Hanns Heinz Ewers Volume I (Collected Short Stories by Hanns Heinz Ewers)

by Hanns Heinz Ewers

  You know what a very capable and talented healer mother is. People are always coming and going from the house. She does not treat them as a professional but as a friend. Indeed, mother always tells them that she does not know much but they ask her for every little bit of advice and then follow it faithfully.

  She has absolutely no tolerance of quacks and charlatans. Instead she uses herbs. Never on herself, but on the entire neighborhood and she has a loyal following. She is very limited to what she does. She only cures corns, barleycorns, warts and freckles.

  For the corns she prepares a brown paste. When you smear it on you must pray the Paternoster. The paternoster doesn’t seem to help with the barleycorns though, and the cure for them is somewhat complicated and requires the Ave Maria. She caresses the barleycorn with her wedding ring while slowly saying three Ave Maria’s. It works best when done by moonlight.

  Removing warts takes longer. The person with warts must come every other day for two weeks and get a greenish ointment put on the wart. While this dries, preferably in the sun, they must pray profoundly. This cure works beyond any question. I have seen half a dozen splendid warts disappear with my own eyes.

  Even more remarkable is her cure for freckles. She only makes it in the spring. The young girls during the last three weeks of April must smear the bluish ointment on their faces in the mornings and in the evenings and then say the Regina prayer a few times. I haven’t heard of any young boys taking the cure.

  Mother counts among her patients not only devout Catholics but the daughters of Protestants and free-spirited elders as well. She has learned their beautiful prayers and uses them at times like she uses the Paternoster and Ave Maria’s.

  On Mayday the young girls must get up very early without saying a word and go straight to the garden. There they must throw themselves on the ground and rub their faces in the grass, bathing in the beautiful morning dew of Mayday. After that is another three weeks of ointment and Regina prayers, then the freckles are gone! I tell you, dear brother, they are really gone, just like the barleycorns, warts and corns.

  Little Lotte, the doctor’s daughter, swears that mother can do more than her papa can, that he doesn’t know how to remove freckles. She gave a very lame speech about how he is only a medical doctor and not a corn and wart doctor! The doctor himself is very happy with his daughter’s smooth face and takes the competition gladly declaring that he recognizes mother’s work and takes the Regina prayers and other foolery into the bargain as well.

  Mother has an entire chest full of dried seahorses. They are to be sewn into the petticoat or trouser bottoms as an excellent cure for hemorrhoids. Unfortunately, it appears that this remedy is not widely used in our city. I can’t even think of any case that might be in need of a seahorse except for the old washerwoman. She freely maintains that it is an excellent remedy.

  All of that is child’s play. There are other things much less harmless. Mother never tells fortunes; she never reads palms, never reads cards or other things. When the prophecy comes to her she always calls it stupid stuff; at least that’s what she wants us to think.

  She certainly doesn’t do it very often, only a couple of times a year, but always with staggering results. It is constantly amazing to hear what the people say about her. When anyone comes to her that is really down on their luck she will wish them “something good”. Never something bad, and always just “something”.

  A young sculptor had been coming to her house for a year and through a coincidence she learned that he was almost starving and had not earned a penny for a long time. When he visited next time mother took him into the garden and told him that lots of luck would be coming his way. Naturally he asked what and when. She only answered that she couldn’t say, only that luck would come. She would “wish” him luck.

  In the course of a month the artist sold five pieces of art at an exhibition and also received a commission for a very large grave memorial and three portrait busts. He told me these stories himself. Mother never speaks of these things. He put it all together and believes that it happened the very moment that mother “wished” him luck in the garden, that she was the cause of his luck.

  Now I have solidly established that mother did help his “luck” in a few of these cases. Two of the pieces that were bought at the exhibit were brought about through her, one was sold to a museum director she knows and the other was sold to her banker, but what about the other three and the commissions? Coincidence? Oh, certainly it is all coincidence!

  How does the story go about the professor that wanted to clarify the concept of “miracle” to his students?

  “Consider this,” he says to the class. “I am climbing to the top of the highest tower of the Cathedral in Cologne. Near the top I suddenly get dizzy and fall. I land on the hard stone pavement but nothing happens to me. I am intact, healthy and don’t have a single scratch. What would you call that?”

  Little Moritz is by nature very skeptical and says, “Coincidence, Teacher!”

  “Very well,” the professor comes back. “It might be coincidence. But now on the next day I climb the tower again, again I get dizzy and again I fall down without getting hurt. What would you call it now?”

  “Luck,” answered the unbelieving Moritz.

  The patient teacher would not let it go.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” he continues, “you can call it luck. But now on the next day I climb the tower of the Cologne Cathedral again, again I become dizzy, again I fall down to the ground unharmed. I do this three, four, even five times! The air carries me down gently and I land unharmed on the stones below without mussing a single hair. Tell me Moritz, what do you call it now?”

  “Now I call it skill!” the incorrigible Moritz answered.

  Truly dear brother, it must be more than coincidence with mother. There must be some small element of “skill” involved. Unfortunately our mother does not limit her skill to just “wishing good luck” on people. If she is really offended or injured by someone she will “wish bad luck” on them as well.

