying his right hand on the animal’s head. Bianca was clever, proud of the slender boy whom she carried, didn’t stop once, but went lightly with velvet hoofs.

There, where the dahlia bed ended, a narrow path led past the little brook that fed the marble pool. She didn’t go over the wooden bridge. Carefully, one foot after the other, Bianca waded through the clear water. She looked curiously to the side when a green frog jumped from the bank into the stream. He led the animal over to a raspberry patch, picked the red berries and divided them with Alraune, continued through the thick laurel bushes.

There, surrounded by thick elms, lie a large field of carnations. His grandfather had laid it out for his good friend, Gottfried Kinkel, who loved these flowers. Every week he had sent the poet a large bouquet for as long as he lived. There were little feathery carnations, tens of thousands of them, as far as the eye could see. All the flowers glowed silver-white and their leaves glowed silvery green. They gleamed far, far into the evening sun, a silver ground.




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Slowly, step by step, she strode over the meadow



Bianca carried the pale girl diagonally across the field and then back around. The white donkey stepped deeply through the silver ocean; the wind made light waves that kissed her hoofs.

He stood on the border and watched her, drank in the sweet colors until he was sated. Then she rode up to him.

“Isn’t it beautiful, my love?” she asked.

And he said sincerely, “–It is very beautiful–ride some more.”

She answered, “I am happy.”

Lightly she laid her hand behind the clever animal’s ears and it stepped out, slowly, slowly, through shining silver–


“Why are you laughing?” she asked.

They sat on the terrace at the breakfast table and he was reading his mail. There was a letter from Herr Manasse, who wrote him about the Burberger mining shares.

“You have read in the newspapers about the gold strike in the Hocheifel,” said the attorney. For the greatest part the gold has been found on territory owned by the Burberger Association. It appears very doubtful to me that these small veins of ore will be worth the very considerable cost of refining it. Nevertheless, your shares that were completely worthless four weeks ago, now, with the help of the Association’s skillful press release have rapidly climbed in value and have been at par for a week already.

Today, I heard through bank director Baller that they are prepared to quote them at two hundred fourteen. Therefore I have given your stocks over to my friend and asked him to sell them immediately. That will happen tomorrow, perhaps they will obtain an even higher rate of exchange.”

He handed the letter over to Alraune.

“Uncle Jakob himself, would have never dreamed of that,” he laughed. “Otherwise he would have certainly left my mother and me some different shares!”

She took the letter, carefully read it through to the end. Then she let it sink, stared straight ahead into space. Her face was wax pale.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.


“Yes he did–He did know it,” she said slowly. “He knew exactly what he was doing!”

Then she turned to him.

“If you want to make money–don’t sell the shares,” she continued and her voice rang with conviction.

“They will find still more gold–Your shares will climb still higher–much higher.”

“It’s too late,” he said lightly. “By this hour the shares have probably already been sold! Besides, are you all that certain?”

“Certain?” she repeated. “Certain? Who could be more certain that I?”

She let her head sink down onto the table, sobbed out loud, “So it begins–so–”

He stood up, laid his arm around her shoulder.

“Nonsense,” he said. “Beat that depression out of your brain!–Come Alraune, we will go swimming. The fresh water will wash the foolish cobwebs away. Chat with your mermaid sisters–they will confirm that Melusine can bring no more harm once she has kissed her lover.”

She pushed him away, sprang up, stood facing him, and looked him straight in the eyes.

“I love you,” she cried. “Yes, I do–But it is not true–the magic does not go away! I am no Melusine, am not the fresh water’s child! I come out of the earth–and the night created me.”

Shrill tones rang from her lips–and he didn’t know if it was a sob or a laugh–

He grabbed her in his strong arms, paid no attention to her struggling and hitting. He held her like a wild child, carried her down the steps and into the garden, carried her screaming over to the pool, threw her in, as far as he could with all her clothes on.

She got up and stood for a moment in amazement, dazed and confused. Then he let the cascades play and a splashing rain surrounded her. She laughed loudly at that.

“Come,” she cried. “Come in too!”

She undressed and in high spirits threw her wet clothes at his head.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” she urged. “Hurry up!”

When he was standing beside her she saw that he was bleeding. The drops fell from his cheek, from his neck and left ear.

“I bit you,” she whispered.

He nodded. Then she raised herself up high, encircled his neck, and drank the red blood with ardent lips.

“Now it is better,” she said.

They swam around–Then he went into the house, brought her a cloak. And when they turned to go back, hand in hand, under the copper beeches she said:

“I thank you, my love!”

They lay naked in the red afterglow. Their bodies, that had been one through the hot afternoon hours, fell apart–Broken and crushed by their caresses, their fondling and sweet words, like the flowers, like the tender grass, over which their love storm had broken. The firebrand lay dead, had devoured itself with greedy teeth. Out of the ashes grew a cruel, steel hard hatred.

They looked at each other–now they knew that they were mortal enemies. The long red lines on her thighs now seemed disgusting and unseemly to him, the spittle ran in his mouth as if he had sucked a bitter poison out of her lips. The little wounds that her teeth and her nails had torn hurt and burned, swelling up–

“She has poisoned me,” he thought. “Like she once did Dr. Petersen.”

