I had been reading, as is my wont from time to time, one of the many
volumes of “The New Pitaval,” that singular record of human crime and
human cunning, and also of the inevitable fatality which, in every
case, leaves a gate open for detection. Were it not for the latter fact,
indeed, one would turn with loathing from such endless chronicles
of wickedness. Yet these may be safely contemplated, when one has
discovered the incredible fatuity of crime, the certain weak mesh in
a network of devilish texture; or is it rather the agency of a power
outside of man, a subtile protecting principle, which allows the
operation of the evil element only that the latter may finally betray
itself? Whatever explanation we may choose, the fact is there, like a
tonic medicine distilled from poisonous plants, to brace our faith in
the ascendancy of Good in the government of the world.
Laying aside the book, I fell into a speculation concerning the mixture
of the two elements in man's nature. The life of an individual is
usually, it seemed to me, a series of RESULTS, the processes leading to
which are not often visible, or observed when they are so. Each act
is the precipitation of a number of mixed influences, more or less
unconsciously felt; the qualities of good and evil are so blended
therein that they defy the keenest moral analysis; and how shall we,
then, pretend to judge of any one? Perhaps the surest indication of evil
(I further reflected) is that it always tries to conceal itself, and
the strongest incitement to good is that evil cannot be concealed. The
crime, or the vice, or even the self-acknowledged weakness, becomes
a part of the individual consciousness; it cannot be forgotten or
outgrown. It follows a life through all experiences and to the uttermost
ends of the earth, pressing towards the light with a terrible, demoniac
power. There are noteless lives, of course--lives that accept obscurity,
mechanically run their narrow round of circumstance, and are lost; but
when a life endeavors to lose itself,--to hide some conscious guilt or
failure,--can it succeed? Is it not thereby lifted above the level of
common experience, compelling attention to itself by the very endeavor
to escape it?
I turned these questions over in my mind, without approaching, or indeed
expecting, any solution,--since I knew, from habit, the labyrinths into
which they would certainly lead me,--when a visitor was announced. It
was one of the directors of our county almshouse, who came on an errand
to which he attached no great importance. I owed the visit, apparently,
to the circumstance that my home lay in his way, and he could at once
relieve his conscience of a very trifling pressure and his pocket of a
small package, by calling upon me. His story was told in a few words;
the package was placed upon my table, and I was again left to my
meditations.
Two or three days before, a man who had the appearance of a “tramp” had
been observed by the people of a small village in the neighborhood. He
stopped and looked at the houses in a vacant way, walked back and forth
once or twice as if uncertain which of the cross-roads to take, and
presently went on without begging or even speaking to any one. Towards
sunset a farmer, on his way to the village store, found him sitting at
the roadside, his head resting against a fence-post. The man's face was
so worn and exhausted that the farmer kindly stopped and addressed him;
but he gave no other reply than a shake of the head.
The farmer thereupon lifted him into his light country-wagon, the man
offering no resistance, and drove to the tavern, where, his exhaustion
being so evident, a glass of whiskey was administered to him. He
afterwards spoke a few words in German, which no one understood. At the
almshouse, to which he was transported the same evening, he refused to
answer the customary questions, although he appeared to understand
them. The physician was obliged to use a slight degree of force in
administering nourishment and medicine, but neither was of any avail.
The man died within twenty-four hours after being received. His pockets
were empty, but two small leathern wallets were found under his pillow;
and these formed the package which the director left in my charge. They
were full of papers in a foreign language, he said, and he supposed I
might be able to ascertain the stranger's name and home from them.
I took up the wallets, which were worn and greasy from long service,
opened them, and saw that they were filled with scraps, fragments, and
folded pieces of paper, nearly every one of which had been carried for
a long time loose in the pocket. Some were written in pen and ink,
and some in pencil, but all were equally brown, worn, and unsavory in
appearance. In turning them over, however, my eye was caught by some
slips in the Russian character, and three or four notes in French;
the rest were German. I laid aside “Pitaval” at once, emptied all
the leathern pockets carefully, and set about examining the pile of
material.
