I was then led back to my prison. My bed, as before mentioned, had been
removed, and a straw mattress in its stead laid on the ground. The table
was firmly screwed down, and, in place of the chair, I found a very low
wooden bench.
Many days passed over in dreary captivity, without any farther
examination, and without the slightest variety. The time of a prisoner
is seldom or never a blank; it is filled up by horrible phantoms and
distorted reveries, such as have often been described, though mine
probably were of a new character. The detail of them, however, is not
within the limits of my present undertaking; I record only simple facts,
in the manner of an obtuse old chronicler; and if there be a colouring
of imagination, it is not only unsought, but unwelcome and involuntary.
During these three days, I did not behold the features of any living
being, except the peevish face of an old sub-janitor, who brought my
food, and in the evening lighted my lamp. Hitherto, I had felt like a
warrior, who, in a mood of martial excitement, was determined, at all,
risks, to meet danger and fight his way to the last; but such passion
had now time enough to decline entirely away.
I fell into a dark melancholy trance, during which all things became
indifferent. Even the cherished vision of Aurelia had faded, or floated
in dim colours before me. But unless I had been in body as much
disordered as in mind, this state of apathy could not, of necessity,
continue long. In a short time my spirit was again roused, only to feel
in all its force the horrid influence of nausea and oppression, which
the dense atmosphere of the prison had produced, and against which I
vainly endeavoured to contend.
In the night I could no longer sleep. In the strange flickering shadows
which the lamp-light threw upon the walls, myriads of distorted visages,
one after another, or hundreds at a time, seemed to be grinning out upon
me. To avoid this annoyance, I extinguished my lamp, and drew the upper
mattress over my head--but in vain! It was now dark, indeed, but the
spectres were visible by their own light, like portraits painted on a
dark ground, and I heard more frightfully the hollow moans and rattling
chains of the prisoners, through the horrid stillness of the night.
Often did it seem to me as if I heard the dying groans of Hermogen and
Euphemia. "Am I then guilty of your destruction? Was it not your own
iniquity that brought you under the wrath of my avenging arm?" One night
I had broken out furiously with these words, when, on the silence that
for a moment succeeded, there distinctly and unequivocally arose a long
deep-drawn sigh or groan, differing from the noises which had disturbed
me before. The latter might have been imaginary--this was assuredly
real, and the sound was reverberated through the vault. Driven to
distraction, I howled out--"It is thou, Hermogen!--the hour of thy
vengeance is come--there is for me no hope of rescue!"
* * * * *
It might be on the tenth night of my confinement, when, half-fainting
with terror, I lay stretched out on the cold floor of my prison. I
distinctly heard on the ground directly under me a light, but very
audible knocking, which was repeated at measured intervals. I listened
attentively. The noise was continued, as if with the determination to
attract attention, and occasionally I could distinguish a strange sound
of laughter, that also seemed to come out of the earth.
I started from the floor, and threw myself on the straw couch; but the
beating continued, with the same detestable variety of laughter and
groans. At last I heard a low, stammering, hoarse voice syllabically
pronounce my name--"Me-dar-dus!--Me-dar-dus!"--My blood ran ice cold
through every vein; but with a vehement effort I gained courage enough
to call out, "Who's there?"--The laughter now became louder--the beating
and groaning were renewed; again the stammering demon addressed
me--"Me-dar-dus!--Me-dar-dus!"
I rose from bed, and stamped on the floor. "Whoever thou art," cried I;
"man or devil, who art thus adding to the torments of an already
miserable captive, step forth visibly before mine eyes, that I may look
on thee, or desist from this unmeaning persecution!" The beating was now
right under my feet. "He--he--he!--he--he--he!--Broth-er,--Broth-er!
Open the door!--I am here--am here! Let us go hence to the wood--to the
wood!"
Now, methought I recognised the voice as one that I had known before,
but it was not then so broken and so stammering. Nay, with a chill
shivering of horror, I almost began to think there was something in the
accents that I now heard, resembling the tones of my own voice, and
involuntarily, as if I wished to try whether this were really so, I
stammered, in imitation, "Me-dar-dus!--Me-dar-dus!"