Her green gaze smiled over at him, provoking, mocking and impudent. He closed his eyes, bit his lips together, and curled his fingers into fists. Then she stood up, turned around and kicked him with her foot, carelessly and contemptuously.

He sprang up at that, stood in front of her, their glances crossed–Not one word came out of her mouth, but she pouted her lips, raised her arm, spit at him, slapped him in the face with her hand.

Then he threw himself at her, shook her body, whirled her around by her hair, flung her to the ground, kicked her, beat her, choked her tightly by the neck. She defended herself well. Her nails shredded his face, her teeth bit into his arm and his chest. And with blood foaming at their mouths, their lips searched and found each other, took each other in a rutting frenzy of burning desire and pain–

Then he seized her, flung her several meters away, so that she fainted, sinking down onto the lawn. He staggered a few steps further, sank down and stared up into the blue heavens, without desire, without will–listening to his temples pound–until his eyelids sank–

When he awoke, she was kneeling at his feet, drying the blood out of his wounds with her hair, ripping her shift into long strips, bandaging him skillfully–

“Let’s go, my love,” she said. “Evening falls.”

Little blue eggshells lay on the path. He searched in the bushes, found the plundered nest of a crossbill.

“Those pesky squirrels,” he cried. “There are far too many in the park. They will drive out all of our song birds.”

“What should we do?” she asked.

He said, “Shoot a few.”

She clapped her hands.

“Yes, yes,” she laughed. “We will go on a hunt!”

“Do you have some kind of a gun?” he asked.

She considered, “No, –I believe there are none, at least none that we can use–We must buy one–But wait,” she interrupted herself, “The old coachman has one. Sometimes he shoots the stray cats when they poach.”

He went to the stables.

“Hello Froitsheim,” he cried. “Do you have a gun?”

“Yes,” replied the old man. “Should I go get it?”

He nodded, then he asked, “ Tell me old man. Do you still want to let your great-grandchildren ride on Bianca? They were here last Sunday–but I didn’t see you setting them on the donkey.”

The old man growled, went into his room, took a rifle down from the wall, came back, sat down quietly, cleaning it and getting it ready.

“Well?” he asked. “Aren’t you going to answer me?”

Froitsheim chewed with dry lips.

“I don’t want to,” he grumbled.

Frank Braun laid a hand on his shoulder, “Be reasonable old man, say what is on your heart. I think you can speak freely with me!”

Then the coachman said, “I will accept nothing from the Fräulein–don’t want any gifts from her. I receive my bread and wages–for that I work. I don’t want any more than that.”

Frank Braun felt that no persuasion would help getting through his hard skull. Then he hit upon an idea, threw in a little bait that the old man could chew on–

“If the Fräulein asked something special of you, would you do it?”

“No,” said the stubborn old man. “No more than my duty.”

“But if she paid you extra,” he continued. “Then would you do it?”

The coachman still didn’t want to agree.

“That would depend–” he chewed.

“Don’t be pig headed, Froitsheim!” laughed Frank Braun. “The Fräulein–not I–wants to borrow your gun to shoot squirrels–That has absolutely nothing to do with your duty, and because of that–do you understand, in return–she will allow you to let the children ride on the donkey–It is a trade. Will you do it?”

“Yes,” said the old man grinning. “I will.”

He handed the rifle over to him, took a box of cartridges out of a drawer.

“I will throw these in as well!” he spoke. “That way I’ve paid well and am not in her debt–Are you going out riding this afternoon, young Master?” he continued.

“Good, the horses will be ready around five-o’clock.”–Then he called the stable boy, sent him running out to the cobbler’s wife, his granddaughter, to let her know that she should send the children up that evening–

Early the next morning Frank Braun stood under the acacia that kissed the Fräulein’s window, gave his short whistle. She opened, called down that she would be right there. Her light steps rang clearly on the flagstones, with a leap she was down from the terrace, over the steps, into the garden and standing in front of him.

“Look at you!” she cried. “In a kimono? Do people go hunting like that?”

He laughed, “Well, it will do just fine for squirrels– But look at you!”

She was dressed as a Wallenstein hunter.

“Holk Regiment!” she cried. “Do you like it?”

She wore high yellow riding boots, a green jerkin and an enormous grayish green hat with waving plumes. An old pistol was stuck into her belt and a long sabre beat against her leg.

“Take that off,” he said. “The game will be terrified of you if you go hunting like that.”

She pouted her lips.

“Aren’t I pretty,” she asked.

He took her into his arms, quickly kissed her lips.

“You are charming, you vain little monkey,” he laughed. “And your Holk hunting outfit will do just as well as my kimono for squirrels.”

He unbuckled the sabre and the long spurs, laid her flintlock pistol aside and took up the coachman’s rifle.

“Now come, comrade,” he cried. “Tally ho!”

They went through the garden walking softly, peering through the bushes and into the tops of the trees. He pushed a cartridge into the rifle and cocked it.

“Have you ever shot a gun before?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” she nodded. “Wőlfchen and I went together to the big church fair in Pützchen. We practiced there in the shooting gallery.”

