Franzos Karl Emil
The Chief Justice: A Novel
"Monstrous!" he groaned. And surely, the world had never before seen such a thing: such a crime committed by such a man, and on the very day when his fellow-citizens had done honour to him as the "Rock of Justice!" And such he would be for all time, in the eyes of all the world; it was not to be supposed that the very faintest suspicion would turn against him: he would go to Pfalicz and there continue to judge the crimes of others. The honest lawyer boiled over, he could no longer sit still but began to pace up and down excitedly. Bitter, grievous indignation filled his heart; the most sacred thing on earth had been sullied, Justice, and by a man whom of all men he had loved and honoured.
And then this same love stirred in his heart again. He thought of last night, of the moment when he had stood by his friend, while the thousands surged below making the air ring with their cheers. Pity incontinently possessed his soul again. "What the poor wretch must have suffered at this moment!" he thought. "It is a marvel that he did not go mad. And what he must have suffered on his journey to Vienna, and long weeks before, when the resolve first took shape in him!"
He bowed his head. "Judge not, that ye be not judged," cried a voice of admonition within him. His bitterness disappeared, and deep sorrow alone filled his heart: sin had bred other sins, crime, another crime and fresh remorse and despair. How to judge this deed, what was there to be said in condemnation, what in vindication of it: that deed of which he had once dreamed, it certainly was not; it was no great, liberating solution of these complications, but only an end of them, a hideous end! Certainly Victorine might have now suffered enough to have been granted freedom, and the opportunity of new life, and no less certainly would Sendlingen, honourable and loving justice in the extreme, carry in his conscience through life, the punishment for his crime-but Justice had been outraged, and this sacred thing would never receive the expiation that was its due. "A wrong should not be expiated by a crime!" Sendlingen had once said to him-but now he had done it himself. "Re-assure yourself," he had once exclaimed at a later date, "outraged Justice shall receive the expiation that is its due!" This would not, could not be-never-never!
Berger roused himself and went forth on his bitter errand. When he reached the Courts of Justice, old Hoche, who had entered on his retirement some weeks ago, was just coming out. Berger was going to pass him with a brief salutation, but the old gentleman button-holed him.
"What do you say to this?" he cried. "Monstrous, isn't it? I am heartily glad that the misfortune has not befallen Sendlingen! But do not imagine that I wish it to Herr von Werner. On the contrary, I have just given him a piece of advice-ha! ha! ha! – that should relieve him of his perplexity. You cross-examine Dr. Berger sharply, I said to him; that is the safest way of getting to know the secret of who took her out. For the way Dr. Berger interested himself in this person, is not to be described. Me, a Judge, he called a murderer for her sake, upon my word, a murderer. Ha! ha! ha! there you have it."
Berger had turned pale. "This is not a subject of jest," he said, angrily.
"Oh, my dear Dr. Berger!" replied the old man soothingly, "I have only advised Herr von Werner-and naturally without the slightest suspicion against you-to formally examine you on oath as a witness. For anyone connected with the prisoner is likely to know best. And besides: a record of evidence can never do any harm-ut aliquid fecisse videatur, you know. They will see in Vienna that Werner has taken a lot of trouble. Well, good-bye, my dear doctor, good-bye."
He went. Berger strode up the steps. His face was troubled and a sudden terror shook his limbs. He had never thought of that. Supposing he should now be examined on oath? Could he then say: 'I have no suspicion who could have helped her?' Could he be guilty of perjury to save them both? "May God help them then," he hissed, "for I cannot."
He entered the corridor that led to the Chief Justice's Chambers. The examination of the prison officials had just been concluded, but a few warders were standing about and attentively listening to the crafty Höbinger's explanation of this extraordinary case. "Favouritism!" Berger heard him say as he went by, "her lover, the young Count, has got her out." The two female warders of the Infirmary cells were there too, sobbing.
Berger entered the Chief Justice's Chambers. Baron Dernegg and the Governor of the prison were with Werner. At a side-table sat a clerk; a crucifix and two unlighted candles were beside him. "At last!" cried Werner. "I begged you so particularly to come at once. There is not a moment to be lost. Light the candles!" he called to the clerk.
