Hanns Heinz Ewers Alraune (3 page)

“You shouldn’t smoke so much!” The little
attorney barks.

She looks at him, her thin blue lips pulling
high over gleaming teeth.

“What? What Manasse? No more smoking? Now
stop with the friendly airs! What am I supposed to do? Bear
children all year long? The brats in this house already drive me
crazy. That’s why it’s galloping–and I’m not supposed to
smoke?”

She blows a thick cloud of smoke into his
face and makes him cough.

He looks at her, half-poisoned, half-living,
and admires her. He doesn’t take anything from anyone. When he
stands before the bar he never tells a joke or minces words. He
barks, snaps, bites without respect or the smallest fear.–But here,
before this dried up woman whose body is a skeleton, whose head
grins like a death’s head, who for a year and a day has stood three
quarters in the grave and laughed at herself the last quarter, here
he feels afraid.

Her unrestrained shimmering locks are always
growing, always thicker, always fuller as if pulling nourishment
from her decaying body. Her perfect gleaming teeth clamp around a
cigar; her eyes are enormous, without hope, without desire, almost
without awareness but burning with fire–These leave him silent.
They leave him feeling smaller than he really is, almost as small
as his hound.

Oh, he is very educated, Attorney Manasse is.
She calls him a veritable conversational encyclopedia. It doesn’t
matter what the topic of conversation, he can give the information
in the blink of an eye.

Now he’s thinking, has she given up on
finding a cure? Is she in denial? Does she think that if she
ignores death he will not come? Does she think death is not in this
house? That when he does come, only then will she go?

But he, Manasse, sees very well that death is
here even though she still lives. He has been here all along hiding
throughout the house, playing blind cow with this woman that wears
his face, letting her abandon her numerous children to cry and race
in the garden.

Death doesn’t gallop. He goes at a pretty
trot. She has that right. But only out of humor, only because he
wants to make a joke, to play with this woman and her life hungry
children like a cat plays with the fish in a fish bowl.

Only this woman, Frau Gontram, thinks he is
not even here. She lies on the lounge all day long smoking big dark
cigars, reading never-ending books and wearing earplugs so she
can’t hear the noise her children make–He is not here at all?–Not
here?

Manasse sees very well that Death is
here

Death grins and laughs out of her withered
mask, puffs thick smoke into his face. Little Manasse sees him
perfectly enough. He stares at him, considers for a long time which
great artist has painted this death. Is it Durer? Or Bocklin? Or
some other wild harlequin death from Bosch, Breughel or a different
insane, inexcusable death from Hogarth, from Goya, from Rowlandson,
Rops or Callot?

It is from none of these. Sitting before him
is a real death, a death you can willingly go with. It is a good,
proper and therefore romantic Rhinelander’s death. It is one you
can talk with, that sees the comedy in life, that smokes, drinks
wine and laughs. It is good that he smokes thought Manasse, so very
good, then you can’t smell him–

Then Legal Councilor Gontram comes into the
room.

“Good evening colleague,” he says. “Here
already? That’s good.”

He begins a long story about all that has
happened during the day at the office and before the court. Purely
remarkable things that only happen to lawyers once in a lifetime
happen to Herr Gontram every day. These strange and often lusty
occurrences are sometimes comic, often bloody and highly
tragic.

Not a word is true. The Legal Councilor has
an incurable shyness of telling the truth. Before his morning bath,
yes, even before he washes his face in the basin, from the moment
his mouth first opens wide he lies. When he sleeps, he dreams up
new lies. Everyone knows that he lies, but his stories are so lusty
and interesting they want to hear them anyway. Even when they
aren’t that good they are still entertaining.

He is in his late forties with a short, very
sparse beard and thinning hair. A gold pince-nez with a long black
cord always hangs crookedly over his nose and helps his blue
shortsighted eyes see to read.

He is untidy, disorderly, unwashed, and
always has ink spots on his fingers. He is a bad jurist and very
much against doing any work, always supervising his junior lawyers
but not doing anything himself. On this basis he oversees the
office managers and clerks and is often not seen for weeks at a
time. When he is there, he sleeps. If he is awake, once in awhile
he writes a short sentence that reads, “Denied” and stamps the
words “Legal Councilor” underneath.

Nevertheless he has a very good practice,
much better than the knowledgeable and shrewd Manasse. He
understands the language of the people and can chat with them. He
is popular with all the judges and lawyers because he never makes
any problems and all his clients walk. For the accused and for the
jury he is worth the gold he is paid, you can believe that.

Once a Public Prosecutor said, “I ask the
accused be denied extenuating circumstances, Legal Councilor
Gontram is defending him.”

Extenuating circumstances, his clients always
get them, but Manasse seldom receives them despite his scholarly
ways and sharp speeches.

There is still more, Legal Councilor Gontram
had a couple of big, important and provocative cases that created
sensations throughout the land. In both cases he fought through the
entire year and finally won. These cases suddenly awoke in him a
strange energy that up until then had lain sleeping inside of
him.

The first was so full of tangles, a six times
loser, nearly impossible case that went from lawyer to lawyer, a
case with complicated international questions that he had no
suspicion of when he took it. He just thought it was interesting
and liked it.

The Koschen brothers out of Lennep had been
condemned to death three times. In a fourth resumption he continued
on and won their freedom despite hair splitting circumstantial
evidence.

The other was a big million-dollar dispute
over Galmeiberg Mfg. from Neutral-Moresnet that every jurist in
three countries knew about. Certainly Gontram at the least had
fought through to the very end and obtained a victorious
verdict.