“Good,” he said. “Then you know how you must hold it and aim it.”

There was a rustling over them in the branches.

“Shoot,” she whispered. “Shoot! There is one above us!”

He raised the rifle and looked up, but then let it down again.

“No, not that one,” he declared. “That is a young one, scarcely a year old. We will let it live for a while longer.”

They followed the brook until it came out of the birch trees into the meadow. Fat June bugs buzzed in the sun, yellow butterflies swung over the daisies. Whispering sounds were everywhere, crickets chirping, bees buzzing, grasshoppers jumped at their feet in giant leaps. Frogs croaked in the water and above–a little lark rejoiced. They walked across the meadow to the copper beeches. There, right on the border, they heard a frightened chirping, saw a little hen flutter out of the bushes.

Frank Braun crept quietly ahead, looking sharply.

“There is the robber,” he murmured.

“Where?” she asked. “Where?”

But his shot already cracked–a heavy squirrel fell down from the tree trunk. He raised it up by the tail, showed her where the bullet had hit.

“It won’t plunder any more nests!” he said.

They hunted further through the large park. He shot a second squirrel in the honeysuckle leaves and a third gray squirrel in the top of a pear tree.

“You always shoot!” she cried. “Let me have the gun once!”

He gave it to her, showed her how to carry it, let her shoot into a tree trunk a few times.

“Now come!” he cried. “Let’s see what you can do!”

He pushed the gun barrel down.

“Like this,” he instructed. “The muzzle always points toward the ground and not into the air.”

Near the pool he saw a young animal playing in the path. She wanted to shoot right away, but he called for her to sneak up a few more steps.

“Now you’re close enough, let him have it.”

She shot–the squirrel looked around in astonishment, then quickly sprang up a tree trunk and disappeared into the thick branches. A second time didn’t go much better–She was much too far away. But when she tried to get closer, the animals fled before she could get a shot off.

“The stupid beasts,” she complained. “Why do they stand still for you?”

She appeared charming to him in her childish anger.

“Apparently because they think I am their friend,” he laughed. “You make too much noise in your leather riding boots, that’s what it is! Just wait, we will get closer.”

Right by the mansion, where the hazel bushes pressed against the acacias, he saw another squirrel.

“Stay here,” he whispered. “I will drive it out to you. Only look there into those bushes and when you see it, whistle so I will know. It will turn when you whistle–then shoot!”

He went around in a wide arc, sneaking through the bushes. Finally he discovered the animal on a low acacia, drove it down, and chased it into a hazel thicket. He saw that it was going in the right direction toward Alraune so he backed up a little and waited for her whistle. But he didn’t hear it. Then he went back in the same arc and came out on the wide path behind her. There she stood, gun in hand, staring intently into the bushes and a little off to her left–scarcely three meters away, the squirrel merrily played in the hazel thicket.

“It’s over there,” he called out softly. “Over there, up a little and to the left!”

She heard his voice, turned quickly around toward him. He saw how her lips opened to speak, heard a shot at the same time and felt a light pain in his side. Then he heard her shrill despairing scream, saw how she threw the gun away and rushed toward him. She tore open his kimono, grabbed at the wound with both hands.

He bowed his head, looked down. It was a long, but very light surface wound that was scarcely bleeding. The skin was only burned, showing a broad black line.

“Get the hangman!” he laughed. “That was close!–Right over the heart.”

She stood in front of him, trembling, all of her limbs shaking, scarcely able to stand up. He supported her, talked to her.

“It’s nothing, child. Nothing at all! We will wash it out with something, then moisten it with oil–Think nothing of it!”

He pulled the kimono still further back, showed her his naked chest. With straying fingers she felt the surface wound.

“Right over the heart,” she murmured. “Right over the heart!”

Then suddenly she grabbed her head with both hands. A sudden fear seized her, she looked at him with a horrified gaze, tore herself out of his arms, ran to the house, sprang up the stairs–






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Chapter Sixteen


Proclaims how Alraune came to an end.



HE slowly went up to his room, washed his wound, bandaged it and laughed at the girl’s shooting ability.

“She will learn soon enough,” he thought. “We just need a little target practice.”

Then he remembered her look as she ran away. She was all broken up, full of wild despair, as if she had committed a crime. And it had only been an unlucky coincidence–which fortunately had turned out all right–He hesitated–A coincidence? Ah, that was it. She didn’t take it as a coincidence–took it as–fate.

He considered–

That was certainly it. That was why she was frightened–that was why she ran away–When she looked into his eyes she saw her own image there. That’s what she was afraid of–death, who scattered his flowers where ever her feet trod–

The little attorney had warned him, “Now it is your turn.” Hadn’t Alraune herself told him the same thing when she asked him to leave? Wasn’t the old magick working on him just like it had on all the others? His uncle had left him worthless paper–Now they were digging gold out of the rocks! Alraune brought riches–and she brought death.