"But that may be quite useless," cried Dernegg. "Do you know anything about the matter?" he then asked Berger.
"No!" The sound came hoarsely, almost unintelligibly, from his stifled breast.
Werner stood irresolute. "But Dr. Berger was her Counsel," he said, "and the authorities in Vienna-"
"Must see that you have taken trouble," supplemented Dernegg. "They will hardly see this from documents with nothing in them. We have more important things to do now: the escape was discovered three hours ago, and the description of her appearance has not yet been drawn up and telegraphed to Vienna and the frontier stations."
Werner still looked irresolutely at the lighted candles for a few seconds: to Berger they seemed an eternity of bitter anguish such as his conscience had never endured before. "Put out the candles! Come, the description of her appearance!" He seized the papers relating to the trial. "Please help me!" he said turning to Dernegg. "My head is swimming! O God! that I should have lived to see this day!"
While the clerks were writing at the dictation of the two judges, Berger turned to the Governor and asked him how the escape had been effected.
"It is like magic!" he replied. "When one of the female warders was taking her breakfast to her this morning, she found the door merely latched and the cell empty. The lock must have been opened from the inside. Her course can be plainly traced: she escaped through the yard; the locks of all the doors have been forced from inside by a file used by someone with great strength. This is the first riddle. Such a thing could hardly be done by the hand of the strongest man; it is quite impossible that Victorine Lippert had sufficient strength! The doctor vouches for it, and for the matter of that you knew her yourself, Dr. Berger."
Berger shrugged his shoulders and the Governor continued: "You see the theory of external assistance forces itself imperatively upon us, and yet it is not tenable. The help cannot have come from outside, as all the locks were forced on the inside. And in the prison she can likewise have received no assistance. There is not one of the warders capable of such a crime, besides there is only one door between the general prison and the corridor of the female patients, and that was locked and remained locked. Since any external help is not to be thought of, we are obliged, difficult as it is, to credit Victorine Lippert with sufficient strength. But there we are confronted with the second riddle: how did she come by the file? And in the face of such incomprehensibilities, it is a small thing that she should also have been aware of an exit that is known to few!"
"Mysterious in every way!" said Berger. "Most extraordinary!" To him the rationale of the thing was plain enough: Master and servant had by means of the official keys or of duplicates which they had had made, penetrated the prison, and on their return had filed the locks. By this ruse, all suspicion of external help would be removed, and at the same time, as far as Sendlingen could do so, it would be averted from the prison officials.
Meanwhile the two Judges had drawn up the description of the fugitive's appearance, and Dernegg renewed his advice to telegraph it abroad at once. Werner objected that this was "a new method" that he would not agree to. "Everything according to rule!" he said. "We will publish the description in the official paper, distribute it among the police, and send a copy to Vienna. It is inconceivable that the person has got out of the country; where would she get the money from? We will therefore not telegraph, and that is enough!"
But after the old man had roused himself to this judgment of Solomon, his self-control deserted him altogether. "What a calamity!" he moaned. "What a beginning to my life as Chief Justice! But I am innocent! Alas! I shall, none the less, receive a reprimand from the Minister which I shall carry about me all my life, unless Sendlingen saves me. But my friend Sendlingen, that best of colleagues, will speak for me and save me. Excuse me, gentlemen-but I shall have no peace, until I have written and asked for his help!"
He sat down to his writing-table, the others took their leave.
The next morning Berger received a letter from Vienna, the handwriting of the address was known to him and, with trembling hands, he opened the envelope. This was the letter.
"I know that you cannot forgive me and I do not ask you to do so. One favour only do I implore: do not give up hope that the time will one day come when I shall again be worthy of your regard. The first step to this I took yesterday: I have left the service of the State for ever, and I do not doubt that I shall have courage to take the second step, the step that will resolve all; when God will grant me the grace to do this, I know not. Pray with me that I may not have too long to wait.
"Farewell, George, farewell for ever!
"Victor."
Berger stared for a long while at these lines, his lips trembled-he was very sore at heart.
Then he drew a candle towards him, lit it, and held the letter in its flame until it had turned to ashes.
"Farewell, thou best and purest of men," he whispered to himself, and a sudden tear ran down his cheek.