I first ran rapidly through the papers to ascertain the dead man's name,
but it was nowhere to be found. There were half a dozen letters, written
on sheets folded and addressed in the fashion which prevailed before
envelopes were invented; but the name was cut out of the address in
every case. There was an official permit to embark on board a Bremen
steamer, mutilated in the same way; there was a card photograph, from
which the face had been scratched by a penknife. There were Latin
sentences; accounts of expenses; a list of New York addresses, covering
eight pages; and a number of notes, written either in Warsaw or Breslau.
A more incongruous collection I never saw, and I am sure that had it not
been for the train of thought I was pursuing when the director called
upon me, I should have returned the papers to him without troubling my
head with any attempt to unravel the man's story.
The evidence, however, that he had endeavored to hide his life, had been
revealed by my first superficial examination; and here, I reflected,
was a singular opportunity to test both his degree of success and my own
power of constructing a coherent history out of the detached fragments.
Unpromising as is the matter, said I, let me see whether he can conceal
his secret from even such unpractised eyes as mine.
I went through the papers again, read each one rapidly, and arranged
them in separate files, according to the character of their contents.
Then I rearranged these latter in the order of time, so far as it
was indicated; and afterwards commenced the work of picking out and
threading together whatever facts might be noted. The first thing I
ascertained, or rather conjectured, was that the man's life might be
divided into three very distinct phases, the first ending in Breslau,
the second in Poland, and the third and final one in America. Thereupon
I once again rearranged the material, and attacked that which related to
the first phase.
It consisted of the following papers: Three letters, in a female hand,
commencing “My dear brother,” and terminating with “Thy loving sister,
Elise;” part of a diploma from a gymnasium, or high school, certifying
that [here the name was cut out] had successfully passed his
examination, and was competent to teach,--and here again, whether by
accident or design, the paper was torn off; a note, apparently to a
jeweller, ordering a certain gold ring to be delivered to “Otto,” and
signed “B. V. H.;” a receipt from the package-post for a box forwarded
to Warsaw, to the address of Count Ladislas Kasincsky; and finally
a washing-list, at the bottom of which was written, in pencil, in a
trembling hand: “May God protect thee! But do not stay away so very
long.”
In the second collection, relating to Poland, I found the following: Six
orders in Russian and three in French, requesting somebody to send by
“Jean” sums of money, varying from two to eight hundred rubles. These
orders were in the same hand, and all signed “Y.” A charming letter in
French, addressed “cher ami,” and declining, in the most delicate and
tender way, an offer of marriage made to the sister of the writer, of
whose signature only “Amelie de” remained, the family name having been
torn off. A few memoranda of expenses, one of which was curious: “Dinner
with Jean, 58 rubles;” and immediately after it: “Doctor, 10 rubles.”
There were, moreover, a leaf torn out of a journal, and half of a note
which had been torn down the middle, both implicating “Jean” in some way
with the fortunes of the dead man.
The papers belonging to the American phase, so far as they were to be
identified by dates, or by some internal evidence, were fewer, but even
more enigmatical in character. The principal one was a list of addresses
in New York, divided into sections, the street boundaries of which were
given. There were no names, but some of the addresses were marked +, and
others?, and a few had been crossed out with a pencil. Then there were
some leaves of a journal of diet and bodily symptoms, of a very singular
character; three fragments of drafts of letters, in pencil, one of
them commencing, “Dog and villain!” and a single note of “Began work,
September 10th, 1865.” This was about a year before his death.
The date of the diploma given by the gymnasium at Breslau was June 27,
1855, and the first date in Poland was May 3, 1861. Belonging to the
time between these two periods there were only the order for the ring
(1858), and a little memorandum in pencil, dated “Posen, Dec., 1859.”
The last date in Poland was March 18, 1863, and the permit to embark at
Bremen was dated in October of that year. Here, at least, was a slight
chronological framework. The physician who attended the county almshouse
had estimated the man's age at thirty, which, supposing him to have been
nineteen at the time of receiving the diploma, confirmed the dates to
that extent.
I assumed, at the start, that the name which had been so carefully cut
out of all the documents was the man's own. The “Elise” of the letters
was therefore his sister. The first two letters related merely to
“mother's health,” and similar details, from which it was impossible to
extract any thing, except that the sister was in some kind of service.
The second letter closed with: “I have enough work to do, but I keep
well. Forget thy disappointment so far as _I_ am concerned, for I never
expected any thing; I don't know why, but I never did.”
