by Joe Bandel
The orchestra started over and over again. The musicians, dulled and over tired from nightly playing, appeared to wake up, leaning over the balustrade of the balcony and looking down. The baton of the conductor flew faster, hotter rushed the bows of the violinists and in deep silence the untiring couple, Rosalinde and the Chevalier de Maupin, floated through a sea of roses, colors and sounds.
Then the conductor stopped the music. Then it broke loose. The Baron von Platten, Colonel of the 28th cried out with his stentorian voice down from the gallery:
“A cheer for the couple! A cheer for Fräulein ten Brinken! A cheer for Rosalinde!”
The glasses clinked and people shouted and yelled, pressing onto the dance floor, surrounding the couple, almost crushing them.
Two fraternity boys from Rhenania carried in a mighty basket full of red roses they had purchased downtown somewhere from a flower woman. A couple Hussar officers brought champagne. Alraune only sipped, but Wolf Gontram–overheated, red-hot and thirsty, guzzled the cool drink greedily, one goblet after another.
Alraune pulled him away, breaking a path through the crowd. The red executioner sat in the middle of the hall. He stuck out his long neck, held out his axe to her with both hands.
“I have no flowers,” he cried. “I myself am a red rose. Pluck me!”
Alraune left him sitting, led her lady further, past the tables under the gallery and into the conservatory. She looked around her. It was no less full of people and all of them were waving and calling out to them. Then she saw a little door behind a heavy curtain that led out to a balcony.
“Oh, this is good!” she cried. “Come with Wölfchen!”
She pulled back the curtain, turned the key, and pressed down on the latch. But five coarse fingers rested on her arm.
“What do you want there?” cried a harsh voice.
She turned around. It was Attorney Manasse in his black hooded robe and mask.
“What do you want outside?” he repeated.
She shook off his ugly hand.
“What is it to you?” she answered. “We just want to get a breath of fresh air.”
He nodded vigorously, “That’s just what I thought! Exactly why I followed you over here. But you won’t do it, will not do it!”
Fräulein ten Brinken straightened up, looked at him haughtily.
“And why shouldn’t I do it? Perhaps you would like to stop us?”
He involuntarily sagged under her glance, but didn’t give up.
“Yes, I will stop you, I will! Don’t you understand that this is madness? You are both over heated, almost drenched in sweat–and you want to go out onto the balcony where it is twelve degrees below zero?”
“We are going,” insisted Alraune.
“Then go,” he barked. “It doesn’t matter to me what you do Fräulein–I will only stop the boy, Wolf Gontram, him alone.”
Alraune measured him from head to foot. She pulled the key out of the lock, opened the door wide.
“Well then,” she said.
She stepped outside onto the balcony, raised her hand and beckoned to her Rosalinde.
“Will you come out into the winter night with me?” she cried. “Or will you stay inside the hall?”
Wolf Gontram pushed the attorney to the side, stepped quickly through the door. Little Manasse grabbed at him, clamped tightly onto his arm. But the boy pushed him back again, silently, so that he fell awkwardly against the curtain.
“Don’t go Wolf!” screamed the attorney. “Don’t go!”
He looked wretched, his hoarse voice broke.
But Alraune laughed out loud, “Adieu, faithful Eckart! Stay pretty in there and guard our audience!”
She slammed the door in his face, stuck the key in the lock and turned it twice. The little attorney tried to see through the frosted window. He tore at the latch and in a rage stamped both feet on the floor. Then he slowly calmed himself, came out from behind the curtain and stepped back into the hall.
“So it is fate,” he growled.
He bit his strong, tangled teeth together, went back to his Excellency’s table, let himself fall heavily into a chair.
“What’s wrong, Herr Manasse?” asked Frieda Gontram. “You look like seven days of rainy weather!”
“Nothing,” he barked. “Absolutely nothing–by the way, your brother is an ass! Herr Colleague, don’t drink all of that alone! Save some of it for me!”
The Legal Councilor poured his glass full.
But Frieda Gontram said quite convinced, “Yes, I believe that too. He is an ass.”
The two walked through the snow, leaned over the balustrade, Rosalinde and the Chevalier de Maupin. The full moon fell over the wide street, threw its sweet light on the baroque shape of the university, then the old palace of the Archbishop. It played on the wide white expanses down below, throwing fantastic shadows diagonally over the sidewalk.
Wolf Gontram drank in the icy air.
“That is beautiful,” he whispered, waving with his hand down at the white street where there was not the slightest sound to disturb the deep silence.
But Alraune ten Brinken was looking at him, saw how his white shoulders glowed in the moonlight, saw his large deep eyes shining like opals.
“You are beautiful,” she said to him. “You are more beautiful than the moonlit night.”
He let go of the stone balustrade, reached out for her and embraced her.
“Alraune,” he cried, “Alraune.”
“Alraune,” he cried. “Alraune.”
She endured this for a moment, then freed herself, and patted him lightly on the hand.
“No,” she laughed, “No! You are Rosalinde–and I am the boy, so I will court you.”