CHAPTER XIV
Three years had passed, it was the summer of 1856. Bright and hot, the June sun shone upon the Valley of the Rhine ripening the vineyards that hung upon its rocky declivities. The boat steaming down the Valley from Mayence to the holy city of Cologne, had its sheltering awning carefully stretched over the deck, and all went merrily on board, merrily as ever. More beautiful landscapes there may be in the world, but none that make the heart more glad. And so thought two grave-looking men who had come aboard at Mayence that morning. They had come from Austria, and were going to London; they did not want to miss the opportunity of seeing the beautiful river, but at the beginning of the journey they made but a poor use of the favourable day. They sat there oppressed and scarcely looking up, consulting together about the weighty business that lay on their shoulders. But an hour later, when they got into Nassau, they yielded to the charm of the scenery, and as they glided by Rüdesheim, they began to consider whether, after all, the Rhine was not the proper place to drink Rhine-wine, and when they passed the Castle called the Pfalz at Caub, they first saw this venerable building through their spectacles, and then through the green-gold light of the brimming glasses they were holding to their eyes.
These two men were Dr. George Berger of Bolosch and a fellow barrister from Vienna. They had a difficult task to perform in London. One of the largest iron-foundries in Austria, that at Bolosch, had got into difficulties, and an attempt to stave off bankruptcy had failed, less from the action of the creditors, than from the miserable red-tapism of the Chief Justice of Bolosch, Herr von Werner. The foundry, which employed thousands of men, would be utterly ruined if it did not succeed in obtaining foreign capital. With this object, these two representatives of the firm were making their way to England.
On the Rhine, everybody forgets their cares and this was their good-fortune too. And so greatly had the lovely river, which both now saw for the first time, taken possession of their hearts, that they could not part company with it even at Cologne, where most people went ashore. They resolved to continue the journey by the river as far as Arnhem, and they paced up and down the now empty deck cheerfully talking in the cool of the evening. No mountains, no castles, were any longer reflected in the stream, but the look of its shores was still pleasant, and when they saw the light of dying day spread its rosy net over the broad and swiftly flowing waters, they did not repent their resolve, and extolled the day that had ended as beautiful as it had begun.
The shades of evening fell, the banks of the river grew more and more flat and bare, factories became more and more plentiful, and behind Dusseldorf, they saw the red glare of countless blast-furnaces, brightly glowing in the dark.
This sight reminded them of their task.
"Who knows," sighed Berger's friend Dr. Moldenhauer, "how soon these fires at home may not be extinguished! And why? Because of the narrow-mindedness of one single man. Nothing in my life ever roused my indignation more than our dealings with your Chief Justice! What pedantry! what shortsightedness! Now his predecessor, Baron Sendlingen, was a different sort of man!"
Berger sighed deeply. "That he was!" he replied.
"The Werners stay, the Sendlingens go," continued Dr. Moldenhauer. "And they are allowed to go cheerfully, nay, even forced to go! At least it was generally said that, when Baron Sendlingen suddenly retired a few years ago, it was not on account of heart-disease, as officially reported, but because he had had a difference with the Minister of Justice. The regret at this was so great that His Excellency had to hear many a reproach."
"Perhaps unjustly for once," said Berger, heavy at heart.
"I don't think so," cried Moldenhauer. "Sendlingen certainly went away in deep dudgeon, otherwise he would not have renounced his pension and then left Austria for ever. Even his brother-in-law, Count Karolberg, does not know where he has gone. You were very intimate with him, do you know?"
"No!"
"Count Karolberg thinks he may have died suddenly in some of his travels abroad."
"That too is possible," answered Berger shortly; he was anxious to drop the subject.
But Moldenhauer stuck to his theme. "What a thousand pities it is!" he continued. "How great a lawyer he was, his last work, 'On Responsibility and Punishment in Child-murder,' which appeared anonymously some three years ago, most clearly shows-You know the book of course."
"Yes," said Berger, "but I doubt whether it is by Sendlingen." This was an untruth, he had never doubted it.