Since then for three years he handles all the
legal casework for Princess Wolkonski. Remarkably, this man never
says a word about it, about what he really does. Instead he fills
the ears of those he meets with lies, cheeky inventions of his
legal heroics. Not a single syllable comes over his lips of the
real events of his day. This makes it seem like he detests all
truth.

Frau Gontram says, “Dinner is just about
ready and I’ve already set out a bowl of fresh Woodruff salad.
Should I go get dressed?”

“Stay the way you are woman,” the Legal
Councilor decides. “Manasse won’t mind–” he interrupts himself,
“Dear God, how that child screams! Can’t you hold him?”

She goes past him with long, slow strides,
opens the door to the antechamber where the maid has pushed the
child’s wagon. She takes Wülfche, carries him in and sits him in a
highchair.

“No wonder he screams,” she says. He’s
completely wet.”

But she does nothing about it, leaving him to
dry out by himself.

Be still, you little devil,” she continues.
“Can’t you see I have company?”

But Wülfche is determined to disturb the
entire visit. Manasse stands up, pats him, strokes his chubby back,
and brings him a Jack-in-the-box to play with. The child pushes the
Jack-in-the-box away, bellows and screams incessantly. Cyclops
accompanies him from under the table.

Then Mama says, “Now wait, sugar drop. I have
something for you.”

She takes the chewed black cigar stub from
out between her teeth and shoves it into the baby’s mouth.

“There Wülfche, how do you like that?
Well?”

The child becomes still in the blink of an
eye, sucking, pulling and beams, overjoyed, out of huge laughing
eyes.

“Now attorney, you see how you must deal with
children?” says the tall woman. She speaks confidently and quietly,
completely earnest.

“But you men don’t understand anything at all
about children.”

The maid comes and announces that dinner is
ready. While the others are going into the dining room she goes
with unsteady steps up to the child.

“Bah,” she says and rips the cigar stub out
of his mouth. Immediately Wülfche starts to howl again. She takes
him up, rocks him back and forth and sings him a melancholy lullaby
from her Wolloonian homeland in Belgium.

She doesn’t have any more luck than Herr
Manasse. The child just screams and screams. She takes the cigar
stub again, spits on it and rubs it against her dirty apron to make
sure the fire is completely out and puts it back in Wülfche’s red
mouth.

Then she takes the child, washes him, changes
him, and tucks him into bed. Wülfche never stirs, lies quiet still
and contented. Then he falls asleep, beaming blissfully, the
ghastly black cigar stub always in his lips.

Oh yes, she was right, this tall woman. She
understands children, at least Gontram children.

During the dinner and into the evening they
eat and the Legal Councilor talks. They drink a light wine from the
Ruwer. Frau Gontram finishes first and brings the spiced wine.

Her husband sniffs critically.

“I want champagne,” he says.

She sets the spiced wine on the table anyway.
“We don’t have any more champagne. All that’s left in the cellar is
a bottle of Pommery.”

He looks intently at her over his spectacles,
shakes his head dubiously.

“Now you know you are a housewife! We have no
champagne and you don’t say a word about it? What? No, champagne in
the house! Fetch the bottle of Pommery– Spiced wine is not good
enough.”

He shakes his head back and forth, “No
champagne. Imagine that!” He repeats. “We must procure some right
away. Come woman; bring my quill and paper. I must write the
princess.

But when the paper is set in front of him, he
pushes it away again. He sighs.

“I’ve been working all day long. You write
woman, I’ll dictate to you.”

Frau Gontram doesn’t move. Write? She’s a
complete failure at writing!

“I can’t,” she says.

The Legal Councilor looks over at
Manasse.

“See how it is, Colleague? Can’t she do this
for me? I am so exhausted–”

The little Attorney looks straight at
him.

“Exhausted? He mocks, “From what? Telling
stories? I would like to know why your fingers always have ink on
them, Legal Councilor. I know it’s not from writing!”

Frau Gontram laughs. “Oh Manasse, that’s from
last Christmas when he had to sign as witness to the children’s bad
behavior!–Anyway, why quarrel? Let Frieda write.”

She cries out the window to Frieda. Frieda
comes into the room and Olga Wolkonski comes with her.

“So nice to have you here,” the Legal
Councilor greets her. Have you already eaten this evening?”

Both girls have eaten down in the
kitchen.

“Sit here Frieda,” bids her father. “Right
here.”

Frieda obeys.

“Now, take the quill and write what I tell
you.”

But Frieda is a true Gontram child. She hates
to write. Instantly she springs up out of the chair.

“No, no,” she cries. “Olga should write, she
is so much better than I am.”

The princess stays on the sofa. She doesn’t
want to do it either. But her friend has a means to make her
submit.

“If you don’t write,” she whispers. “I won’t
lend you any sins for the day after tomorrow.”

That did it. The day after tomorrow is
Confession and her confession slip is looking very insufficient.
Sins are not permitted during this time of First Communion but you
still need to confess. You must rigorously investigate, consider
and seek to see if you can’t somehow find yet another sin. That is
something the Princess absolutely can’t understand.

But Frieda is splendid at it. Her confession
slip is the envy of the entire class. Thought sins are especially
easy for her. She can discover dozens of magnificent sins easily at
a time. She gets this from Papa. Once she really gets started she
can attend the Father Confessor with such heaps of sins that he
never really learns anything.

“Write Olga,” she whispers. “Then I’ll lend
you eight fat sins.”

“Ten,” counters the princess.

Frieda Gontram nods. It doesn’t matter to
her. She will give away twenty sins so she doesn’t have to
write.

Olga sits at the table, picks up the quill
and looks questioningly.