The German Classics of the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Volume 07

"What did it cost?" cried Will Huelsmeyer, Frederick's rival.

"Will you pay for it?" asked Frederick. "Have you paid for it?" retorted Will. Frederick threw him a haughty glance and seized the bow in silent majesty. "Well, well," Huelsmeyer went on, "such things have happened. As you know well enough, Franz Ebel had a beautiful watch too, till Aaron the Jew took it away from him." Frederick did not answer, but nodded proudly to the first violin and they began to play with all their might and main.

Meanwhile the lord of the manor had stepped into the room where the women of the neighborhood were investing the bride with the white head band, the insignia of her new position. The young girl was crying bitterly, partly because custom so decreed, partly from honest nervousness. She was to manage a run-down household, under the eye of a peevish old man, whom, moreover, she was expected to love. He stood beside her, by no means like the groom in the Song of Solomon who "steps into the chamber like the morning sun." "You've cried enough now," he said crossly; "remember, it isn't you who are making me happy; I am making you happy!" She looked up to him humbly and seemed to feel that he was right. The business was ended; the young wife had drunk to her husband's health, some young wags had looked through the tripod to see if the bride's head band was straight, and they were all crowding again toward the dancing-floor, whence there still resounded inextinguishable laughter and noise. Frederick was no longer there. He had met with a great unbearable disgrace, when Aaron the Jew, a butcher and casual second-hand dealer from the nearest town, had suddenly appeared, and, after a short unsatisfactory conversation, had dunned him before the whole company for the sum of ten thalers in payment of a watch delivered at Eastertide. Frederick had gone away, as if annihilated, and the Jew followed him, shouting all the while: "Oh, woe is me! Why didn't I listen to sensible people! Didn't they tell me a hundred times you had all your possessions on your back and no bread in your cupboard!" The room shook with laughter. Some had pushed after them into the yard. "Catch the Jew! Balance him against a pig!" called some; others had become serious. "Frederick looked as white as a sheet," said an old woman, and the crowd separated as the carriage of the lord of the estate turned into the yard. Herr von S. was out of sorts on the way home, the usual and inevitable effect when the desire to maintain popularity induced him to attend such feasts. He looked out of the carriage silently. "What two figures are those?" He pointed to two dark forms running ahead of the wagon like two ostriches. Now they sneaked into the castle. "Another blessed pair of swine out of our own pen!" sighed Herr von S. Having arrived at home, he found the corridor crowded with all the domestics standing around two lower-servants, who had sunk down pale and breathless on the steps.

They declared that they had been chased by old Mergel's ghost, when they were coming home through the forest of Brede. First they had heard a rustling and crackling high above them, and then, up in the air, a rattling noise like sticks beating against one another; then suddenly had sounded a shrieking yell and quite distinctly the words, "O, my poor soul!" coming down from on high. One of them even claimed to have seen fiery eyes gleaming through the branches, and both had run as fast as their legs could carry them.

"Stupid nonsense!" exclaimed the lord of the estate crossly, and went into his room to change his clothes. The next morning the fountain in the garden would not play, and it was discovered that some one had removed a pipe, apparently to look for the head of a horse's skeleton which had the reputation of being an attested instrument against any wiles of witches or ghosts. "H'm," said Baron von S.; "what rogues do not steal, fools destroy."

Three days later a frightful storm was raging. It was midnight, but every one in the castle was out of bed. The Baron stood at the window and looked anxiously out into the dark toward his fields. Leaves and twigs flew against the panes; now and, then a brick fell and was dashed to pieces on the pavement of the courtyard. "Terrible weather!" said Herr von S. His wife looked out anxiously. "Are you sure the fire is well banked?" she asked; "Gretchen, look again; if not, put it all out with water! Come, let us read the Gospel of St. John." They all knelt down and the lady of the house began: "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." There was a terrible clap of thunder. All started; then there was a terrible scream and noise up the stairs. "For God's sake! Is something burning?" cried Frau von S., and sank down with her face on the chair. The door burst open and in rushed the wife of Aaron the Jew, pale as death, with her hair wildly disheveled, dripping with rain. She threw herself on her knees before the Baron. "Justice!" she cried, "Justice! My husband is murdered!" and she fell in a faint.