Suddenly he was frightened–now for the first time. He bared his wound once again–Oh yes, there it was. His heart beat right under the tear. It had only been the little movement of his body as he turned, as he pointed to the squirrel with his arm that had saved him. Otherwise–otherwise–

No, he didn’t want to die, especially right now because of his mother, he thought. Yes, because of her–but even if she wasn’t there, he wanted to live for himself as well. It had taken many long years to learn how to live, but now he had mastered that great art, which now gave him more than many thousands of others. He lived fully and strongly, stood on the summit and really enjoyed the world and all of its delights.

“Fate loves me,” he thought. “It’s pointing with its finger–much more clearly than the words of the attorney. There is still time.”

He pulled out his suitcase, tore the lid open and began to pack–How had Uncle Jakob ended his leather bound volume?

“Try your luck! It’s too bad that I won’t be there when your turn comes. I would have dearly loved to see it.”

He shook his head.

“No, Uncle Jakob,” he murmured. “You will get no satisfaction out of me this time, not this time.”

He threw his boots together, grabbed a pair of stockings, and laid out a shirt and suit that he wanted to wear. His glance fell on the deep blue kimono that hung over the back of a chair. He picked it up, contemplated the scorched hole that the bullet had made.

“I should leave it here,” he said. “A momento for Alraune. She can put it with the other momentos.”

A deep sigh sounded behind him. He turned around–She stood in the middle of the room, in a thin silk negligee, looking at him with large open eyes.

“You are packing?” she whispered. “You are leaving–I thought so.”

A lump rose in his throat but he choked it back down and pulled himself together.

“Yes, Alraune, I’m going on a journey,” he said.

She threw herself down onto a chair, didn’t answer, just looked at him quietly. He went to the wash basin, took up one thing after another, comb, brush, soap and sponge. Finally he threw the lid shut and locked the suitcase.

“Well,” he said forcefully. “Now I’m ready.”

He stepped up to her, reached out his hand. She didn’t move, didn’t raise her arm and her pale lips remained shut. Only her eyes spoke.

“Don’t go,” they pleaded. “Don’t leave me. Stay with me.”

“Alraune,” he murmured and it sounded like a reproach, like a plea even, to let him go.

But she didn’t let him go, held him solidly with her eyes, “Don’t leave me.”

It felt like his will was melting and he forcefully turned his eyes away from her. But then her lips moved.

“Don’t go,” she insisted. “Stay with me.”

“No,” he screamed. “I don’t want to. You will put me in the ground like all the others!”

He turned his back on her, went to the table, and tore a couple pieces of cotton from the bandage wadding that he had brought for his wound. He moistened them with oil and plugged them solidly into his ears.

“Now you can talk,” he cried. “If you like. I can’t hear you. I can’t see you–I must go and you know it. Let me go.”

She softly said, “Then you will feel me.”

She stepped up to him, lightly laid her hand on his arm and her fingers trembled and spoke – “Stay with me!–Don’t abandon me.”

The light kiss of her little hands was so sweet, so sweet.

“I will tear myself loose,” he thought, “soon, just one second longer.”

He closed his eyes, and with a deep breath savored the caressing touch of her fingers. Then she raised her hands and his cheeks trembled under their gentle touch. She slowly brought her arms around his neck, bent his head down, raised herself up and brought her moist lips to his mouth.

“How strange it is,” he thought. “Her nerves speak and mine understand their language.”

She pulled him one step to the side, pressed him down onto the bed, sat down on his knees and wrapped him in a cloak of tender caresses. With slender fingers she pulled the cotton out of his ears and whispered sultry, loving words to him. He didn’t understand because she spoke so softly, but he sensed the meaning, felt that she was no longer saying, “Stay!”–That now she was saying, “I’m so glad that you are staying.”

He kept his eyelids tightly shut over his eyes, yet now he only heard her lips whisper sweet nothings, only felt the tips of her little fingers as they ran across his breast and his face. She didn’t pull him, didn’t urge him–and yet he felt the streaming of her nerves pulling him down onto the bed. Slowly, slowly, he let himself sink.

Then suddenly she sprang up. He opened his eyes, saw her run to the door and shut it, then to the window and tightly close the heavy curtains. A dim twilight still flowed through the room. He wanted to rise, to stand up, but she was back before he could move a single limb. She threw off the black negligee and came to him, shut his eyelids again with gentle fingers and pressed her lips on his.

He felt her little breast in his hand, felt her toe nails play against the flesh of his legs, felt her hair falling over his cheeks–and he didn’t resist, gave himself to her, just as she wanted–

“Are you staying?” she asked.

But he sensed it wasn’t a question any more, she only wanted to hear it from his own lips.

“Yes,” he said softly.

Her kisses fell like the rain in May. Her caresses dropped like a shower of almond blossoms in the evening wind and her loving words sprang like the shimering pearls of the cascade in the park pool.

“You taught me!” she breathed. “You–you showed me what love is–Now you must stay for my love, which you created!”

She lightly traced her fingers over his wound, kissed it with her tongue, raised her head and looked at him with crazy, confused eyes.

“I hurt you–”she whispered. “I struck you–right over your heart–Do you want to beat me? Should I get the whip? Do what you want!–Tear wounds in me with your teeth–take a knife even. Drink my blood–Do whatever you want–Anything, anything–I am your slave.”