Here was a disappointment, at least, to begin with. I made a note of it
opposite the date, on my blank programme, and took up the next letter.
It was written in November, 1861, and contained a passage which keenly
excited my curiosity. It ran thus: “Do, pray, be more careful of thy
money. It may be all as thou sayest, and inevitable, but I dare not
mention the thing to mother, and five thalers is all I can spare out
of my own wages. As for thy other request, I have granted it, as thou
seest, but it makes me a little anxious. What is the joke? And how can
it serve thee? That is what I do not understand, and I have plagued
myself not a little to guess.”
Among the Polish memoranda was this: “Sept. 1 to Dec. 1, 200 rubles,”
which I assumed to represent a salary. This would give him eight hundred
a year, at least twelve times the amount which his sister--who must
either have been cook or housekeeper, since she spoke of going to market
for the family--could have received. His application to her for money,
and the manner of her reference to it, indicated some imprudence or
irregularity on his part. What the “other request” was, I could
not guess; but as I was turning and twisting the worn leaf in some
perplexity, I made a sudden discovery. One side of the bottom edge had
been very slightly doubled over in folding, and as I smoothed it out, I
noticed some diminutive letters in the crease. The paper had been worn
nearly through, but I made out the words: “Write very soon, dear Otto!”
This was the name in the order for the gold ring, signed “B. V. H.”--a
link, indeed, but a fresh puzzle. Knowing the stubborn prejudices of
caste in Germany, and above all in Eastern Prussia and Silesia, I should
have been compelled to accept “Otto,” whose sister was in service,
as himself the servant of “B. V. H.,” but for the tenderly respectful
letter of “Amelie de----,” declining the marriage offer for her sister.
I re-read this letter very carefully, to determine whether it was really
intended for “Otto.” It ran thus:
“DEAR FRIEND,--I will not say that your letter was entirely
unexpected, either to Helmine or myself. I should, perhaps, have
less faith in the sincerity of your attachment if you had not
already involuntarily betrayed it. When I say that although I
detected the inclination of your heart some weeks ago, and that I
also saw it was becoming evident to my sister, yet I refrained from
mentioning the subject at all until she came to me last evening
with your letter in her hand,--when I say this, you will understand
that I have acted towards you with the respect and sympathy which
I profoundly feel. Helmine fully shares this feeling, and her poor
heart is too painfully moved to allow her to reply. Do I not say,
in saying this, what her reply must be? But, though her heart
cannot respond to your love, she hopes you will always believe her
a friend to whom your proffered devotion was an honor, and will
be--if you will subdue it to her deserts--a grateful thing to
remember. We shall remain in Warsaw a fortnight longer, as I think
yourself will agree that it is better we should not
immediately return to the castle. Jean, who must carry a fresh
order already, will bring you this, and we hope to have good news
of Henri. I send back the papers, which were unnecessary; we never
doubted you, and we shall of course keep your secret so long as you
choose to wear it.
“AMELIE DE----”
The more light I seemed to obtain, the more inexplicable the
circumstances became. The diploma and the note of salary were grounds
for supposing that “Otto” occupied the position of tutor in a noble
Polish family. There was the receipt for a box addressed to Count
Ladislas Kasincsky, and I temporarily added his family name to the
writer of the French letter, assuming her to be his wife. “Jean”
appeared to be a servant, and “Henri” I set down as the son whom Otto
was instructing in the castle or family seat in the country, while the
parents were in warsaw. Plausible, so far; but the letter was not such
a one as a countess would have written to her son's tutor, under similar
circumstances. It was addressed to a social equal, apparently to a man
younger than herself, and for whom--supposing him to have been a tutor,
secretary, or something of the kind--she must have felt a special
sympathy. Her mention of “the papers” and “your secret” must refer to
circumstances which would explain the mystery. “So long as you choose to
WEAR it,” she had written: then it was certainly a secret connected with
his personal history.
