by Joe Bandel
“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 o
ver 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.