He closed his eyes again and sighed deeply.

“You are the Mistress,” he thought. “The winner!”

Sometimes when he entered the library it seemed as if a laugh came from out of the corners somewhere. The first time he heard it he thought it was Alraune, even though it didn’t sound like her voice. He searched around and found nothing. When he heard it again he became frightened.

“That’s Uncle Jakob’s hoarse voice,” he thought. “He is laughing at me.”

Then he took hold of himself, pulled himself together.

“A hallucination,” he muttered. “And no wonder–my nerves are over stimulated.”

He moved about as if in a dream, slouching and staggering, with hanging, drooping movements and listless eyes. But every nerve was taut and overloaded when he was with her–Then his blood raced, where before it had been sickly and barely crawled.

He had been her teacher, that was true. He had opened her eyes, taught her every Persian mystery from the land of the morning, every game of the ancients that had made love into a fine art. But it was as if he said nothing strange to her at all, only reawakened her long lost memories from some other time. Often her swift desire flamed and broke out like a forest fire in the summer time before he could even speak. He threw the torch and yet shuddered at the rutting fire that scorched his flesh, engulfed him in feverish passion, left him withered and curdled the blood in his veins.

Once as he slunk over the courtyard he met Froitsheim.

“You don’t ride any more, young Master?” asked the old coachman.

He quickly said, “No, not any more.”

Then his gaze met the old man’s and he saw how the dry lips opened.

“Don’t speak, old man!” he said quickly. “I know what you want to say to me! But I can’t–I can’t.”

The coachman watched for a long time as Frank Braun went into the garden, spit, thoughtfully shook his head, then crossed himself.

One evening Frieda Gontram sat on the stone bench under the copper beeches. He stepped up to her and offered his hand.

“Back already Frieda?”

“The two months are gone,” she said.

He put his hand to his forehead.

“Gone,” he murmured. “It scarcely seems like a week to me. How goes it with your brother?” he continued.

“He is dead,” she replied, “for a long time now. Vicar Schrőder and I buried him up there, in Davos.”

“Dead,” he responded.

Then as if to chase the thought away he quickly asked, “What else is new out there? We live like hermits, never go out of the garden.”

“The princess died of a stroke,” she began. “Countess Olga– ”

But he didn’t let her continue.

“No, no,” he cried. “Say nothing. I don’t want to hear. Death, death and more death–Be quiet Frieda, be quiet!”

Now he was happy that she was there. They spoke very little to each other, but they sat together quietly, secretly, when the Fräulein was in the house. Alraune resented that Frieda Gontram was back.

“Why did she come? I won’t have it! I want no one here except you.”

“Let her be,” he said. “She is not in the way, hides herself whenever she can.”

Alraune said, “She is together with you when I’m not there. I know it. She better be careful!”

“What will you do?” he asked.

She answered, “Do? Nothing! Have you forgotten that I don’t need to do anything? It all happens by itself.”

Once again resistance awoke in him.

“You are dangerous,” he said. “Like a poisonous berry.”

She raised her lips, “Why does she nibble then? I ordered her to stay away forever!–But you changed it to two months. It is your fault.”

“No,” he cried. “That is not true. She would have drown herself–”

“So much the better!” laughed Alraune.

He bit his teeth together, grabbed her arms and shook her.

“You are a witch!” he hissed. “Someone should kill you.”

She didn’t defend herself, even when his fingers pressed deeply into her flesh.

“Who?” she laughed. “You?”

“Yes me!” he screamed. “Me! I planted the seed of this poisonous tree–so I am the one to find an axe and chop it down–to free the world of you!”

“Do it,” she piped gently. “Do it, Frank Braun!”

Her mockery flowed like oil on the fire that burned in him. Haze rose hot and red in front of his eyes, pressed stuffily into his mouth. His features became distorted. He quickly let go of her and raised his clenched fists.

“Hit me,” she cried. “Hit me! I want you to!”

At that his arms sank, his poor will drown in the flood of her caresses.

That night he awoke. A flickering light fell on him coming from the large silver candlestick that stood on the fireplace. He lay on his great-grandmother’s mighty bed. Over him, directly over him, the little wooden man was suspended.

“If it falls, it will kill me,” he thought half-asleep. “I must take it down.”

Then his gaze fell to the foot of the bed. There crouched Alraune, soft words sounded from her mouth, something rattled lightly in her hands. He turned his head a little and peered over at her. She held the dice cup–her mother’s skull. Threw the dice–her father’s bones.

“Nine,” she muttered, “and seven–sixteen!”

Again she put the bone dice in the skull dice cup, shook it noisily back and forth.

“Eleven,” she cried.

“What are you doing?” he interrupted.

She turned around, “I’m playing. I couldn’t go to sleep–so I’m playing.”

“What are you playing?” he asked.

She glided over to him, quickly, like a smooth little snake.

“I’m playing ‘How it will be’, How it will be–with you and with Frieda Gontram!”

“Well–and how will it be?” he asked again.

She drummed with her fingers on his chest.

“She will die,” she twittered. “Frieda Gontram will die.”