Further, it appeared that “Jean” was sent to him with “an order.” What
could this be, but one of the nine orders for money which lay before my
eyes? I examined the dates of the latter, and lo! there was one written
upon the same day as the lady's letter. The sums drawn by these orders
amounted in all to four thousand two hundred rubles. But how should a
tutor or secretary be in possession of his employer's money? Still, this
might be accounted for; it would imply great trust on the part of the
latter, but no more than one man frequently reposes in another. Yet, if
it were so, one of the memoranda confronted me with a conflicting
fact: “Dinner with Jean, 58 rubles.” The unusual amount--nearly fifty
dollars--indicated an act of the most reckless dissipation, and in
company with a servant, if “Jean,” as I could scarcely doubt, acted in
that character. I finally decided to assume both these conjectures as
true, and apply them to the remaining testimony.
I first took up the leaf which had been torn out of a small journal or
pocket note-book, as was manifested by the red edge on three sides.
It was scribbled over with brief notes in pencil, written at different
times. Many of them were merely mnemonic signs; but the recurrence of
the letters J and Y seemed to point to transactions with “Jean,” and the
drawer of the various sums of money. The letter Y reminded me that I
had been too hasty in giving the name of Kasincsky to the noble family;
indeed, the name upon the post-office receipt might have no connection
with the matter I was trying to investigate.
Suddenly I noticed a “Ky” among the mnemonic signs, and the suspicion
flashed across my mind that Count Kasincsky had signed the order with
the last letter of his family name! To assume this, however, suggested
a secret reason for doing so; and I began to think that I had already
secrets enough on hand.
The leaf was much rubbed and worn, and it was not without considerable
trouble that I deciphered the following (omitting the unintelligible
signs):
“Oct. 30 (Nov. 12)--talk with Y; 20--Jean. Consider.
“Nov. 15--with J--H--hope.
“Dec. 1--Told the C. No knowledge of S--therefore safe. Uncertain of----
C to Warsaw. Met J. as agreed. Further and further.
“Dec. 27--All for naught! All for naught!
“Jan. 19, '63--Sick. What is to be the end? Threats. No tidings of Y.
Walked the streets all day. At night as usual.
“March 1--News. The C. and H. left yesterday. No more to hope. Let it
come, then!”
These broken words warmed my imagination powerfully. Looking at them in
the light of my conjecture, I was satisfied that “Otto” was involved
in some crime, or dangerous secret, of which “Jean” was either the
instigator or the accomplice. “Y.,” or Count Kasincsky,--and I was more
than ever inclined to connect the two,---also had his mystery, which
might, or might not, be identical with the first. By comparing dates, I
found that the entry made December 27 was three days later than the date
of the letter of “Amelie de----“; and the exclamation “All for naught!”
certainly referred to the disappointment it contained. I now guessed
the “H.” in the second entry to mean “Helmine.” The two last suggested
a removal to Warsaw from the country. Here was a little more ground to
stand on; but how should I ever get at the secret?
I took up the torn half of a note, which, after the first inspection,
I had laid aside as a hopeless puzzle. A closer examination revealed
several things which failed to impress me at the outset. It was written
in a strong and rather awkward masculine hand; several words were
underscored, two misspelled, and I felt--I scarcely knew why--that it
was written in a spirit of mingled contempt and defiance. Let me give
the fragment just as it lay before me:
“ARON!
It is quite time
be done. Who knows
is not his home by this
CONCERN FOR THE
that they are well off,
sian officers are
cide at once, my
risau, or I must
t TEN DAYS DELAY
money can be divi-
tier, and you may
ever you please.
untess goes, and she
will know who you
time, unless you carry
friend or not
decide,
ann Helm.”
Here, I felt sure, was the clue to much of the mystery. The first thing
that struck me was the appearance of a new name. I looked at it again,
ran through in my mind all possible German names, and found that it
could only be “Johann,”--and in the same instant I recalled the frequent
habit of the Prussian and Polish nobility of calling their German valets
by French names. This, then, was “Jean!” The address was certainly
“Baron,” and why thrice underscored, unless in contemptuous satire?
Light began to break upon the matter at last. “Otto” had been playing
the part, perhaps assuming the name, of a nobleman, seduced to the
deception by his passion for the Countess' sister, Helmine. This
explained the reference to “the papers,” and “the secret,” and would
account for the respectful and sympathetic tone of the Countess' letter.
But behind this there was certainly another secret, in which “Y.”
(whoever he might be) was concerned, and which related to money. The
close of the note, which I filled out to read, “Your friend or not, as
you may decide,” conveyed a threat, and, to judge from the halves of
lines immediately preceding it, the threat referred to the money, as
well as to the betrayal of an assumed character.
