by Joe Bandel
“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 a
nd 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–
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.”