“When,” he pressed.

“I don’t know,” she spoke. “Soon, very soon!”

He tightened his fingers together, “Well – and how about me?”

She said, “I don’t know. You interrupted me. Should I continue to play?”

“No,” he cried. “No! I don’t want to know!”

He fell silent, brooding heavily, then startled suddenly, sat up and stared at the door. Light steps shuffled past. Very distinctly he heard the floorboards creak. He sprang out of bed, took a couple steps to the door and listened intently. Now they were gliding up the stairs. Then he heard her clear laughter behind him.

“Let her be!” she tinkled. “What do you want from her?”

“Why should I leave it alone?” he asked. “Who is it?”

She laughed even more, “Who? Frieda Gontram! Your fear is too early, my knight! She still lives!”

He came back, sat on the edge of the bed.

“Bring me some wine!” he cried. “I want something to drink!”

She sprang up, ran into the next room, brought the crystal carafe, let the burgundy bleed into the polished goblets.

“She always runs around,” Alraune explained, “day and night. She says she can’t sleep, so she climbs through the entire house.”

He didn’t hear what she was saying, gulped the wine down and reached the goblet out to her again.

“More,” he demanded. “Give me more!”

“No,” she said. “Not like that! Lay back down. You will drink from me if you are thirsty.”

She pressed his head down onto the pillows, kneeled in front of him on the floor, took a sip of wine and gave it to him in her mouth. He became drunk from the wine, even more drunk from the lips that reached out to him.

The sun burned at noon. They sat on the marble edge of the pool and splashed in the water with their feet.

“Go into my room,” she said. “On my dresser is a hook, on the left hand side. Bring it to me.”

“No,” he replied. “You shouldn’t fish. What would you do with the little goldfish?”

“Do it!” she spoke.

He stood up and went into the mansion. He went into her room, picked up the hook and examined it critically. Then he smiled in satisfaction.

“Well, she won’t catch many with this thing here!” But then he interrupted himself.

Heavy lines creased his forehead, “Not catch many? She would catch goldfish even if she threw in a meat hook!”

His glance fell on the bed, then up to the little root man. He threw the hook into the corner and grabbed a chair in sudden resolve. He placed it by the bed, climbed up and with a quick pull tore the little alraune down. He gathered some paper together, threw it into the fireplace, lit it and laid the little man on top.

He sat down on the floor watching the flames. But they only devoured the paper, didn’t even singe the alraune, only blackened it. And it seemed to him that it laughed, as if its ugly face pulled into a grimace–yes, into Uncle Jakob’s grin! And then–then the phlemy laugh sounded again–echoed from the corners.

He sprang up, took his knife from the table, opened the sharp blade and grabbed the little man from out of the fire. The wooden root was hard and infinitely tough. He was only able to remove little splinters, but he didn’t give up. He cut and cut, one little piece after the other. Bright beads of sweat pearled on his forehead and his fingers hurt from the unaccustomed work. He paused, took some fresh paper, stacks of never read newspapers, threw the splinters on them, sprinkled them with rose oil and Eau de Cologne.

Ah, now it burned, blazed, and the flames doubled his strength. Faster and stronger, he removed more slivers from the wood, always giving new nourishment to the fire. The little man became smaller, lost its arms and both legs. Yet it never gave up, defended itself, the point of a splinter stuck deeply into his finger. But he smeared the ugly head with his blood, grinned, laughed and cut new slivers from its body.

Then her voice rang, hoarse, almost broken.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

He sprang up, threw the last piece into the devouring flames. He turned around and a wild, insane gleam showed in his green eyes.

“I’ve killed it!” he screamed.

“Me,” she moaned, “Me!”

She grabbed at her breast with both hands.

“It hurts,” she whispered. “It hurts.”

He walked past her, slammed the door shut–Yet an hour later he lay again in her arms, greedily drinking her poisonous kisses.

It was true–He had been her teacher. By his hand they had wandered through the park of love, deep onto the hidden path far from broad avenues of the masses. But where the path ended in thick underbrush he turned around, turned back from the steep abyss. There she walked on laughing, untroubled and free of all fear or shyness. She skipped in light easy dance steps. There was no red poisonous fruit that grew in the park of love that her fingers did not pluck, her smiling lips did not taste–

She learned from him how sweet the intoxication was when the tongue sipped little drops of blood from the flesh of the lover. But her desire was insatiable and her burning thirst unquenchable.

He was exhausted from her kisses that night, slowly untangled himself from her limbs, closed his eyes and lay like a dead man, rigid and unmoving. But he didn’t sleep. His senses remained clear and awake despite his weariness. He lay like that for long hours.

The bright light of the full moon fell through the open window onto the white bed. He heard how she stirred at his side, softly moaned and whispered senseless words like she always did on such full moon nights.

He heard her stand up, go singing to the window, then slowly come back, felt how she bent over him and stared at him for a long time. He didn’t move. Again she stood up, ran to the table and came back. She blew quickly on his left breast, then once more and waited, listening to his breathing. Then he felt something cold and sharp slice through his skin and realized it was a knife.

“Now she will thrust it,” he thought.