Here, just as the story began to appear in faint outline, my discoveries
stopped for a while. I ascertained the breadth of the original note by a
part of the middle-crease which remained, filled out the torn part
with blank paper, completed the divided words in the same character of
manuscript, and endeavored to guess the remainder, but no clairvoyant
power of divination came to my aid. I turned over the letters again,
remarking the neatness with which the addresses had been cut off, and
wondering why the man had not destroyed the letters and other memoranda
entirely, if he wished to hide a possible crime. The fact that they were
not destroyed showed the hold which his past life had had upon him even
to his dying hour. Weak and vain, as I had already suspected him to
be,--wanting in all manly fibre, and of the very material which a keen,
energetic villain would mould to his needs,--I felt that his love for
his sister and for “Helmine,” and other associations connected with his
life in Germany and Poland, had made him cling to these worn records.
I know not what gave me the suspicion that he had not even found the
heart to destroy the exscinded names; perhaps the care with which they
had been removed; perhaps, in two instances, the circumstance of their
taking words out of the body of the letters with them. But the suspicion
came, and led to a re-examination of the leathern wallets. I could
scarcely believe my eyes, when feeling something rustle faintly as I
pressed the thin lining of an inner pocket, I drew forth three or four
small pellets of paper, and unrolling them, found the lost addresses!
I fitted them to the vacant places, and found that the first letters of
the sister in Breslau had been forwarded to “Otto Lindenschmidt,” while
the letter to Poland was addressed “Otto von Herisau.”
I warmed with this success, which exactly tallied with the previous
discoveries, and returned again to the Polish memoranda The words
“[Rus]sian officers” in “Jean's” note led me to notice that it had
been written towards the close of the last insurrection in Poland--a
circumstance which I immediately coupled with some things in the note
and on the leaf of the journal. “No tidings of Y” might indicate that
Count Kasincsky had been concerned in the rebellion, and had fled, or
been taken prisoner. Had he left a large amount of funds in the hands
of the supposed Otto von Herisau, which were drawn from time to time by
orders, the form of which had been previously agreed upon? Then, when he
had disappeared, might it not have been the remaining funds which Jean
urged Otto to divide with him, while the latter, misled and entangled in
deception rather than naturally dishonest, held back from such a step?
I could hardly doubt so much, and it now required but a slight effort of
the imagination to complete the torn note.
The next letter of the sister was addressed to Bremen. After having
established so many particulars, I found it easily intelligible. “I have
done what I can,” she wrote. “I put it in this letter; it is all I have.
But do not ask me for money again; mother is ailing most of the time,
and I have not yet dared to tell her all. I shall suffer great anxiety
until I hear that the vessel has sailed. My mistress is very good; she
has given me an advance on my wages, or I could not have sent thee any
thing. Mother thinks thou art still in Leipzig: why didst thou stay
there so long? but no difference; thy money would have gone anyhow.”
It was nevertheless singular that Otto should be without money, so soon
after the appropriation of Count Kasincsky's funds. If the “20” in
the first memorandum on the leaf meant “twenty thousand rubles,” as I
conjectured, and but four thousand two hundred were drawn by the Count
previous to his flight or imprisonment, Otto's half of the remainder
would amount to nearly eight thousand rubles; and it was, therefore, not
easy to account for his delay in Leipzig, and his destitute condition.
Before examining the fragments relating to the American phase of
his life,--which illustrated his previous history only by occasional
revelations of his moods and feelings,--I made one more effort to guess
the cause of his having assumed the name of “Von Herisau.” The initials
signed to the order for the ring (“B. V. H.”) certainly stood for the
same family name; and the possession of papers belonging to one of
the family was an additional evidence that Otto had either been in the
service of, or was related to, some Von Herisau. Perhaps a sentence in
one of the sister's letters--“Forget thy disappointment so far as _I_ am
concerned, for I never expected any thing”--referred to something of the
kind. On the whole, service seemed more likely than kinship; but in that
case the papers must have been stolen.
