The Dedalus Book of German Decadence

by Ray Furness

  Mandra stayed one more year in the convent school to which the Professor had sent her, when – in the middle of term – she was suddenly sent home … The Sacré Cœur Convent had had an epidemic before – it had been measles. Fifty seven little girls lay in their beds and only a few-including Mandra – had escaped unharmed. But this time it was far worse: it was typhoid fever. Eight children and one nurse died of it; almost all the other girls were ill. But Mandra Gora was never more healthy than during this epidemic: she put on weight, flourished and happily ran through all the sick bays. And as there was nobody to look after her at this time she ran up and down stairs, sat down on all the cots and told the children that they would all die, tomorrow, and that they would all go to hell. She, Mandra Gora, would live, and would go to heaven. And she gave all the patients her holy pictures, told the sick girls that they should fervently pray to the madonna, and the holy heart of Jesus, but it would do no good in the end. For they would all burn, and be roasted evermore, it was indeed remarkable how well she could illustrate such agonies. Sometimes, when she was in a good mood, she was tolerant: she then spoke of a hundred thousand years in purgatory. But that was bad enough for the fragile nerves of the pious little invalids. The doctor threw Mandra out of the room with his own hands and the nurses, convinced that she alone had brought the disease into the convent, sent her packing.

  […]

  When Mandra Gora finished her schooling and returned to the villa by the Rhein, a villa dedicated to Saint Nepomuk, Professor ten Brinken was seventy six years old. But this was only according to the calendar: no weakness, nor the slightest disability gave evidence of his age. He felt snug and warm in his old village, a village soon to be swallowed up by the creeping fingers of the town, and hung like a bloated spider in the web of his machinations which spread its filaments in all directions. And he felt a frisson at the thought of Mandra’s homecoming, and waited for her as for a welcome plaything for his moods and also as a merry bait to lure many a stupid fly or moth into his net.

  Mandra arrived, and she did not seem any different to the old man than she had been as a child. He studied her for a long time as she was sitting in the library and found nothing to remind him of her father or her mother. This young girl was small and dainty, slim, narrow-chested and scarcely developed. Her figure and her quick, rather jerky movements were those of a boy. A doll, you might have thought, but the head was certainly not that of a doll. Her cheek-bones were prominent, and her lips, thin and pale, were pursed above her little teeth. But her hair was thick and abundant, not red like her mothers, but richly chestnut in colour. ‘Like Mrs Josefa Gontram’s’, thought the Professor, and it amused him to think that this was a memento of the house where the idea of creating the girl had emerged. He squinted across at her as she sat silently before him, scrutinising her critically as though she were a picture and seeking other reminiscences.

  Yes, her eyes! They were open wide beneath the insolent, thin lines of her brows which contrasted with her narrow, smooth forehead. They could be bold and scornful, yet also soft and dreamy. Grass-green, as hard as steel, like the eyes of Frank Braun, his nephew. The Professor thrust forward his thick bottom lip, this discovery did not please him particularly. But then he shrugged his shoulders, why shouldn’t the boy who thought it all up not have some part of her? It was little enough, and Frank Braun was paying dearly for it, all the millions that this girl would take from him.

  ‘You have bright eyes’, he said; she simply nodded. He went on: ‘You have beautiful hair. Wolfi’s mother had hair like that.’

  Then Mandra said: ‘I shall cut it off.’

  The Professor answered her in a peremptory fashion: ‘You will do no such thing, do you hear?’

  But when she came down to supper her long hair had gone: she looked like a page boy, her curls circling her boyish head

  ‘What have you done to your hair?’ he snapped.

  She quietly answered: ‘Here’, and showed him a large cardboard box where the long strands were lying.

  ‘Why did you cut if off? Because I forbade it? Out of defiance?’

  Mandra smiled. ‘Not at all. I would have done it anyway.’

  […]

  He stared at her, and his old skin experienced a gentle tingling. All sorts of memories came flooding back, lascivious memories of pubescent boys and girls

  She there – Mandra – was both male and female.