But that didn’t seem painful to him. It seemed sweet and even good. He didn’t move and waited quietly for the quick thrust that would open his heart. She cut slowly and lightly. Not very deep–but deep enough that his hot blood welled up. He heard her quick breath, opened his eyelids a little and looked up at her. Her lips were half-open, the tip of her little tongue greedily pushed itself out between her even teeth. Her small white breasts raised themselves quickly and an insane fire shone out of her staring green eyes.

Then suddenly she threw herself over him, pressed her mouth to the open wound, drank–drank. He lay there quietly, felt how the blood flowed from his heart. It seemed to him as if she was drinking him dry, sucking all of his blood, not leaving him a single drop.

And she drank–drank–through an eternity she drank–

Finally she raised her head. He saw how she glowed, her cheeks shone red in the moonlight, and little drops of sweat pearled on her forehead. With caressing fingers she once more tasted the red refreshment from the exhausted well, then lightly pressed a few light kisses on it, turned and looked with staring eyes into the moon–

There was something that pulled her. She stood up, went with heavy steps to the window, climbed onto a chair, and set one foot on the windowsill–awash with silvery moonlight.

Then, as if with sudden resolve, she climbed down again, didn’t look to the right or to the left, glided straight through the room.

“I’m coming,” she whispered. “I’m coming.”

She opened the door and went out.

He lay there quietly for awhile listening to the steps of the sleepwalker until they lost themselves somewhere in some distant room. Then he stood up, put on his socks and shoes and grabbed his robe. He was happy that she was gone. Now he could get a little sleep. He had to leave, leave now – before she came back.

He crossed the hall and headed toward his room, then heard her footsteps and pressed himself tightly into a doorway. But it was a black figure, Frieda Gontram in her garb of mourning. She carried a lit candle in her hand as she always did on her nightly strolls despite the light of the full moon.

He saw her pale, distorted features, the hard lines that crossed her nose, her thin pinched mouth, and her frightened, averted eyes.

“She was possessed,” he thought, “possessed just like he was.”

For a moment he considered speaking to her, to find out if–if perhaps–But he shook his head, no, no. It wouldn’t help. She blocked the way to his room, so he decided to go across to the library and lay down there on the divan. He sneaked down the stairs, came to the house door, slid back the bolt and unhooked the chain. Then he quietly slipped outside and went out across the courtyard.

The Iron Gate stood wide open as if it were day. That surprised him and he went through it out onto the street. The niche of the Saint lay in deep shadows but the white stone statue shown brighter than usual. Many flowers lay at his feet. Four, five little lanterns burned between them and it seemed to him as if those little flames the people brought, which they called eternal lamps, wanted to do battle against the light of the moon.

“Paltry little lanterns,” he murmured.

But they helped him, were like a protection against the cruel, unfathomable forces of nature. He felt safe in the shadows near the Saint where the moon’s own light didn’t penetrate, where the Saint’s own fires burned. He looked up at the hard features of the statue and it seemed to him as if they lived in the flickering light of the lanterns. It seemed as if the Saint extended himself, grew taller, and looked proudly out to where the moon was shining. Then he sang, lightly humming as he had many years ago, but this time ardently, almost fervently.


John of Nepomuk

Protector against floods

Protect me from love!

Let it strike another.

Leave me in earthly peace

John of Nepomuk

Protect me from love.


Then he went back through the gate and across the courtyard. The old coachman sat on the stone bench in front of the stables. He saw him raise his arm and wave to him and he hurried across the flagstones.

“What is it old man?” he whispered.

Froitsheim didn’t answer, just raised his hand, pointing upward with his short pipe.

“What?” he asked. “Where?”

But then he saw. On the high roof of the mansion a slender, naked boy was walking, quietly and confidently. It was Alraune. Her eyes were wide open, looking upward, high above at the full moon. He saw her lips move, saw how she reached her arms up into the starry night. It was like a request, like a burning desire.

She kept moving, first on the ridge of the roof, then walking along the eaves, step by step. She would fall, was going to fall! A sudden fear seized him, his lips opened to warn her, to call out to her.

“Alr–”




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He saw her lips move, saw how she reached her arms up into the starry night.



But he stifled the cry. To warn her, to call her name–that would mean her death! She was asleep, was safe–as long as she slept and wandered in her sleep. But if he cried out to her, if she woke up–then, then she would fall down!

Something inside him demanded, “Call out! Then you will be saved. Just one little word, just her name–Alraune! You carry her life on the tip of your tongue and your own as well! Call out! Call out!”

His teeth clenched together, his eyes closed; he clasped his hands tightly together. But he sensed that it had to happen now, right now. There was no going back; he had to do it! All his thoughts fused together forming themselves into one long, sharp, murderous dagger, “Alraune–”

Then a clear, shrill, wild and despairing cry sounded out through the night–“Alraune–Alraune!”

He tore his eyes open, stared upward. He saw how she let her raised arms drop, how a sudden shudder went through her limbs, how she turned and looked back terrified at the large black figure that crept out of the dormer window. He saw how Frieda Gontram opened her arms wide and stumbled forward–heard once more her frightened cry,

“Alraune”.

