Franzos Karl Emil
The Chief Justice: A Novel
"How happy they are!" cried the landlady. "But they deserve it. Why the carriage is stopping," she cried, bending out of the window. "What an honour, they are going to come in."
Berger turned pale. But in the next instant he breathed again: the carriage drove on. "Oh, no!" cried the landlady, "only Franz has got down! Good day!" she cried to the old man as he went by. "A glass of wine!"
"No," answered Franz. "I am only to tell you to come up to the house. But for the matter of that as I am here-"
Then Berger heard his footsteps approaching on the floor outside; the door was opened. "Well, a glass of-" he began, but the words died on his lips. Pale as death, he started back and stared at Berger as if he had seen a ghost.
"It is I, Franz," said Berger, himself very pale. "Don't be afraid-I only want-"
"You have come to warn us?" he exclaimed, trembling all over as he approached Berger. "It is all discovered, is it not?"
"No!" replied Berger. "Why, what is there to discover?"
He made a sign to draw Franz's attention to the landlady, who was inquisitively drinking in the scene.
"I am glad to see you," he said meaningly. "I am going to continue my journey at once."
"Excuse me, Marie," said Franz, turning to her, "but I have something to say to this gentleman. He is an old acquaintance."
"After all!" she cried, and left the room shaking her head.
"She will listen," whispered Berger. "Come here, Franz, and sit beside me."
"Oh, how terrified I am," he replied in the same whisper. "So people suspect nothing? It would have been frightful if misfortune had come now, now, when everything is going so well. Certainly my fears were foolish; how should it be found out? We had arranged everything with such care: even the duplicate keys were not made at Bolosch, but at Dresden, where Brigitta was waiting for us."
"Enough!" said Berger, checking him. "I don't wish to know anything about it. How has Baron Sendlingen been since?"
"Bad enough at first!" replied Franz. "We did not eat, nor sleep, and we fell into a worse decline than at Bolosch-but it was perhaps less from the fear of discovery than from remorse. And yet we had only done, what had to be done-isn't that so, Dr. Berger?"
Berger looked on the ground and was silent. Old Franz sighed deeply. "If even you-" he began, but he interrupted himself and continued his story. "Gradually we became calmer again. Fear vanished though remorse remained, but for this too there was a salve in seeing how the poor child blossomed again. Then we began to write a book. It deals with the punishment of-h'm. Dr. Berger-"
"I know the work," said Berger.
"Indeed? We did not put our name to it. Well, while we were working at the book, we forgot our own sorrow, and later on, after the work had appeared and all the newspapers were saying that it would have great influence, there were moments when we seemed happy again. Then came this business with the Dutchman, and we got as sad and despairing as ever. But we took courage and told the man everything; our real name, and that we were only called von Tessenau here-"
"How did he come by this name?" asked Berger. "It sounds so familiar to me."
"Probably because it is one of the many titles of the family. Tessenau was the name of an estate in Carinthia, which once belonged to the family. We were obliged to choose this name, because on settling here it was necessary to prove our identity to the police. Well, we confessed this to Herr Willem and also what the young lady's plight was-"
Berger gave a sigh of relief.
"We said to him: she is not called von Tessenau because she was married to a cousin, but because we adopted the name here with the proper formalities. She was never married, she was betrayed by a scoundrel. That we said no more, nothing of the deed that brought her to prison, nothing of the way she was released-that, Dr. Berger, is surely excusable."
"Of course!" assented Berger. "And Herr van der Weyden?"
"Acted bravely and magnanimously, because he is a brave and magnanimous man, God bless him! He made her happy, her and himself. And now at length we got peace of heart once more. We are going to Batavia. May it continue as heretofore!"
"Amen!" said Berger deeply moved. "Farewell, Franz."
"You are not going up to the house?"
"No. Don't tell him of my visit till you are on the sea. And say to him that I will always think of him with love and respect. With respect, Franz, do not forget that!"
He shook hands with the old servant, got into his carriage, and drove back to Arnhem.
CHAPTER XV
Three weeks later, on a glowing hot August day, the Austrian Minister of Justice sat in his office, conferring with one of his subordinates, when an attendant brought him a card; the gentleman, he said, was waiting in the ante-room and would not be denied admittance.
"Sendlingen!" read the Minister. "This is a surprise; it has not been known for years whether he was alive or dead. Excuse me," he said to his companion, "but I cannot very well keep him waiting."
The official departed, Sendlingen was shown in. He was very pale; the expression of his features was gloomy, but resolved.
The Minister rose and offered his hand with the friendliest smile. "Welcome to Vienna," he cried. "I hope that you are completely recovered, and are coming to me to offer your services to the State once more."
"No, your Excellency," replied Sendlingen. "Forgive me, if I cannot take your hand. I will spare you having to regret it in the next instant. For I do not come to offer you my services as Judge, but to deliver myself into the hands of Justice. I am a criminal and desire to undergo the punishment due to me."
