The German Classics of The Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries, Vol. VII. by Various

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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.

"All gone, all dead!" sighed John.

In the evening, when it had grown dark and the moon was shining, he was
seen limping about the cemetery in the snow; he did not pray over any
one grave, nor did he go very close to any, but he seemed to gaze
fixedly at some of them from a distance. Thus he was found by Forester
Brandes, the son of the murdered forester, whom the Baron had sent to
bring John to the castle. Upon entering the living-room he looked about
him timidly, as though dazed by the light, and then at the Baron who was
sitting in his armchair; he had aged greatly but still had his old
bright eyes, and the little red cap was still on his head, as it had
been twenty-eight years ago; beside him was the Baroness, his wife, also
grown old, very old.

"Now, John," said the Baron, "do tell me all about your adventures.
But," as he surveyed him through his glasses, "you wasted away terribly
there in Turkey, didn't you?" John began telling how Mergel had called
him away from the hearth at night and said he must go away with him.

"But why did the foolish fellow ever run away?--I suppose you know that
he was innocent?"

John looked down.

"I don't know exactly; I think it was on account of some forest affairs.
Simon had all kinds of dealings, you know; they never told me anything
about it, but I do not believe everything was as it should have been."

"But what did Frederick tell you?"

"Nothing but that we must run away, that they were at our heels. So we
ran to Heerse; it was still dark then and we hid behind the big cross in
the churchyard until it grew somewhat lighter, because we were afraid of
the stone-quarries at Bellerfeld; and after we had been sitting a while
we suddenly heard snorting and stamping over us and saw long streaks of
fire in the air directly over the church-tower of Heerse. We jumped up
and ran straight ahead in the name of God as fast as we could, and, when
dawn arose, we were actually on the right road to P." John seemed to
shudder at the remembrance even now, and the Baron thought of his
departed Kapp and his adventures on the slope of Heerse.

"Remarkable!" he mused; "you were so near each other! But go ahead."

John now related how they had successfully passed through P. and across
the border, telling how, from that point, they had begged their way
through to Freiburg in Breisgau as itinerant workmen. "I had my
haversack with me, and Frederick a little bundle; so they believed us,"
he went on. In Freiburg they had been induced to enlist in the Austrian
army; he had not been wanted, but Frederick had insisted. So he was put
with the commissariat. "We stayed over the winter in Freiburg," he
continued, "and we got along pretty well; I did, too, because Frederick
often advised me and helped me when I did something wrong. In the spring
we had to march to Hungary, and in the fall the war with the Turks broke
out. I can't repeat very much about it because I was taken prisoner in
the very first encounter and from that time was a Turkish slave for
twenty-six years!"

"God in Heaven, but that is terrible!" exclaimed Frau von S.

"Bad enough! The Turks consider us Christians no better than dogs; the
worst of it was that my strength left me with the hard work; I grew
older, too, and was still expected to do as in former years." He was
silent for a moment. "Yes," he then said, "it was beyond human strength
and human patience, and I was unable to endure it. From there I got on a
Dutch vessel."

"But how did you get there?" asked the Baron.

"They fished me out of the Bosphorus," replied John. The Baron looked at
him in astonishment and raised his finger in warning; but John
continued. "On the vessel I did not fare much better. The scurvy broke
out; whoever was not absolutely helpless was compelled to work beyond
his strength, and the ship's tow ruled as severely as the Turkish whip.
At last," he concluded, "when we arrived in Holland, at Amsterdam, they
let me go free because I was useless, and the merchant to whom the ship
belonged sympathized with me, too, and wanted to make me his porter.
But," he shook his head, "I preferred to beg my way along back here."

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