It was only too true, and the ensuing investigation proved that Aaron the Jew had lost his life by a single blow on the temples delivered by some blunt instrument, probably a staff. On his left temple was the blue mark; beyond that there was no other injury. The statement of the Jewess and her servant, Samuel, ran thus: Three days ago Aaron had gone out in the afternoon to buy cattle and had said at the time that he would probably be gone overnight, because there were still several bad debtors in B. and S., on whom he would call for payment; in this case he would spend the night with the butcher, Solomon, in B. When he did not return home the next day his wife had become greatly worried and had finally set out at three o'clock in the afternoon with her servant and the big butcher dog. At the house of Solomon the Jew, no one knew anything about Aaron; he had not been there at all. Then they had gone to all the peasants with whom they knew Aaron had intended to transact some business. Only two had seen him, and those on the very day when he had left home. Meanwhile it had become very late. Her great anxiety drove the woman back home, where she cherished a faint hope of finding her husband after all. They had been overtaken by the storm in the Forest of Brede and had sought shelter under a great beech on the mountain side. In the meantime the dog had been running about and acting strangely, and had, in spite of repeated calling, finally run off into the woods. Suddenly, during a lightning flash, the woman had seen something white beside her on the moss. It was her husband's staff, and almost at the same moment the dog had broken through the shrubbery with something in his mouth; it was her husband's shoe. Before long they found the Jew's body in a trench filled with dry leaves.

This was the report of the servant, supported only in general by the wife; her intense agitation had subsided and her senses now seemed half confused or, rather, blunted. "An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth!" These were her only words, which she at intervals ejaculated.

The same night the guards were summoned to take Frederick into custody. They needed no warrant, because Herr von S. himself had been witness to a scene which inevitably threw the strongest suspicion on him; furthermore there was the ghost story of that night, the beating together of the sticks in the forest of Brede, the scream from above. Since the clerk of the court was at that time absent, Herr von S. hastened everything faster than would otherwise have been done. Nevertheless dawn was already breaking when the riflemen as quietly as possible surrounded poor Margaret's house. The Baron himself knocked; it was hardly a minute before the door was opened, and Margaret appeared, fully dressed. Herr von S. started; he scarcely recognized her, so pale and stony did she look. "Where is Frederick?" he asked in an unsteady voice.

"Search for him!" she answered, and sat down on a chair. The Baron hesitated a moment longer.

"Come in, come in," he then said roughly to the guards; "what are we waiting for?" They stepped into Frederick's room. He was not there, but the bed was still warm. They climbed to the garret, down the cellar, examined the straw, looked behind every barrel, even into the oven; he was not there. Some of them went into the garden, looked behind the fence and up into the apple trees; he was not to be found.

"Escaped!" said the Baron with conflicting feelings; the sight of the old woman made a strong impression on him. "Give me the key to that trunk!" Margaret did not answer. "Give me the key," he repeated, and noticed now for the first time that the key was already in the lock. The contents of the trunk were brought into view—the fugitive's best Sunday clothes and his mother's poor finery, then two shrouds with black ribbons, one made for a man, the other for a woman. Herr von S. was deeply affected. Under everything else, at the very bottom of the trunk, lay the silver watch and some documents in a very legible hand, one of these signed by a man who was strongly suspected of alliance with the forest-thieves. Herr von S. took them along to examine them, and the guards left the house without Margaret's giving another sign of life than that of incessantly biting her lips and blinking her eyes.

Having arrived at the castle, the Baron found the court clerk, who had returned the night before and declared he had slept through the whole affair because his Honor had not sent for him. "You always come too late," said Herr von S. crossly; "wasn't there any old woman in the village to tell your maid about it? And why didn't they wake you up then?"

"Your Honor," replied Kapp, "of course my Anne Marie learned of the incident an hour before I did; but she knew that your Honor was directing the matter yourself—and then," he added in a plaintive tone, "that I was deathly tired!"

"A fine police force!" muttered the Baron. "Every old hag in the village knows about a thing whenever it's supposed to be conducted in absolute secrecy." Then he continued angrily: "He'd have indeed to be a stupid devil of a criminal who would let himself be caught!"

Both were silent a moment. "My driver lost his way in the dark," began the clerk again; "we were delayed over an hour in the wood; the weather was awful; I thought the wind would blow the wagon over. At last, when the rain slackened, we drove on in the name of God, heading toward the Zellerfeld, unable to see our hands before our eyes. Then the coachman said: 'If only we don't get too near the stone-quarries!' I was frightened myself; I had him stop, and struck a light, to find some comfort at least in my pipe. Suddenly we heard a bell ring very near, perpendicularly under us. Your Honor will realize that I felt dreadfully. I jumped out of the wagon, for one can trust one's own limbs, but not those of a horse. So I stood in the mud and rain without moving, until presently, thank God, it began to dawn. And where had we stopped? Right near the Heerse ravine with the tower of Heerse directly under us! If we had driven on twenty paces farther, we should all have been children of Death."