The Minister turned pale and drew back: "The man is mad," he thought. The thought must have been legible in his face, for Sendlingen continued:
"Do not be afraid, I am in my senses. I have indeed abused my office in a fashion so monstrous, that perhaps nothing like it has ever happened before. I released from prison, by means of official keys, a condemned woman, who was to have been executed the next day, and suggested, furthered, and carried out her flight to a foreign country. Her name was Victorine Lippert: the crime was done on the night of 21-22 February, 1853."
"I remember the case," muttered the Minister. "She escaped in the most mysterious way. But you! Why should you have done this?"
"A father saved his child: Victorine is my natural daughter."
The Minister wiped the sweat from his forehead. "This is a frightful business." He once more searchingly looked at his uncomfortable visitor. "He certainly seems to be in his senses," he thought.
"Allow me to tell you how every thing came about?"
The Minister nodded and pointed to a chair.
Sendlingen remained standing. He began to narrate. Clearly and quietly, in a hollow, monotonous voice, he told of his relations with Herminie Lippert, then how he had made the discovery in the lists of the Criminal Court, and of his struggles whether he should preside at the trial or not.
"I had the strength to refuse," he continued. "My sense of duty conquered. Sentence of death was pronounced. It was-and perhaps you will believe me although you hear it at such a moment, from such a man-it was a judicial murder, such as could have been decreed by a Court of Justice alone. And therefore my first thought was: against this wrong, wrong alone can help. I sought out the prison keys, and for some hours was firmly resolved to release my daughter. But then my sense of duty-perhaps more strictly speaking my egoism-conquered. For I said to myself that I, constituted as I was, could not commit this crime without some day making atonement for it. I knew quite well even then, that an hour would come in my life, like the present, and I could not find it in my heart to end as a criminal. But my conscience cried: 'Then your child will die!' and so suicide seemed to me the only thing left. I was resolved to kill myself; whether I could not bring myself to it at the last moment, whether a chance saved me-I do not know: there is a veil cast over that hour that I have never since been able to pierce. I survived, I saw my daughter, and recovered my clearness of mind; the voice of nature had conquered. I now knew that it was highly probable that there was no means that could save us both, that the question was whether I should perish, or she, and I no longer doubted that it must be I. I was resolved to liberate her, and then to expiate my crime; but until extreme necessity compelled, I wanted to act according to law and justice. That I did so, my conduct proves when the Supreme Court ordered a fresh examination of the chief witness. Everything depended upon that; I made over this inquiry also to another-who assuredly did not bring the truth to light. The Supreme Court confirmed the sentence of death; it was pronounced upon me, not upon my child; that extreme necessity had now arrived, I now knew that I must become a criminal, and only waited for the result of the Counsel's petition for pardon, because the preparations for the act required time, and because I first wanted to save some men unjustly accused of political offences."
"I remember, the workmen," said the Minister. He still seemed dazed, it cost him an effort to follow the unhappy man's train of thought. "One thing only I do not understand," he slowly said, passing his hand over his forehead. "Why did you not discover yourself to me, or why did you not appeal to the Emperor for pardon?"
"For two reasons," replied Sendlingen. "I have all my life striven to execute Justice without respect of persons. It was ever a tormenting thought to me that the Aristocrat, the Plutocrat, often receives where the law alone should decide, favours that would never fall to the lot of the poor and humble. And therefore it was painful to me to lay claim to such a favour for myself."
"You are indeed a man of rare sense of justice," cried the Minister. "And that such a fate should have, befallen you…"
He paused.
"Is tragic indeed," supplemented Sendlingen, his lips trembling. "Certainly it is- But I will not make, myself out better than I am; there was another reason why I hesitated to appeal to the Emperor. What would have been the result, your Excellency? Commutation to penal servitude for life, or for twenty years. The mere announcement of this punishment would have so profoundly affected this weakly, broken-down girl, that she would scarcely have survived it, and if she had-a complete pardon could not have been attained for ten, for eight, in the most favourable case for five years, and she would not have lived to see it. I was persuaded of that, quite firmly persuaded, still," his voice became lower, "I too was only a human being. When I received the confirmation of the death-sentence by the Emperor, cowardice and selfishness got the better of me, I journeyed to Vienna-it was the 18th February."
"The date of the attempt!" cried the Minister. "What a frightful coincidence! Thus does fate sport with the children of men."
"So I thought at first!" replied Sendlingen. "But then I saw that that coincidence had not decided my fate: it was sealed from the first. By my whole character and by all that had happened. In this sense there is a Fate, in this sense what happens in the world must happen, and my fate is only a proof of what takes place in millions of cases. I returned to Bolosch and liberated my daughter. How I succeeded, I am prepared to tell my Judges so far as my own share in the act is concerned. I had no accomplice among the prison officials. Your Excellency will believe me, although I can only call to witness my own word, the word of honour of a criminal!"
"I believe you," said the Minister. "You took the girl abroad?"