She looked around, grabbed a chair out of the corner, dragged it over, beat off the snow with her sword-cane.
“Here, sit down my beautiful Fräulein. Unfortunately you are a little too tall for me! That’s better–now we are just right!”
She bowed gracefully, then went down on one knee.
“Rosalinde,” she chirped. “Rosalinde! Permit a knight errant to steal a kiss–”
“Alraune,” he began.
But she sprang up, clapped her hand over his lips. “You must say ‘Mein Herr!’” she cried.
“Now then, will you permit me to steal a kiss Rosalinde?”
“Yes, Mein Herr,” he stammered.
Then she stepped behind him, took his head in both arms and she began, hesitated.
“First the ears,” she laughed. “The right and now the left, and the cheeks, both of them–and your stupid nose that I have so often kissed. Finally–lookout Rosalinde, your beautiful mouth.”
She bent lower, pressed her curly head against his shoulder under his hat. But she pulled back again.
“No, no, beautiful maiden, leave your hands! They must rest quietly in your lap.”
He laid his shivering hands on his knee and closed his eyes. Then she kissed him, slowly and passionately. At the end her small teeth sought his lip, bit it quickly so that heavy drops of red blood fell down onto the snow.
She tore herself loose, stood in front of him, staring blankly at the moon with wide-open eyes. A sudden chill seized her, threw a shiver over her slender limbs.
“I’m freezing,” she whispered.
She raised one foot up and then the other.
“The stupid snow is everywhere inside my dance slippers!”
She pulled a slipper off and shook it out.
“Put my shoes on,” he cried. “They are bigger and warmer.”
He quickly slipped them off and let her step into them.
“Is that better?”
“Yes,” she laughed. “I feel good again. For that I will give you another kiss, Rosalinde.”
And she kissed him again–and again she bit him. Then they both laughed at how the moon lit up the red stains on the white ground.
“Do you love me, Wolf Gontram?” she asked.
He said, “I th
ink of nothing else but you.”
She hesitated a moment, then asked again–“If I wanted it–would you jump from the balcony?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Even from the roof?”
He nodded.
“Even from the tower of the Münster Cathedral?”
He nodded again.
“Would you do anything for me, Wölfchen?” she asked.
“Yes, Alraune,” he said, “if you loved me.”
She pursed her lips, rocked her hips lightly.
“I don’t know whether I love you,” she said slowly. “Would you do it even if I didn’t love you?”
His gorgeous eyes that his mother had given him shone, shone fuller and deeper than they had ever done and the moon above, jealous of those eyes, hid from them, concealing itself behind the cathedral tower.
“Yes,” said the boy. “Yes, even then.”
She sat on his lap, wrapped her arms around his neck.
“For that, Rosalinde–for that I will kiss you for a third time.”
And she kissed him again, still longer and more passionately and she bit him–more wildly and deeply. But they couldn’t see the heavy drops in the snow any more because the jealous moon had hidden its silver torch.
“Come,” she whispered. “Come, we must go!”
They exchanged shoes, beat the snow off their clothing, opened the door and stepped back inside, slipped behind the curtain and into the hall. The arc-lamps overhead were glaring; the hot and sticky air stifled them.
Wolf Gontram staggered as he let go of the curtain, grasping quickly at his chest with both hands.
She noticed it. “Wölfchen?” she cried.
He said, “It’s nothing, nothing at all–just a twinge! But it’s all right now.”
Hand in hand they walked through the hall.
Wolf Gontram didn’t come into the office the next day, never got out of bed, lay in a raging fever. He lay like that for nine days. He was often delirious, called out her name–but not once during this time did he come back to consciousness.
Then he died. It was pneumonia.
They buried him outside, in the new cemetery.
Fräulein ten Brinken sent a large garland of full, dark roses.
Chapter Eleven
Renders to the reader the end of the Privy Councilor through Alraune.
ON leap year night a storm blew in over the Rhine. Coming in from the south it seized the ice flows, pushing them downstream, piling them on top of each other and crashing them against the old toll bridge. It tore the roof off the Jesuit church, blew down ancient linden trees in the courtyard garden, loosened the moorings of the strong pontoon boat of the swimming school and dashed it to pieces on the mighty pillars of the stone bridge.
The storm chased through Lendenich as well. Three chimneys tumbled down from the community center and the old Hahnenwirt’s barn was destroyed. But the worst thing it did was to the house of ten Brinken. It blew out the eternal lamps that burned at the shrine of St. John of Nepomuk.
That had never been seen before, not in the several hundred years that the Manor house had stood. The devout villagers quickly refilled the lamps and lit them again the next morning, but they said it portended a great misfortune and the end of the Brinken’s was certain.
That night had proved that the Saint had now turned his hand away from the Lutheran house. No storm in the world could have extinguished those lamps unless he allowed it.
It was an omen, that’s what the people said. But some whispered that it hadn’t been the storm winds at all. The Fräulein had been outside around midnight–she had extinguished the lamps.
But it appeared as if the people were wrong in their prophecies. Large parties were held in the mansion even though it was lent. All the windows were brightly lit one night after the other. Music could be heard along with laughter and loud singing.