"That was indeed no joke!" exclaimed the Baron, half conciliated. Meanwhile he had examined the papers that he had taken along. They were dunning letters for money lent, most of them from usurers. "I had not thought," he muttered, "that the Mergels were so deeply in debt." "Yes, and that it must come to light in this way," replied Kapp; "that will be no little cause for vexation to Mistress Margaret."

"Oh, dear me, she does not think of that now!" With these words the Baron arose and left the room to proceed together with Kapp to the judicial examination of the body. The examination was short—death by violence evident; the suspected criminal escaped; the evidence against him very strong indeed, but not sufficient to establish his guilt without a personal confession; his flight at all events very suspicious. So the judicial investigation had to be closed without satisfactory results.

The Jews in the vicinity had manifested great interest. The widow's house was never empty of mourners and advisers. Within the memory of man never had so many Jews been seen together in L. Extremely embittered by the murder of their co-religionist they had spared neither pains nor money to trace the criminal. It is even known that one of them, commonly called "Joel the Usurer," offered one of his customers, who owed him many hundreds and whom he considered an especially sly fellow, remission of the entire sum if he could help him to arrest Mergel; for the belief was general among the Jews that the murderer could not have escaped without efficient assistance, and was probably still in the vicinity. When, nevertheless, all this did no good, and the judicial investigation had been declared closed, a number of the most prominent Israelites appeared in the castle the next morning to make a business proposition to the gracious lord. The object was the beech-tree, under which Aaron's staff had been found and where the murder had probably been committed. "Do you want to hew it down, now that it is in full leaf?" asked the Baron.

"No, gracious Sir, it must remain standing winter and summer, as long as there is a chip of it left."

"But then, if I should have the forest cut down, it would injure the young trees."

"Well, we do not want it for any ordinary price." They offered two hundred thalers. The deal was made, and all the foresters were strictly forbidden to injure the "Jew's Beech" in any way.

Soon after, about sixty Jews with a Rabbi at their head were seen going toward the Forest of Brede, all silent, with their eyes cast down. They stayed in the woods over an hour, and then returned just as seriously and ceremoniously through the village of B. up to the Zellerfeld, where they separated and each went his own way. The next morning there was a Hebrew inscription carved on the oak with an axe:[Hebrew:]

And where was Frederick? Without doubt, gone, and far enough away to find it no longer necessary to fear the short arms of such a weak police force. Soon he was completely forgotten. His Uncle Simon seldom spoke of him, and then ill. The Jew's wife finally consoled herself and took another husband. Only poor Margaret remained without consolation.

About half a year afterward the lord of the estate read in the presence of the court clerk some letters just received. "Remarkable, remarkable!" he exclaimed. "Just think, Kapp, perhaps Mergel is innocent of the murder. The chairman of the court of P. has just written me: 'Le vrai n'est pas toujours vraisemblable' (Truth does not always bear the marks of probability). I often find this out in my profession, and now I have a new proof of it. Do you know that it is possible that your dear trusty Frederick Mergel killed the Jew no more than you or I? Unfortunately proofs are lacking, but the probability is great. A member of the Schlemming band (which, by-the-by, we now have, for the most part, under lock and key), named Ragged Moses, alleged in the last hearing that he repented of nothing so much as of murdering one of his co-religionists, Aaron, whom he had beaten to death in the woods, and had found only six groschen on him.

"Unfortunately the examination was interrupted by the noon recess and, while we were at lunch, the dog of a Jew hanged himself with a garter. What do you say to that? Aaron is a common name, to be sure," etc.

"What do you say to that?" repeated the Baron; "and what reason then did the fool of a fellow have for running away?"

The court clerk reflected. "Well, perhaps on account of the forest thefts which we were just then investigating. Isn't it said: 'The wicked man flees from his own shadow?' Mergel's conscience was dirty enough, even without this spot."

With these considerations they let the matter drop. Frederick had gone, disappeared; and John Nobody—poor, neglected John—with him on the same day. A long, long time had passed—twenty-eight years, almost half a lifetime. The Baron was grown very old and gray, and his good-natured assistant, Kapp, had been long since buried. People, animals, and plants had arisen, matured, passed away; only Castle B., gray and dignified as of old, still looked down on the cottages which, like palsied old people, always seemed about to fall, yet always kept their balance.