Hereupon the laughter was renewed, but it now sounded scornful and
malicious.--"Broth-er,--Broth-er," said the voice, "do you know me
again?--Open the door--the--the door!--We shall go hence, to the
wood--to the wood!" "Poor insane wretch!" said I; "I cannot open the
door for thee--I cannot enable thee to go forth into the pleasant woods,
to hear the fresh rustling of the leaves, or breathe the fragrance of
Heaven's pure atmosphere. I am, as thou art, shut up, hopeless and
abandoned, within the gloomy walls of a prison."
To this address I was answered only by sobs and moans, as if from the
bitterness of despairing grief; and the knocking became always more
faint and indistinct, till at last it ceased altogether; and from
exhaustion, I sunk into troubled slumber.
At length the morning light had broke in slanting gleams through the
window; the locks and keys rattled, and the gaoler, whom I had not seen
for many days, entered my room.
"Through the last night," said he, "we have heard all sorts of strange
noises in your apartment, and loud speaking. What means this?"
"I am in the habit," answered I, "of talking loudly in my sleep, and
even when awake I indulge in soliloquy. May not this much of liberty be
granted me?"
"Probably," said the gaoler, "it is known to you, that every endeavour
to escape, or to keep up conversation with any of your fellow-prisoners,
will be interpreted to your disadvantage?" I declared that I had never
formed any intentions of that kind; and after a few more surly remarks,
he withdrew.
Some hours after this, I was again summoned, as before, to the hall of
judgment. It was not, however, the judge by whom I had before been
examined, but a very different personage, who now sat on the bench. He
was a man apparently much younger in years, but far surpassing his
predecessor in cleverness and versatility.
Laying aside all the formality of office, he left his place, came up to
me in the friendliest manner, and invited me to take a chair.
Even at this moment his appearance is vividly present to my
recollection. In constitution he seemed, for his time of life, to be
much broken down; he was very bald, and wore spectacles. But in his
whole demeanour there was so much of kindness and good-humour, that, on
this account alone, I found it would be difficult for any one, but the
most reckless and hardened of criminals, to resist his influence.
His questions were thrown out lightly, almost in the style of ordinary
conversation, but they were well contrived, and so precisely couched,
that it was impossible to avoid giving him decisive answers.
"In the first place, I must ask you," said he, "whether all that you
have before deponed is perfectly consistent with truth; or, at least,
whether many other circumstances may not have occurred to you as
requisite to be told, in order to corroborate your former statement?"
"No," said I. "I have already freely communicated every circumstance
which I could mention, or which it can be necessary to mention, as to
the tenor of my simple and uniform life."
"Have you never associated much with clergymen, and with monks?"
"Yes--In Cracow, in Dantzig, Koenigsberg, Frauenberg. In the latter place
especially, with two lay monks, who officiated there as priest and
_capellan_."
"You did not state before that you were in Frauenberg?"
"Because I did not think it worth while to mention a short residence
there of about eight days, on my way from Dantzig to Koenigsberg."
"So, you are a native of Kwicziczwo?"
This question the judge put in the Polish language, and in the most
correct dialect, (all the while looking quite unconcerned, as if his
use of that language had been on the present occasion a matter of
course.)
For a moment this overthrew all my self-possession. I rallied, however;
tried to recollect what little Polish I had learned from my friend
Krczinski, and made shift to answer--
"On a small landed property of my father, near Kwicziczwo."
"What was the name of this estate?"
"Krczinzicswo--the family estate of my relations."
"For a native Pole, you do not pronounce your own language remarkably
well. To say the truth, you speak it rather like a German--How is this?"
"For many years I have spoken nothing but German. Even while in Cracow,
I had much intercourse with German students, who wished to learn from me
our difficult language. Unawares, I may have accustomed myself to their
accent, as one finds it very easy, when living in particular districts
of the country, to adopt provincialisms."
The judge here looked significantly on me. A slight smile passed over
his features; and, turning to the secretary, he dictated to him
something in a whisper, of which I could distinctly make out the words
"visibly embarrassed." Hereupon I wished to say something farther, in
excuse for my bad Polish, but the judge gave me no opportunity.
"Have you never been in Koenigswald, where there is a large Capuchin
Convent?"
"Never."