  Damp spittle oozed from his pendulous lips and moistened the black Havana. He peered across at her, lustful, full of trembling desire. And at that moment he understood why it was that men were attracted to these slim little creatures. Like fish that swim to the bait and don’t see the hook. But he saw the sharp hook very clearly, and knew how to avoid it and still enjoy the sweet morsel.

  * * * *

  On February 2nd the sleighs and automobiles drove out to the ‘Vintage’ Hotel for society’s most splendid Carnival Ball. Royalty was present, accompanied by anyone in the town who possessed a uniform, be it military or of the student fraternities with their caps and sashes. The academic circles were represented, as was the legal profession; there were civil servants, councillors and anyone who had money – business men and industrialists.

  […]

  Judge Gontram was sitting at the table reserved for eminent guests: he knew the wine cellar well and was able to obtain the best vintages. Princess Volkonski was there with her daughter, the Countess Figueirera y Abrantes and Frieda Gontram, Wolfi’s sister, who had been visiting the Princess that winter. Then there was the lawyer Manasse, a few lecturers and scholars as well as officers. And our Professor ten Brinken, who was accompanying his little daughter to her first ball.

  Mandra appeared as Mademoiselle de Maupin in the costume of a young gallant a la Beardsley. She had previously torn open all the wardrobes in the ten Brinken villa and rummaged through old chests and boxes until she finally discovered piles of Belgian lace, dating from a long time ago. The tears of poor seamstresses, crouched in dark cellars, clung without doubt to these edgings and borders, as they did to all the beautiful lace worn by society belles, but much fresher tears moistened Mandra Gora’s cheeky costume – those of the dressmaker who had been constantly scolded for not having grasped what the dress was supposed to mean, the hairdresser who did not understand the hairstyle and couldn’t do chi-chis, and the little maid whom she pricked with long needles during dressing. What a torment it was, arranging Gautier’s girl according to the Englishman’s bizarre conception! But when it was finished, when the moody lad in his high-heeled shoes and dainty little dagger strutted through the room there was no eye that did not follow him greedily, neither young nor old, neither man nor woman.

  The Chevalier de Maupin shared his success with Rosalind. The Rosalind (of the last scene of Shakespeare’s play) was played by Wolf Gontram – and the stage never saw a more beautiful one, not in Shakespeare’s time, when slender boys played the part of girls, nor later, when Margaret Hews, the mistress of Prince Rupert, was the first woman to play the pretty girl in As You Like It. Mandra had dressed him; she had taken great pains to teach him how to walk, how to dance, how to hold his fan and how to smile. And as she seemed to be a boy, and yet also a girl in Beardsley’s costume, a creature kissed on the brow by both Hermes and Aphrodite, so Wolf Gontram no less incorporated the figure of Beardsley’s great countryman who had written the Sonnets : in his robe of gold and scarlet brocade he was a pretty girl, yet also a boy.

  […]

  Her Majesty sent an adjutant and summoned the two of them to present themselves. She danced the first waltz with them both, first as a gentleman with Rosalind, then as a lady with the Chevalier de Maupin. And she burst into loud applause when, in a minuet, Théophile Gautier’s curly-headed dream-boy bowed in a coquettish fashion before Shakespeare’s lovely dream-girl. Her Majesty was an excellent dancer, an outstanding player on the tennis court and the best ice-skater in the town, and would have preferred to dance with the two of them all night l
ong. But the crowd also wished to stake its claim, and so Mlle de Maupin and Rosalind flew from one partner to another; now pressed by the muscular arms of young men, then held against the warm, heaving breasts of young women.

  […]

  The orchestra was playing, soft and seductive ‘Roses from the South’. Mandra seized Wolfi’s hand and pulled him away. ‘Come, Wolfi, let’s dance!’

  They moved to the centre of the floor, and presented themselves. A grey-bearded art historian noticed them, climbed on his chair and shouted: ‘Silence! A waltz expressly for the Chevalier de Maupin and his Rosalind!’

  Several hundred pairs of eyes rested on the pretty couple. Mandra sensed this, and every step she took was taken in the knowledge that she was being admired. But Wolf Gontram was aware of nothing; he only knew that he was in her arms, and was carried by soft strains of music. And his large, black eyebrows sunk, and shaded his deep, dreaming eyes.