The Fräulein demanded it. She needed distraction, she said, after her bereavement and the Privy Councilor did as she wished. He crept behind her where ever she went. It was almost as if he had taken over Wőlfchen’s role.
His squinting glance sought her out when she stepped into the room and followed her when she left. She noticed how the hot blood crept through his old veins, laughed brightly and tossed her head. Her moods became more capricious and her demands became more exaggerated.
The old man handled it by always demanding something in return, having her tickle his bald head or play her quick fingers up and down his arm, demanding that she sit on his lap or even kiss him. Time after time he urged her to come dressed as a boy.
came in riding clothes, in her lace clothing from the Candlemass ball, as a fisher boy with opened shirt and naked legs, or as an elevator boy in a red, tight fitting uniform that showed off her hips. She also came as a mountain climber, as Prince Orlowski, as Nerissa in a court clerk’s gown, as Piccolo in a black dress suit, as a Rococo page, or as Euphorion in tricots and blue tunic.
The Privy Councilor would sit on the sofa and have her walk back and forth in front of him. His moist hands rubbed across his trousers, his legs slid back and forth on the carpet and with bated breath he would search for a way to begin–
She would stand there looking at him, challenging him, and under her gaze he would back down. He searched in vain but could not find the words that could cover his disgusting desires and veil them in a cute little jacket.
Laughing mockingly she would leave–as soon as the door latch clicked shut, as soon as he heard her clear laughter on the stairs–the thoughts would come to him. Then it was easy, then he knew exactly what to say, what he should have said. He often called out after her–sometimes she even came back.
“Well?” she asked.
But it didn’t work; again it didn’t work.
“Oh, nothing,” he grumbled.
That was it, his confidence had failed him. He searched around for some other victim just to convince himself that he was still master of his old skills. He found one, the little thirteen-year-old daughter of the tinsmith that had been brought to the house to repair some kettles.
“Come along, little Marie,” he said. “There is something I want to give you.”
He pulled her into the library. After a half hour the little one slunk past him in the hall like a sick, wild animal with wide open, staring eyes, pressing herself tightly against the wall–
Triumphant, with a broad smile, the Privy Councilor stepped across the courtyard, back into the mansion. Now he was confident–but now Alraune avoided him, came up when he seemed calm but pulled back confused when his eyes flickered.
“She plays–she’s playing with me!” grated the professor.
Once, as she stood up from the table he grabbed her hand. He knew exactly what he wanted to say, word for word–yet forgot it instantly. He got angry at himself, even angrier at the haughty look the girl gave him.
Quickly, violently, he sprang up, twisted her arm around and threw her screaming down onto the divan. She fell–but was back on her feet again before he could get to her. She laughed, laughed so shrilly and loudly that it hurt his ears. Then without a word she stepped out of the room.
She stayed in her rooms, wouldn’t come out for tea, not to dinner. She was not seen for days. He pleaded at her door–said nice things to her, implored and begged. But she wouldn’t come out. He pushed letters in to her, swore and promised her more and still more, but she didn’t answer.
One day after he had whimpered for hours before her door she finally opened it.
“Be quiet,” she said. “It bothers me–what do you want?”
He asked for forgiveness, said it had been a sudden attack, that he had lost control over his senses–
She spoke quietly, “You lie!”
Then he let all masks fall, told her how he desired her, how he couldn’t breathe without her around, told her that he loved her.
She laughed out loud at him but agreed to negotiate and made her conditions. He still searched her
e and there trying to find ways to get an advantage.
“Once, just once a week she should come dressed as a boy–”
“No,” she cried. “Any day if I want to–or not at all if I don’t want to.”
That was when he knew he had lost and from that day on he was the Fräulein’s slave, without a will of his own. He was her obedient hound, whimpering around her, eating the crumbs that she deliberately knocked off the table for him. She allowed him to run around in his own home like an old mangy animal that lived on charity–only because no one cared enough to kill it.
She gave him her commands, “Purchase flowers, buy a motorboat. Invite these gentlemen on this day and these others on the next. Bring down my purse.”
He obeyed and felt richly rewarded when she suddenly came down dressed as an Eton boy with a high hat and large round collar, or if she stretched out her little patent leather shoes so he could tie the silk laces.
Sometimes when he was alone he would wake up. He would slowly lift his ugly head, shake it back and forth and brood about what had happened. Hadn’t he become accustomed to rule for generations? Wasn’t his will law in the house of ten Brinken?
To him it was as if a tumor had swelled up in the middle of his brain and crushed his thoughts or some poisonous insect had crawled in through his ears or nose and stung him. Now it whirled around right in front of his face, mockingly buzzed in front of his eyes–why didn’t he kill it?
He got half way up, struggling with resolution.
“This must come to an end,” he murmured.
But he forgot everything as soon as he saw her. Then his eyes opened, his ears grew sharp, listening for the rustle of her silk. Then his mighty nose sniffed the air greedily, taking in the fragrance of her body, making his old fingers tremble, making him lick the spittle from his lips with his tongue.