It was Christmas Eve, December 24, 1788.

The narrow passes were covered with snow, probably about twelve feet deep, and the penetrating, frosty air froze the window panes in the heated room. It was almost midnight, and yet faint lights flickered from the snow mounds everywhere, and in every house the inmates were on their knees awaiting in prayer the advent of the holy Christmas festival, as is the custom in Catholic countries, or, at least, as was general in those times. That night a figure moved slowly down from the heights of Brede toward the village. The wanderer seemed to be very tired or sick; he groaned heavily and dragged himself with extreme difficulty through the snow.

Half the way down he stopped, leaned on his staff, and gazed fixedly at the lights. Everything was so quiet, so dead and cold; one could not have helped thinking of will o' the wisps in cemeteries. At that moment the clock struck twelve in the tower; as the last stroke died slowly away, soft singing arose in the nearest house and, spreading from house to house, ran through the whole village:

A little babe, a worthy child,
Was born to us today,
Of Mary Virgin undefiled;
We all rejoice and say:
Yea, had the Christ-child ne'er been born,
To lasting woe we'd all been sworn,
For He is our salvation.
O, thou our Jesus Christ adored,
A man in form but yet our Lord,
From Hell grant us Redemption.

The man on the mountain slope had sunk to his knees and with a trembling voice made an effort to join in the song; it turned into nothing but loud sobbing, and large hot drops fell on the snow. The second verse began; he prayed along silently; then the third and the fourth. The song was ended and the lights in the houses began to move. Then the man rose laboriously and slunk slowly down to the village. He panted past several houses, then stopped in front of one and knocked on the door softly.

"I wonder what that is!" said a woman's voice inside. "The door is rattling, and there's no wind blowing!"

He knocked louder. "For God's sake, let in a half-frozen man, who comes out of Turkish slavery!"

There was whispering in the kitchen. "Go to the inn," answered another voice, "the fifth house from here!"

"In the name of our merciful God, let me in! I have no money."

After some delay the door opened. A man came out with a lighted lamp. "Come right in," he then said; "you won't cut our heads off." In the kitchen there were, besides the man, a middle-aged woman, an old mother, and five children. All crowded around the newcomer and scrutinized him with timid curiosity. A wretched figure! Wry-necked, with his back bent, his whole body broken and powerless; long hair, white as snow, fell about his face, which bore the distorted expression of long suffering. The woman went silently to the hearth and added some fresh fagots. "A bed we cannot give you," she said, "but I will make a good litter of straw here; you'll have to make the best of that."

"God reward you!" answered the stranger; "indeed I am used to worse than that."

The man who had returned home was recognized as John Nobody, and he himself avowed that it was he who had once fled with Frederick Mergel. The next day the village was full of the adventures of the man who had so long been forgotten. Everybody wanted to see the man from Turkey, and they were almost surprised that he should still look like other people. The young folks, to be sure, did not remember him, but the old could still recognize his features perfectly, wretchedly disfigured though he was.

"John, John, how gray you've grown!" said an old woman; "and where did you get your wry neck?"

"From carrying wood and water in slavery," he replied. "And what has become of Mergel? You ran away together, didn't you?"

"Yes, indeed; but I do not know where he is; we got separated. If you think of him, pray for him," he added; "he probably needs it."

They asked him why Frederick had disappeared, inasmuch as he had not murdered the Jew. "Not killed him!" said John, and listened intently when they told him what the lord of the estate had purposely spread abroad in order to erase the spot from Mergel's name. "So all was in vain," he said musing, "all in vain—so much suffering!"

He sighed deeply and asked, on his part, about many things. He was told that Simon had been dead a long while, but had first fallen into complete poverty through lawsuits and bad debtors whom he could not sue because, it was said, the business relations between them had been questionable. Finally he had been reduced to begging and had died on the straw in a strange barn. Margaret had lived longer, but in absolute mental torpor. The people in the village had soon grown tired of helping her, because she let everything that they gave her go to ruin; for it is, after all, characteristic of people to abandon the most helpless, those whom assistance does not relieve for any length of time and who are and always will be in need of aid. Nevertheless she had not suffered any actual want; the family of the Baron had cared for her, sent her meals daily, and even provided medical treatment for her, when her pitiable condition had developed into complete emaciation. In her house now lived the son of the former swineherd, who had so admired Frederick's watch on that unfortunate night.