  The Chevalier de Maupin led, surely, confidently, like a slim page who has known the smooth dance floor since his cradle. His head was bent slightly forwards, his left hand held Rosalind with two fingers and at the same time the golden pommel of his sword, which he pushed downwards so that its point thrust upwards the lacy tail of his coat. His powdered locks swayed like little silver snakes, his lips were parted in a smile which revealed his sparkling teeth. And Rosalind obeyed the gentle pressure. Her train of red and gold swept across the floor and her figure rose above it like a lovely blossom. Her head was bent backwards and the white ostrich feathers hung heavily from her hat. She swayed beneath the garlands of roses, rapt, transported, remote from all that existed. Round and round and round the room.

  The guests pushed their way to the edge of the floor, and those who could not see climbed on to tables and chairs, in breathless admiration.

  ‘I congratulate you, your Excellency,’ murmured Princess Volkonski. And the Professor answered: ‘Thank you, your Highness. It appears that all our efforts were not quite in vain.’

  […]

  The waltz ceased, and Mandra led Wolf through the cheering crowd and the deluge of roses into the corner of the room. She noticed a small door which led on to the balcony, half concealed by a heavy curtain.

  ‘Ah, that’s good!’ she said. ‘Come Wolfi!’ She drew back the curtain, turned the key and placed her hand on the door knob. But suddenly she felt five coarse fingers on her arm. ‘What are you up to?’ asked a grating voice. She turned and noticed the lawyer, Manasse, in his black costume. ‘What are you going out there for?’

  She shook off his ugly hand. ‘What’s it to do with you?’ she answered. ‘We’re only going for a breath of fresh air.’

  He nodded vigorously. ‘I thought so. That’s why I followed you. But you won’t do it, you won’t!’

  Mandra Gora rose to her full height and looked at him insolently. ‘And why not? Do you think you can stop us?’

  He flinched involuntarily beneath her gaze, but would not give in. ‘Yes, I shall stop you, me! Don’t you understand that it’s madness. You’re both glowing hot, bathed in sweat and you want to go out on to the balcony when it’s minus twelve outside?’

  ‘We’re going’, insisted Mandra Gora.

  ‘All right,’. he yelped, ‘you go. It’s a matter of total indifference what you do, Miss. I only want to prevent the boy from going.’

  Mandra looked at him from top to toe. She pulled the key from the lock, and opened the door.

  ‘So!’ she said. She stepped out on to the balcony and beckoned to Rosalind. ‘Will you come out into the winter night with me?’

  Wolf Gontram pushed the lawyer aside and quickly stepped through the door. Manasse grabbed him, and held his arm tightly, but Wolf silently pushed him again, so that he fell awkwardly against the heavy curtain.

  ‘Don’t go, Wolf!’ the lawyer screamed. ‘Don’t go!’ He was almost wailing, and his hoarse voice cracked.

  But Mandra Gora was laughing out loud. ‘Adieu, faithful retainer!’ She slammed the door in his face, put the key in the lock and turned it twice.

  […]

  The two of them walked through the snow and leaned over the balustrade, Rosalind and the Chevalier de Maupin. The full moon was shining down on to the wide street below and cast its sweet light on to the Baroque architecture of the university and the archbishop’s venerable palace. The moonlight danced over the glittering white expanse and threw fantastic shadows across the pavements.

  Wolf Gontram drank in the icy air. ‘How lovely’, he said and pointed at the white street below, whose silence was absolute. But Mandra Gora was looking up at him, at his white shoulders gleaming in the moonlight, at his large eyes, shiny like two black opals. ‘You are lovely’, she said. ‘You are far more beautiful than the moonlight.’