  I would like to talk with her about it but it goes right over her head. Besides, I only know what other people have told me. I haven’t observed such a case for myself. Still, these people are of all classes and occupations. I have taken pains to ask almost everyone that comes into the house about it, from the workers and neighbor children to her friends, the artists, professors, doctors, lawyers and bankers, people of every different education and comprehension. They all shrug their shoulders and speak of “coincidence” or shudder and speak of a secret “skill” she has.

  But none dispute the facts. For example, a housemaid that had done a lot of good work for mother in the past stole some of her things and ran away. After mother recovered from the shock of the theft and determined the extent of the damage she declared that Kate, that was the housemaid’s name, would have very bad luck soon. Less than ten days later the corpse of the maid was pulled out of the Rhein. She had gone on a boating trip with friends and the wave from a passing steamer had capsized their boat. The others were all rescued.

  Another time there was a cousin that had borrowed one of mother’s books. Almost a year later mother found it in a used bookstore and bought it back. Mother felt very sick over it, not because of the lost money but because it had happened before and she had been stupid enough to allow it to happen again. Three weeks later the bookstore was broken into and valuable things stolen from the safe. They did catch the thief, but not before the stolen property was squandered away.

  There was a neighbor boy that mother let play in her garden. One day out of pure mischief he cut down a birch tree. It was a little birch tree that mother had planted herself and loved dearly. Less than a week later he came down with scarlet fever and diphtheria at the same time. He hovered near death as both his parents came to the house very agitated. They had heard that mother had “wished harm” on the boy.

  They knew of the mean trick the boy had done and were smart enough not to blame
mother the least bit. They just said that he was their only child, could mother forgive him and have compassion on him? Naturally mother was very compassionate and soon crying with both parents. She sent them back home after telling them that their child would become healthy again.

  Our cousin Bertha was witness to this and explained to me that they went away full of joy in complete confidence at the truth of her words. After they had gone mother sat down, laid her head in her hands and remained unmoving for around five minutes. Then she spoke with our cousin as if nothing had happened. She changed the subject completely. That same day the boy’s fever broke and in a short time he was healthy again.

  By the way, our cousin Bertha is one of those that mother has “wished bad luck” on. She spoke of one particular experience. One evening she was supposed to pick mother up and go to the concert with her, but something came up and she was an hour late. Mother was very upset about it. Bertha was certain something bad would happen to her and very soon it did. On the way back to the house mother told her that she would soon become ill but that it wouldn’t be at all dangerous! A week later without any apparent reason she caught a chill. She told me that she had such a cold that she could scarcely see out of her eyes.

  “I’m glad,” she added, “that I got off so lightly!”

  These are only examples, dear brother. I could write many more pages describing one after another, bad luck in business, physical and mental illness, all occurring naturally in every possible way. Then there are the death curses which, thank God, I can only ascertain in a very few cases. Is all this only “coincidence” dear brother? Don’t you think that perhaps it might also be a bit of “skill” as little Moritz calls it?

  Mother, herself, appears immune to bad luck. She has written you about her auto accident, but she treats it so lightly and makes jokes about it. The story goes like this:

  On the corner of Marian and Kreuz mother was crossing the traffic lane. A ten-year-old girl was leading her. Both were almost to the other side of the road, the child was already up on the sidewalk and mother was just stepping onto the curb when an auto came speeding around the corner. It was close to the curb to avoid an oncoming delivery truck. The driver saw mother, braked immediately and steered to the left throwing his machine against the delivery truck. It was too late!

  The front tire hit mother and threw her onto the pavement. She lay there unconscious near the child that was still gripping her hand. The child sprang up and screamed. People immediately brought the unconscious old lady into a store on the corner. Someone recognized her and immediately called for a doctor and an ambulance. Meanwhile someone waved a couple drops of red wine under her nose and in a few minutes mother came to.

  Her first concern was to brush herself off and then wash her hands. Then she declared that they should cancel the doctor and the ambulance, bought a dozen eggs and went quietly back home with her little companion as if nothing had happened. I met them at the door. The child was still shaking from overwhelming shock and scarcely able to speak a word. Mother took down a book of fairy tales and gave it to her along with a bar of chocolate. I, myself, first learned of her adventure on another day.

  The automobile was completely totaled, the driver seriously injured. Mother visited him at the hospital. He is now well on the path of recovery and will, as the doctor says, be completely healed. He, himself, believes that he has mother to thank for his remarkable recovery and healing more than the doctors.

  Sometimes in the evening hours mother will sit in the garden and tell fairytales to the neighborhood children. They sit around staring at her with huge eyes and wide open mouths. I was interested in knowing which stories she was telling them, Snow White, Rapunzel, the steadfast tin soldier or even Red Cap. So one evening I sat nearby and hid behind a newspaper as if I were reading it. She didn’t tell any of those fairytales or any other fairytale by Grimm, Bechstein, Anderson, Wilde, Papa Dumas or Musaus like she told to us as children.