I had endeavored, from the start, to keep my sympathies out of the
investigation, lest they should lead me to misinterpret the broken
evidence, and thus defeat my object. It must have been the Countess'
letter, and the brief, almost stenographic, signs of anxiety and
unhappiness on the leaf of the journal, that first beguiled me into a
commiseration, which the simple devotion and self-sacrifice of the poor,
toiling sister failed to neutralize. However, I detected the feeling at
this stage of the examination, and turned to the American records, in
order to get rid of it.
The principal paper was the list of addresses of which I have spoken. I
looked over it in vain, to find some indication of its purpose; yet it
had been carefully made out and much used. There was no name of a person
upon it,--only numbers and streets, one hundred and thirty-eight in all.
Finally, I took these, one by one, to ascertain if any of the houses
were known to me, and found three, out of the whole number, to be the
residences of persons whom I knew. One was a German gentleman, and the
other two were Americans who had visited Germany. The riddle was read!
During a former residence in New York, I had for a time been quite
overrun by destitute Germans,--men, apparently, of some culture, who
represented themselves as theological students, political refugees,
or unfortunate clerks and secretaries,--soliciting assistance. I found
that, when I gave to one, a dozen others came within the next fortnight;
when I refused, the persecution ceased for about the same length of
time. I became convinced, at last, that these persons were members of an
organized society of beggars, and the result proved it; for when I
made it an inviolable rule to give to no one who could not bring me an
indorsement of his need by some person whom I knew, the annoyance ceased
altogether.
The meaning of the list of addresses was now plain. My nascent
commiseration for the man was not only checked, but I was in danger of
changing my role from that of culprit's counsel to that of prosecuting
attorney.
When I took up again the fragment of the first draught of a letter
commencing, “Dog and villain!” and applied it to the words “Jean” or
“Johann Helm,” the few lines which could be deciphered became full of
meaning. “Don't think,” it began, “that I have forgotten you, or the
trick you played me! If I was drunk or drugged the last night, I know
how it happened, for all that. I left, but I shall go back. And if you
make use of” (here some words were entirely obliterated).... “is true.
He gave me the ring, and meant”.... This was all I could make out. The
other papers showed only scattered memoranda, of money, or appointments,
or addresses, with the exception of the diary in pencil.
I read the letter attentively, and at first with very little idea of
its meaning. Many of the words were abbreviated, and there were some
arbitrary signs. It ran over a period of about four months, terminating
six weeks before the man's death. He had been wandering about the
country during this period, sleeping in woods and barns, and living
principally upon milk. The condition of his pulse and other physical
functions was scrupulously set down, with an occasional remark of “good”
or “bad.” The conclusion was at last forced upon me that he had been
endeavoring to commit suicide by a slow course of starvation and
exposure. Either as the cause or the result of this attempt, I read, in
the final notes, signs of an aberration of mind. This also explained
the singular demeanor of the man when found, and his refusal to take
medicine or nourishment. He had selected a long way to accomplish his
purpose, but had reached the end at last.
The confused material had now taken shape; the dead man, despite his
will, had confessed to me his name and the chief events of his life.
It now remained--looking at each event as the result of a long chain of
causes--to deduce from them the elements of his individual character,
and then fill up the inevitable gaps in the story from the probabilities
of the operation of those elements. This was not so much a mere venture
as the reader may suppose, because the two actions of the mind test
each other. If they cannot, thus working towards a point and back again,
actually discover what WAS, they may at least fix upon a very probable
MIGHT HAVE BEEN.
A person accustomed to detective work would have obtained my little
stock of facts with much less trouble, and would, almost instinctively,
have filled the blanks as he went along. Being an apprentice in such
matters, I had handled the materials awkwardly. I will not here retrace
my own mental zigzags between character and act, but simply repeat the
story as I finally settled and accepted it.
Otto Lindenschmidt was the child of poor parents in or near Breslau. His
father died when he was young; his mother earned a scanty subsistence
as a washerwoman; his sister went into service. Being a bright,
handsome boy, he attracted the attention of a Baron von Herisau, an old,
childless, eccentric gentleman, who took him first as page or attendant,
intending to make him a superior valet de chambre. Gradually, however,
the Baron fancied that he detected in the boy a capacity for better
things; his condescending feeling of protection had grown into an
attachment for the handsome, amiable, grateful young fellow, and he
placed him in the gymnasium at Breslau, perhaps with the idea, now, of
educating him to be an intelligent companion.