"It is attributed to other writers as well," replied Dr. Moldenhauer, "but his brother-in-law is convinced that it is by him. He says he recognised the style and also some of the thoughts, which Sendlingen explained to him in conversation. Whoever the author may be, he need not have concealed his identity. The work is the finest ever written on this subject and has made a great sensation. It is chiefly owing to its influence, that our new penal code so definitely emphasizes the question of unsoundness of mind in such crimes, and has so materially lessened the punishment for them."
He talked for a long time of the excellencies of the work, but Berger hardly heard him, and was silent and absent-minded for the rest of the evening. When Moldenhauer retired to his cabin for the night, Berger still remained on deck; he was fascinated, he said, by this wondrous spectacle of the night.
And indeed the aspect of the scene was strange enough and not without its charm. The moon-light lay in a faint glimmer on the stream that here, having almost poured forth its endless waters, was slowly flowing with a gentle murmur towards its grave, the vast sandy plain of the sea. On the level shores, the dim light showed the distant, dusky outlines of solitary high houses and windmills, and then again came blast-furnaces, smoking and flaming, denser and denser was the forest of them the further the boat glided on, and, here and there, where one stood close to the shore, it threw its blood-red reflex far on to the waters reaching almost to the boat, so that its lurid light and the faint lustre of the celestial luminary, seemed to be struggling for the mastery of it.
The lonely passenger on the deck kept his eyes riveted on the scene, but his thoughts were far away. His recent conversation had powerfully stirred up the memory of his unhappy friend.
Since that last letter he had received no line, no sign or token of any sort from him. Why? he asked himself. From mistrust? Impossible. From caution? That would be exaggerated; the writing on the envelope would not betray to any meddlesome person in what corner of the earth he had buried himself with his child. Besides he had no need to be apprehensive of any inquiry; no one knew of his child, Victorine Lippert's escape from prison had never been cleared up, the investigation had soon after been discontinued without result. The Governor of the Prison had been reprimanded for want of care in searching the cell, the little door in the wall had been bricked up, so that Herr von Werner had never been able to make use of the arrangement which he had thought so "ingenious" – those were the only consequences. Among the prison officials as among the lower classes, the opinion was sometimes expressed that it was Count Riesner-Graskowitz who had liberated his sweetheart, but this was not believed in higher circles; against Sendlingen, however, there was never the slightest breath of suspicion. Sendlingen himself must know this well enough, otherwise he would not have dared to let his book appear, that curious work in which every reader might perceive beneath the stiff, solid legal terminology, the beatings of a deeply-moved heart. He had not put his name to it, but he must have known that his name would rise to the lips of anyone who had carefully read his earlier writings.
If he had not feared this, he might well have ventured upon a letter. If he was none the less silent, it must be because he preferred to be silent. Had he, perhaps, thought Berger, not had the courage to take that second step, had he perhaps renounced the intention and was now ashamed to confess it? That would be superfluous anxiety indeed. Is there a man in the wide world, who would have the heart to blame him for this?
Or was he silent because he could speak no more? The thought had never entered his head before; now in this lonely hour of night it overmastered him. Of course, his brother-in-law was right, he had died a sudden death and now slept his last sleep somewhere in a strange land and under a strange name. And if that were so, would it be cause for complaint? Would not Death have been a deliverer here?
Softly murmuring, the waters of the river glided on, not a sound came from its banks; in deep and solemn stillness, night lay upon the land and waters. The solitary figure on deck alone could find no rest, and the early dawn was trembling in the East over the distant hills of Guelderland, ere he at length went in search of sleep.
He had scarcely rested a couple of hours when the steward knocked at his cabin-door-the passengers were to come on deck, the boat was approaching Lobith, on the Dutch frontier, where the luggage had to be examined.
The two travellers answered to the call. The steamer was already nearing the shore by the landing stage of the village of which the custom-house seemed the only inhabitable building. The Dutch Customs officers in their curious uniforms came on deck.
The were speedily finished with the luggage of the two lawyers, as also with that of the few other passengers. On the other hand four mighty trunks, which the Captain had with him, gave them much trouble. They were full throughout of things liable to duty: new clothes, linen, lace and articles of luxury. They required troublesome measuring, weighing and calculation. Half an hour had passed, and scarcely the half had been gone through.
"We shall miss the train at Arnhem," said Berger turning impatiently to the Captain. "We must be in London to-morrow, you are responsible for the delay."