  It was not even a story that she told them. The children only call them fairytales because they have no other word for them. They are more like very short lyrical word pictures if you can call them anything. But the effect they have on the children is simply amazing. When mother stops talking the children just sit there for the longest time staring hypnotized into the air seeing the nightmarish images that the voice of the old Lady has painted for them.

  Behind my newspaper I wrote one of them down. It goes like this:

  There were once a dozen witches and wizards all sitting together at a table eating beer soup. Each of them had a long spoon carved out of the front bone of a dead man’s arm. The coals glowed red in the fireplace; the candles smoldered and from the plates came the aroma of a fresh grave.

  When Maribas, the oldest wizard, laughed it sounded like a bow scraping over the three strings of a broken violin. By the light of a candle he was tapping on the cover of an old magick book where a fly with singed wings was running around trying to escape. The fly buzzed frantically as a yellow spider with a fat hairy belly crept toward it.

  Then the witches and wizards flew out through the chimney sitting astride broomsticks and fire tongs. Maribas led them laughing.

  After that mother showed them a finger game.

  “This is the thumb, it shakes the plumb.”

  Do you remember it brother? Well, that’s not what children hear today under the old pear tree.

  “This is the thumb, fat old Baas, the landlord, from down on the Rhine. He is fat, cheerful and smokes as he sits by the door of his pub drinking good beer.

  This is the pointer finger, his wife, she is long and thin like a herring and screams and nags at him all day long.

  This is the middle finger, their son. He is such a tall fellow, tall as a tree. He wants to become a soldier, and then he won’t have to be a brew boy.

  This is the ring finger, the nimble daughter Katrin. She cuts onions all day.

  But this little one, this is Benjamin. He is fearful and such a crybaby. He howls like a little baby that is hanging between the teeth of a werewolf.”

  Without question any teacher would find such images completely unsuitable for young ones. It is also without question that the lessons they teach are certainly as unsuitable as well. But when mother describes these things they blossom out into a romantic magical world that is so vivid and real that the children see the fat Baas, see his wife, thin as a herring. They laugh loudly at the tall lout of a son and at the nimble daughter that cuts onions. They cry with the little whimpering youngster that is about to be devoured by the werewolf.

  I would be willing to bet that thirty years from now when they encounter a potbellied Innkeeper they will call him “Thumb”. Still, the most frightening thing that night by far was when mother said:

  “There were once a dozen witches and wizards all sitting together at a table eating beer soup.”

  None of the children had ever eaten beer soup; there is no such thing. But each child could completely visualize and imagine how it tasted. Witches and wizards exist in all fairytales but they always live very far away in some imaginary place. These witches and wizards that eat beer soup live right here on the lower Rhine, in Holland and in the lowlands. You can encounter them there every night.

  These children sitting under the pear tree only remember the stories of Snow White, Sleeping Beauty and Red Cap because they have seen them in the movie theaters. They have so completely forgotten the beautiful fairytales of Dickens and Hauff that they would not be able to tell them to their own children.

  But the images of the witch’s soup spoon carved from the bone of a dead man and the yellow spider with the hairy belly creeping over the magick book toward the fly with the singed wings, these images will never disappear.

  Dear brother let me summarize everything that I have tried to communicate to you so far. The next time you come here you can easily verify for yourself that I am not making things up. In fact I have understated things and taken pains to be very objective and
realistic, only considering those things that are very evident.

  Mother is extremely well liked by all of the people that she knows, by people of every sex and every age. Animals have this same remarkable love for her and it even appears as if plants share this as well. They bloom more beautifully and last much longer in her home than I have observed in any other house. Her favorite animals are cats, toads and Billy goats. Her favorite plants are poisonous mushrooms and poisonous flowers.

  It is certain that she can successfully remove warts, freckles, barleycorns and other bad things. People travel from all over to see her. She is very robust and healthy despite her great age and so sharp and intellectual that people think she has a fountain of youth potion.

  She seems immune to accidents while at the turn of a hand appears capable of making some people sick and wishing bad luck on others. On the other hand she can wish them luck as well. She has a peculiar fondness for mythological creatures, prepares remarkable ointments and has a collection of old brooms. During certain hours at the full moon she goes into a trance condition is which her spirit is able to travel far away from this earth.

  Less than a hundred years ago only a tenth of these things would have been enough to have her burned at the stake. Meanwhile today, we are so infinitely clever and educated that we turn sympathetic smiles upon those delusional enough to believe in witches.

  The truth is that today there are over a hundred thousand witches and wizards in America and in European cities. They are making excellent money. Almost every street has its own astrologer, card reader, palm reader or fortuneteller. The Theosophists and other mystic sects grow like mushrooms all over, blooming at times into powerful religious communities.

  I recently attended a theosophical assembly and sat in the back. The president gave a lecture and there were over a hundred people there! Oh, yes! It was a serious educational class about the differences between white magick and black magick where the later was strongly condemned. Not one of these people had the slightest idea that the origin of the term “black magick” was a comical printing error during the Middle Ages when the word “Necromancer” was misspelled as “Negromancer”.