Then he saw nothing more. A whirling fog covered his eyes; he only heard a hollow thud and then a second one right after it. Then he heard a weak, clear cry, only one. The old coachman grabbed his arm and pulled him up. He swayed, almost fell–then sprang up and ran with quick steps across the courtyard, toward the house.

He knelt at her side, cradled her sweet body in his arms. Blood, so much blood covered the short curls. He laid his ear to her heart and heard a faint beating.

“She still lives,” he whispered. “Oh, she still lives.”

He kissed her pale forehead. He looked over to the side where the old coachman was examining Frieda Gontram. He saw him shake his head and stand up with difficulty.

“Her neck is broken,” he said.

What was that to him? Alraune still lived–she lived.


“Come old man,” he cried. “We will carry her inside.”

He raised her shoulders a little–then she opened her eyes, but she didn’t recognize him.

“I’m coming,” she whispered. “I’m coming–”

Then her head fell back–

He sprang up. His sudden, raging and wild scream echoed from the houses and flowed with many voices across the garden.

“Alraune, Alraune! It was me–I did it!”

The old coachman laid a gnarled hand on his shoulder and shook his head.

“No, young Master,” he said. “Fräulein Gontram called out to her.”

He laughed shrilly, “But I wanted to.”

The old face became dark, his voice rang harshly, “I wanted to.”

The servants came out of their houses, came with lights and with noise, screaming and talking until they filled the entire courtyard. Staggering like a drunk he swayed toward the house, supporting himself on the old man’s arm.

“I want to go home,” he whispered. “Mother is waiting.”










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Finale



It is late in the summer, the hollyhocks now raise their heads away from the stalks. The mallows scatter their dull tones in tired colors, pale yellow, lilac and soft pink. When you knocked my love, the spring was young. When you entered through the narrow gate into my dream garden the swift little swallows were singing their welcome to the daffodils and the yellow primrose.

Your eyes were blue and kind and your days were like heavy clusters of light blue wisteria dropping down to form a soft carpet. My feet walked lightly there through the sun glistening pathways of your arbor–Then the shadows fell and in the night eternal sin climbed out of the ocean, coming here from the south, created out of the glowing fires of the desert sands.

She spewed forth her pestilent breath in my garden strewing her rutting passion beneath her veil of beauty. Wild sister, that’s when your hot soul awoke, shameless, full of every poison. You drank my blood, exulted and screamed out from painful tortures and from passionate kisses.

Your marvelous sweet nails that your little maid, Fanny, manicured grew into wild claws. Your smooth teeth, glowing like milky opals, grew into mighty fangs. Your sweet childish breasts, little snow-white kittens, turned into the rigid tits of a murderous whore. Your golden curls hissed like impassioned vipers and the lightning that unleashed all madness reposed in your soft jeweled eyes which caught the light like the glowing sapphire in the forehead of my golden Buddha.

But gold lotus grew in the pool of my soul, extended themselves with broad leaves upon the vast shallows and covered the deep horrors of the whirling maelstrom. The silver tears that the clouds wept lay like large pearls upon their green leaves, shining through the afternoons like polished moonstones.

Where the acacia’s pale snow once lay the laburnum now throws its poisonous yellows–There, little sister, I found the great beauty of your chaste sins and I understood the pleasures of the saints.

I sat in front of the mirror, my love, drank out of it the over abundance of your sins while you slept on summer afternoons, in your thin silk shift on white linen. You were a different person, my dear, when the sun laughed in the splendor of my garden–sweet little sister of my dream filled days. You were an entirely different person, my dear, when it sank into the sea, when the horrors of darkness softly crept out of the bushes–wild, sinful sister of my passionate nights–But I could see by the light of day all the sins of the night in your naked beauty.

Understanding came to me from out of the mirror, the ancient gold framed mirror, which saw so many games of love in that wide turret room in the castle of San Costanzo. The truth, which I had only glimpsed in the pages of the leather bound volume, came to me from out of that mirror. Sweetest of all are the chaste sins of the innocent.

That there are creatures–not animal–strange creatures, that originate out of villainous desires and absurd thoughts–that you will not deny, my love, not you.

Good is the law; good are all the strict rules. Good is the God that created them and good is the man that carefully observes them.

But there is the child of Satan who with arrogant hands brazenly rips the eternal laws from their appointed place. The Evil One, who is a mighty Lord, helps him–that he might create out of his own proud will–against all nature.

His work towers into the heavens– nd yet falls apart and in its collapse buries the arrogant fool that conceived it–

Now I write this for you, sister, this book–I ripped open old, long forgotten scars, mixed their dark blood with the bright and fresh blood of my latest torments. Beautiful flowers grow out of such soil, fertilized by blood.

All that I have told you, my love, is very true–yet I take it from the mirror, drink out of its glass the realizations of my latest experiences and apply them to earlier memories and original events.

Take this book sister. Take it from a wild adventurer who was an arrogant fool–and a quiet dreamer as well–Take if from one, little sister, that has run closely alongside such a life–




Miramar–Lesina–Brion

April–October 1911


The End