by Joe Bandel
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 o
f 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.
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 alway
s 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.