  Then he loosened his grip on the stone balustrade, seized her, and embraced her. ‘Mandra’, he cried, ‘Mandra …’ She tolerated this for one moment, then tore herself free and struck him lightly on the hand. ‘No!’ she laughed. ‘No! You are Rosalind and I am the boy, so I shall pay court to you.’ She looked round, seized a chair from the corner, dragged it forwards and beat the snow from it with her sword. ‘Come, sit here, my lovely lady, you are unfortunately too tall for me. So, that’s right, we’re the same height now.’ She bowed daintily and sat down on one knee. ‘Rosalind’, she fluted, ‘Rosalind! May a wandering knight steal a kiss –’.

  ‘Mandra’ he began, but she jumped up and put her hand across his mouth. ‘You must say ‘Sir’!’ she cried. ‘So, may I steal a kiss, Rosalind?’ ‘Yes, Sir’, he stammered. Then she stepped behind him and took his head in both hands. And she began, trembling, one after another … ‘First your ears,’ she laughed, ‘the right, and the left … and both cheeks … and the silly nose, I’ve kissed that often enough … And, finally, take care Rosalind, your beautiful mouth.’ She bent forwards and thrust her curly head across his shoulder, under the wide hat. But then she started back. ‘No, pretty maiden, put your hands modestly in your lap.’ He laid his trembling hands upon his knees, and closed his eyes. And so she kissed him, long and passionately. But her little teeth finally sought his lips, and quickly bit him, so that heavy drops of blood fell into the snow. Then she tore herself away and stood before him, gazing wide-eyed at the moon. She shivered, and her slender limbs were trembling. ‘I’m freezing’, she whispered, and lifted first one foot, then the other. ‘The stupid snow has got everywhere into my lacy slippers!’ She took off a shoe and beat the snow out of it.

  ‘Put on my shoes’, he cried ‘they are bigger and warmer.’ He quickly pulled them off and let her slip into them. ‘Is that better?’ ‘Yes!’ she laughed, ‘much better! I shall give you another kiss for this, Rosalind.’

  And she kissed him again, and bit him again. And both of them laughed as the moon shone on the red drops on the white snow.

  ‘Do you love me, Wolf Gontram?’ she asked.

  And he replied: ‘I think of you always, constantly.’

  She paused for a moment, and then continued: ‘If I wanted you to, would you throw yourself from this balcony?’

  ‘Yes!’ he replied

  ‘And from the roof?’ He nodded.

  ‘And from the cathedral spire?’ He nodded again.

  ‘Would you do anything for me, Wolfi?’ she asked. And he said: ‘Yes, Mandra, if you loved me.’

  She pursed her lips mockingly and gently swung her hips. ‘I don’t know whether I do love you,’ she said slowly. ‘Would you do it if I didn’t love you?’

  Then those splendid eyes – his mother’s eyes – gleamed with a darker radiance than ever. And the moon above was jealous of these human eyes, crept away and concealed itself behind the cathedral tower.

  ‘Yes’, the boy said, ‘yes, even then.’

  She sat upon his lap and put her arms around his neck. ‘For that, Rosalind, for that I shall kiss you a third time!’

  And she kissed him, longer, more passionately. But they could no longer see the dark drops i
n the glittering snow as the disgruntled moon had hidden its silver torch.

  ‘Come’, she whispered, ‘come, we must be going.’

  They changed their shoes, beat the snow from their clothes and unlocked the door, slipping quietly back into the room from behind the curtain. The lamps threw their harsh light upon them, and the air, hot and stuffy, enveloped them.

  Wolf Gontram staggered when he let go of the curtain and quickly pressed both hands to his breast.

  She noticed it. ‘Wolfi?’ she asked.

  He said: ‘It’s all right, only a stitch. It’s passed.’

  Hand in hand they walked through the room.

  * * * *

  Wolf Gontram was not in the office next morning. He did not get out of bed, was feverish, with a high temperature. Nine days he lay there, calling out her name in his delirium: he never regained consciousness during this time.

  Then he died. Inflammation of the lungs. And they buried him in the new cemetery.

  Miss Mandra Gora ten Brinken sent a large wreath of dark roses.

  * * * *

  The Privy Councillor, His Excellency Professor ten Brinken, was walking up and down in his room, slowly, with heavy dragging steps. ‘Is it really so bad? How long do you think I need to go away?’