"Yes, and sought to make good my neglect. Fate was gracious to me, my daughter is cared for. And I may now do that which I was from the first resolved to do, although I did not know when the day would be vouchsafed me to dare it-I may present myself to you, the supreme guardian of Justice in this land, and say: 'Deliver me to my Judges!'"
Sendlingen was silent; the Minister, too, at first could find no words. White as a ghost, he paced up and down the room. "But there can be no question of such a thing!" he cried at length. "For thousands of reasons! We are not barbarians!"
"It can be and must be! I claim my right!"
"But just consider!" cried the Minister, wringing his hands. "It would be the most fearful blow that the dignity of Justice could receive. A former Chief-Justice as a criminal in the dock! A man like you! Besides you deserve no punishment! When I consider what you have suffered, how all this has come about-good God, I should be a monster if I were not moved, if I did not say: if this man were perhaps really a criminal, he has already atoned for it a thousand times over."
"Then you refuse me justice?"
"It would be injustice! Go in peace, my Lord, and return to your daughter."
"I cannot. I could not endure the pangs of my conscience! If you refuse to punish me, I shall openly accuse myself!"
"Great Heavens! this only was wanting!" The Minister drew nearer to him. "I beseech you, let these things rest in peace! Do not bring upon that office of which you were so long an ornament, the worst blemish that could befal it. And your act would have still worse consequences: it would undermine the authority of the State. Consider the times in which we live-the Revolution is smouldering under its ashes."
"I cannot help it, your Excellency. Do your duty voluntarily, and do not oblige me to compel you to it."
The Minister looked at him: in his face there was the quiet of immovable resolve. "A fanatic," he thought, "what shall I do with him?" He walked about the room in a state of irresolution.
"My Lord," he then began, "you would oblige the State to take defensive measures. Accuse yourself openly by a pamphlet published abroad, and I would give out that you were mad. I should be believed, you need not doubt."
"I do doubt it," replied Sendlingen. "I should take care that there was no room left for any question as to my sanity. Once more, and for the last time, I ask your Excellency, to what Court am I to surrender myself?"
Again the Minister for a long while paced helplessly up and down. At length a saving thought seemed to occur to him.
"Be it so," he said. "Do what you cannot help doing; we, on the other hand, will do what our duty commands. You naturally want to conceal where your daughter is now living?"
Sendlingen turned still paler and made no reply.
"But we shall endeavor to find out, even if it should cost thousands, and if we should have to employ all the police in the world. We shall find your daughter and demand her extradition. There is no state that would refuse to deliver a legally condemned murderess! You must decide, my Lord, whether this is to happen."
Sendlingen's face had grown deadly pale-a fit of shuddering shook his limbs. There was a long silence in the room, it endured perhaps five minutes. At length Sendlingen muttered:
"I submit to your Excellency's will. May God forgive you what you have just done to me."
The Minister gave a sigh of relief. "I will take that on my conscience," he said. "I restore the father to his child. Farewell, my Lord."
Sendlingen did not take the proffered hand, he bowed silently and departed.
* * * * * * * * * *
Two days later Dr. George Berger received a letter of Sendlingen's, dated from Trieste. It briefly informed his friend of the purport of his interview with the Minister of Justice, and concluded as follows:
"It is denied me to expiate my crime: it is impossible to me, a criminal, to go unpunished through life; so I am going to meet death. When you read this, all will be over. Break the news to my daughter, who has already set out on her journey, as gently as possible; hide the truth from her, I shall help you by the manner in which I am doing the deed. And do not forget Franz, he is waiting for me at Cologne; I was only able to get quit of him under a pretext.
"Farewell, thou good and faithful friend, and do not condemn me. You once said to me: there must be a solution of these complications, a liberating solution. I do not know if there was any other, any better than that which has come to pass. For see, my child has received her just due, and so too has Justice: with a higher price than that of his life, nobody can atone for a crime. And I-I have seen my child's happiness, I have honourably paid all my debts, and now I shall find peace forever-I too have received my due!.. And now I may hope for your respect again!
"Farewell! and thanks a thousand times!
"Victor."
Berger, deeply moved, had just finished reading this letter, when his clerk entered with the morning paper in his hand.
"Have you read this, Sir?" he asked. "Baron Sendlingen-"
He laid the paper before his chief and this was what was in it:
"A telegram from Vienna brings us the sad news that Baron von Sendlingen, the retired Chief Justice and one of the most highly esteemed men in Austria, fell overboard while proceeding by the Lloyd steamer last night from Trieste to Venice. He was on deck late in the evening and has not been seen since; very likely, while leaning too far over the bulwarks, a sudden giddiness may have seized him so that he fell into the sea and disappeared. The idea of suicide cannot for personal reasons be entertained for a moment; the last person he spoke to, the captain of the steamer, testifies to the cheerful demeanour of the deceased. He leaves no family, but everyone who knew him will mourn him.
"All honour to his memory!"
"All honour to his memory!" muttered Berger, burying his face in his hands.