"I shall make up the time by putting on steam," he reassuringly said in his broad Cologne dialect. "Excuse me, Sir, but I did not imagine that women's finery would take up so much time."
"You are getting a trousseau for a daughter, I suppose."
"God forbid! Thank Heaven, I am unmarried. I have, out of pure goodnature, brought these things for someone else from Cologne and undertaken to pay the duty for him. It is the most convenient thing to him, though certainly not to me. But what would one not do for a compatriot. He is a Herr von Tessenau."
"Tessenau?" The name seemed familiar to Berger, but he could not remember where he had heard or read it.
"Yes, that is his name," said the captain. "He comes from Bavaria, and is said to have been in the diplomatic service. He is now living with his daughter at Oosterdaal House near Huissen, the station before Arnhem. I know both of them well, they sometimes use my boat for the journey to Arnhem, and as they are such nice people, I could not refuse them this service. The wedding, which is to take place the day after to-morrow, would otherwise have had to be postponed-ask women and lovers."
"So Fräulein von Tessenau is the happy bride?"
"The daughter of the old gentleman, yes-but she is a 'Frau,' a young widow. Her name is von Tessenau, because she was married to a cousin. It seems that she lost her husband after a brief married life, for she is still very young, scarcely twenty-two. A beautiful, gentle lady and still looks quite girlish. But I must hurry up these easy-going Mynheers."
He turned to the Customs officers and paid them the required duty. They left the steamer which now began to proceed at a much greater speed.
Notwithstanding this, Moldenhauer was pacing up and down excitedly, now and then consulting timetables and pulling out his watch every five minutes. It was another cause that robbed Berger of calm. "If it should be they?" The thought returned to him however often he might say: "Nonsense! an old father and a young daughter-the conjunction is common enough-and I know nothing else about them. That I must often have heard the name Tessenau tells rather against the supposition-for Sendlingen would hardly have chosen the name of some Austrian family for his pseudonym!"
Still his indefinite presentiment gave him no rest, and he at length went up to the captain! "I once," he began, "knew a family of von Tessenau, and would be very pleased if I were perhaps unexpectedly to come across them here. The old gentleman, you say, comes from Bavaria?"
"Yes, you must certainly be a countryman of his?"
"No. I am an Austrian."
"Then the two dialects must be very much alike for you speak just like him. That he comes from Bavaria I know for certain. Herr Willem van der Weyden told me so quite recently, and he must surely know, as he is to become his son-in-law."
"Who is the bridegroom?"
"A capital fellow," replied the captain. "A man of magnificent build-no longer young, somewhere in the forties I should say, but stately, brave and capable-all who know him, praise him. He holds a high position in Batavia, he is manager of the Java Mines. Some ten months ago he came back to Europe, after a long absence, on a year's furlough: to find a wife, people say. None seemed to please him however. Then he came to Arnhem where his brother is settled, and in an excursion in the country about, he accidentally got to know the young Frau von Tessenau at Oosterdaal House, and fell in love with her. There seemed at first to be great obstacles in the way; at all events he was always very melancholy when he rode on my boat from Arnhem to Huissen. Well one day he was very happy, the betrothal was solemnized, and now the wedding is to come off. Yes," added the Captain pleasantly, "when one is everlastingly taking the same journey, one gets to know people by degrees and kills time by sharing their joys and sorrows."
"And is Herr van der Weyden going back to Java again?"
"Yes, in a month from now, when his furlough will be up. He is naturally going to take his young wife with him, and the old gentleman is going to join them too. He has no other relations. The father and daughter lived hitherto in great retirement with an old house-keeper and an equally old man-servant. But if you are interested in the family, come and look over when we get to Huissen. The old man-servant at least, will be at the landing-stage to receive the trunks, and perhaps Herr von Tessenau himself."
"Do you know what the man-servant is called?" Berger's voice trembled at this question.
"Franz is his name."
The captain did not notice how pale Berger had become, how hastily he turned away. "No more room for doubt," he thought. But the doubt did rise again. That some details agreed, might only be a coincidence, and the name of the man-servant-such a common name-was not sufficient proof. Besides how much was against the supposition! It was inconceivable that Sendlingen should have deceived his future son-in-law and passed off Victorine as a widow! "It would be outrageous to impute such a thing to him!" he thought.
