AND so it continued throughout the inquest and throughout the
trial—for, yes, they tried me for my sweetheart’s murder. I ate,
drank, slept, and answered the questions that were put to me, all in a
dazed, dull way, but suffered no pain, no surprise, no indignation, had
no more sensation than a dead man. That Veronika had been killed, and
that I was accused of having killed her, were the facts which I heard
told and told again from morning till night each day; yet I had not the
least conception of what they signified. I was too stunned and benumbed
to realize.
The first day passed by, and the second and the third, every one of them
busy with events that meant life or death for me: yet I took no notice.
When left to myself, invariably I closed my eyes, and the stupor settled
over my senses like a cloud of smoke. When aroused, I did whatever was
required as passively as an automaton. I remember those first few days
as one remembers a hateful dream. I remember being driven in a dark,
noisy vehicle from the station-house to the city prison, and having in
the latter place a cell assigned to me which was destined to serve as my
home for many weeks. I remember making several trips, handcuffed to my
custodian, from the jail to the office where the inquest was held and
back: but my only recollection of the inquest itself is a confused
one—a crowded, foul-smelling room, a chaos of faces and voices,
endless talking, endless questioning of myself by men who were strangers
to me. I remember that by and by these journeys came to an end: but
what the verdict of the inquest was I do not remember—I do not think I
troubled myself to ask at the time. Then I remember that after some days
spent alone in my cell one of the keepers said, “You are indicted,”
and inquired whether I wished to communicate with my attorney. Indicted?
My attorney? I did not comprehend. I do not remember what I answered.
Once the door of my cell opened, and they brought in a trunk and a
violin-case and placed them on the floor at the foot of my cot.
I recognized these for my own property. Mechanically I took out my
violin and drew forth one long, clear note. That note was like a sudden
flash of light. For a single instant the desolation to which my world
had been reduced became visible in all its ghastliness. For a single
instant I realized my position, realized that Veronika was dead, and the
rest. The truth pierced my consciousness like an arrow and made my body
quake with pain. But immediately the darkness settled over me again, the
stupor returned.
Slowly, however, this stupor was changing its character. By degrees,
so far as my mere thinking faculties were involved, it began to be
dissipated. By degrees my mind struggled out of it. I began to notice
and to understand things, and was able to converse and to appreciate
what was said. But over my feelings it retained its sway. Although I
was quite competent now to follow the explanations of my lawyer—how
Veronika had been murdered and how and why I was suspected as the
murderer—still I had no feeling of any sort about the matter. I might
have been a log of wood.
My lawyer had presented himself one day and volunteered his services. I
had accepted them without even inquiring his name.
“Don’t you remember me?” he asked.