The boy and his humble relatives, dazzled by this opportunity, began
secretly to consider the favor as almost equivalent to his adoption as
a son. (The Baron had once been married, but his wife and only child had
long been dead.) The old man, of course, came to look upon the growing
intelligence of the youth as his own work: vanity and affection became
inextricably blended in his heart, and when the cursus was over, he took
him home as the companion of his lonely life. After two or three
years, during which the young man was acquiring habits of idleness and
indulgence, supposing his future secure, the Baron died,--perhaps too
suddenly to make full provision for him, perhaps after having kept up
the appearance of wealth on a life-annuity, but, in any case, leaving
very little, if any, property to Otto. In his disappointment, the latter
retained certain family papers which the Baron had intrusted to his
keeping. The ring was a gift, and he wore it in remembrance of his
benefactor.
Wandering about, Micawber-like, in hopes that something might turn up,
he reached Posen, and there either met or heard of the Polish Count,
Ladislas Kasincsky, who was seeking a tutor for his only son. His
accomplishments, and perhaps, also, a certain aristocratic grace of
manner unconsciously caught from the Baron von Herisau, speedily won for
him the favor of the Count and Countess Kasincsky, and emboldened him to
hope for the hand of the Countess' sister, Helmine ----, to whom he was
no doubt sincerely attached. Here Johann Helm, or “Jean,” a confidential
servant of the Count, who looked upon the new tutor as a rival,
yet adroitly flattered his vanity for the purpose of misleading and
displacing him, appears upon the stage. “Jean” first detected Otto's
passion; “Jean,” at an epicurean dinner, wormed out of Otto the secret
of the Herisau documents, and perhaps suggested the part which the
latter afterwards played.
This “Jean” seemed to me to have been the evil agency in the miserable
history which followed. After Helmine's rejection of Otto's suit, and
the flight or captivity of Count Kasincsky, leaving a large sum of money
in Otto's hands, it would be easy for “Jean,” by mingled persuasions and
threats, to move the latter to flight, after dividing the money still
remaining in his hands. After the theft, and the partition, which took
place beyond the Polish frontier, “Jean” in turn, stole his accomplice's
share, together with the Von Herisau documents.
Exile and a year's experience of organized mendicancy did the rest.
Otto Lindenschmidt was one of those natures which possess no moral
elasticity--which have neither the power nor the comprehension
of atonement. The first real, unmitigated guilt--whether great
or small--breaks them down hopelessly. He expected no chance of
self-redemption, and he found none. His life in America was so utterly
dark and hopeless that the brightest moment in it must have been that
which showed him the approach of death.
My task was done. I had tracked this weak, vain, erring, hunted soul to
its last refuge, and the knowledge bequeathed to me but a single duty.
His sins were balanced by his temptations; his vanity and weakness
had revenged themselves; and there only remained to tell the simple,
faithful sister that her sacrifices were no longer required. I burned
the evidences of guilt, despair and suicide, and sent the other
papers, with a letter relating the time and circumstances of Otto
Lindenschmidt's death, to the civil authorities of Breslau, requesting
that they might be placed in the hands of his sister Elise.
This, I supposed, was the end of the history, so far as my connection
with it was concerned. But one cannot track a secret with impunity;
the fatality connected with the act and the actor clings even to the
knowledge of the act. I had opened my door a little, in order to look
out upon the life of another, but in doing so a ghost had entered in,
and was not to be dislodged until I had done its service.
In the summer of 1867 I was in Germany, and during a brief journey
of idlesse and enjoyment came to the lovely little watering-place of
Liebenstein, on the southern slope of the Thuringian Forest. I had no
expectation or even desire of making new acquaintances among the gay
company who took their afternoon coffee under the noble linden trees on
the terrace; but, within the first hour of my after-dinner leisure, I
was greeted by an old friend, an author, from Coburg, and carried away,
in my own despite, to a group of his associates. My friend and his
friends had already been at the place a fortnight, and knew the very
tint and texture of its gossip. While I sipped my coffee, I listened
to them with one ear, and to Wagner's overture to “Lohengrin” with
the other; and I should soon have been wholly occupied with the fine
orchestra had I not been caught and startled by an unexpected name.
“Have you noticed,” some one asked, “how much attention the Baron von
Herisau is paying her?”