With growing impatience, he looked out for the landing-stage, the steamboat had long since left the river and was steaming along the narrow Pannerden Canal. The monotonous, fruitful, thoroughly Dutch landscape extended far and wide; rich meadows on which cattle were pasturing; narrow canals, on which heavily laden boats drawn by horses on the banks, slowly made their way; on the horizon a few windmills lazily turned by their large sails. At length a few large, villa-like buildings came in sight.
"That is Huissen," said the Captain. "We will see who is at the landing-stage." He produced a telescope. "Right, there is the man-servant," he said, handing Berger the telescope. "See if you know the man."
Berger only held the glass to his eye for a second and then handed it back to the Captain.
"No," he said, "I don't know him, it must be another family of von Tessenau."
He went down to the cabin and stayed there, till the boat had got well beyond the landing-stage.
It had been Franz.
Berger had to stay in London a week before his task was done. He left the completion of the agreement to his colleague, and began his journey home. At first he intended to go by Dover and Calais. But at the station in London he was overcome by his feelings; he could not let his friend depart forever without seeing him again. He went back by Holland, and the next day was in Arnhem.
Not until he was in the carriage which he had hired to take him to Oosterdaal, was he visited by scruples, the same sort of feeling which a week before had kept him from remaining on the deck of the steamer. Was it not indelicate and selfish to gratify his own longing at the price of deeply and painfully stirring up his friend's heart? Sendlingen did not wish to see him again, otherwise he would have written and told him of his whereabouts. And what would he not feel if he was so suddenly reminded of the fatality of his life, if his wounds were suddenly torn open again just as they were beginning to heal? And when Berger thought of Victorine, he altogether lost courage to continue the journey. Unfriendly, – nay it would be cruel, inhuman, to remind the newly-married girl of the misery of the past, and to plunge her in fatal embarrassment.
The roof of the house was already visible in the distance above the tops of the trees, when these reflections overmastered Berger. "Stop, back to Arnhem!" he ordered the driver.
But that could not be done at once; the horses would have to be fed first, explained the driver. The carriage proceeded still nearer the house, and stopped at a little friendly-looking inn opposite the entrance to the avenue of poplars which led up to the door. While the driver drove into the yard, the landlady suggested to Berger to take the refreshment he had ordered in front of the house. This, however, he declined and entered the inn-parlour. His remorse increased every minute, and he feared to be seen, if by chance one of the occupants of the house went by.
Sighing deeply, he looked out of the window at the driver leisurely unharnessing his horses. The landlady, a young, plump, little woman, tried to console him by telling him he would not have to wait more than an hour. She spoke in broken German; she had been maid to the young German lady up at the house, she said, and had learnt the language there. They were kind, good people at Oosterdaal, the driver had told her that the gentleman was going to have driven there, why had he given up the idea? They would certainly be very glad to see a countryman again, even if he were only a slight acquaintance. No German had ever come to see them, not even at the wedding. The festivities had altogether been very quiet, but very nice. Had the gentry no relations in Germany then?
"How can I tell you," replied Berger impatiently. "I don't know them."
"Indeed?" she asked astonished. "Then I suppose you have come to buy the house?" Several people had been with that intention, she added, but Herr von Tessenau had already made it over to his son-in-law, and he to his brother, Herr Jan van der Weyden. In a fortnight they were all going to Batavia. The Housekeeper, Fräulein Brigitta, too, and the old German man-servant. "But won't you go up to the house after all?" she asked again. Before he could answer, however, she cried out: "There they come!" and flew to the window.
A carriage went by at a leisurely trot. "Do come here," cried the landlady. Berger had retired deeper into the room, but he could still plainly see his friend. Sendlingen was looking fresher and stronger than when he saw him last; but his hair had the silver-white hue of old age, although he could hardly have reached the middle of the fifties. But in the young, blooming, happy woman at his side, Berger would scarcely have recognized his once unfortunate client, if he had met her under other circumstances. She was just laughingly bending forward and straightening the tie of her husband opposite her. The stately, fair-haired man smilingly submitted to the operation.