"The way hither from Koenigsberg should have led you to that town."
"I took another road."
"Have you never been acquainted with a monk from the convent there?"
"Never."
On receiving this answer, the judge rung the bell, and in a low voice
gave an order to the attending officer.
Soon afterwards, an opposite door opened, and how was my whole frame
shaken, and my very heart withered by terror, when I beheld the old
Brother Cyrillus! The judge asked,
"Do you know this man?"
"No. I have never seen him before."
It was now the monk's turn to speak. He came nearer; looked at me
stedfastly--then clasping his hands, while tears involuntarily burst
from his eyes--"Medardus!" cried he, "Brother Medardus! In God's name,
how comes it that I find you thus horribly changed? How came you into
this condition of abandoned and obdurate wickedness? Brother Medardus,
return into thyself--Confess--Repent!--The patience and long-suffering
of God are infinite."
"Can you then recognize this man," said the judge, "for the Monk
Medardus from the Capuchin Convent in Koenigswald?"
"As I hope for Heaven's mercy," answered Cyrillus, "it is impossible for
me to think otherwise. I believe that this man, although he now appears
in a lay dress, is that very Medardus, who lived under my care as a
novice at the Capuchin Convent, and whom I attended at the altar on the
day of his consecration. Yet Medardus had on his neck a scar, in the
shape of a cross, on the left side, and if this man----"
"You perceive," interposed the judge, turning to me, "that you are
looked upon as a runaway monk from the town of Koenigswald, and you may
rightly conjecture that the real monk alluded to has been guilty of
serious crimes. But this man has a particular mark on his neck, which,
according to your own account, you cannot have. This, therefore, at once
gives you the best opportunity to prove your innocence. Untie your
neckcloth."
"There is no need of this," answered I. "It is already certain, that an
exact personal resemblance exists between myself and the fugitive
criminal, who is to me wholly unknown; for I do bear a slight scar on my
throat, such as has been described."--"Remove your neckcloth," repeated
the judge. I did so; and the scar left by the wound from the Abbess's
diamond cross, which had never been effaced, was immediately perceived.
Hereupon Cyrillus uttered a loud exclamation.--"It is--it is the same
impression of the cross," he added.--"Medardus! oh Medardus! hast thou
then renounced thy eternal weal?"--Weeping and half fainting, he sunk
into a chair.
"What answers do you now make to the assertion of this venerable man?"
said the judge.
For a moment I felt as if lifted up and inspired by supernatural
strength. It seemed as if the devil himself came and whispered to me.
"What power have these despicable weaklings over thee, who art yet
strong and undaunted in spirit and in frame? Shall not Aurelia yet
become thine?"
"This monk," said I, with great vehemence, "who sits there fainting in
his chair, is a fantastic, feeble-minded, drivelling dotard. In his
absurd visions, he takes me for a runaway capuchin from his own convent,
to whom, as it happens, I bear a personal resemblance."
The judge had till now remained perfectly tranquil, without changing his
looks, gesture, or tone. Now, however, his visage, for the first time,
assumed a dark and lowering earnestness of expression. He rose, as if
the better to observe me, and even the glare of his spectacles was
intolerable to my feelings, so that I could not utter a word more of my
intended defence. For a moment I lost all self-possession. Abandoned to
rage and despair, I struck my clenched knuckles to my forehead, and, in
a tone which must have sounded unearthly, almost shrieked out the name
"Aurelia!"
"What do you mean by that, sir?" said the judge, in a voice which,
though calm, had yet the effect of thunder, and reverberated through the
vaulted roof of the audience-chamber.
"A dark and implacable destiny," said I, "dooms me to an ignominious
death. But I am innocent--I am wholly innocent of the crimes, whatever
they may be, that are charged against me. Have compassion, therefore;
and for the present, at least, let me go. I feel that madness begins to
rage through my brain, and agitate every nerve: therefore, in mercy, let
me go!"
The judge, who had resumed his seat, and become perfectly calm, dictated
much to the secretary, of which I did not know the import. At last he
read over to me a record, in which all his questions and my answers,
with the evidence of Cyrillus, were faithfully set down. This record I
was obliged to ratify by my own signature.
The judge then requested me, in a careless tone, to write for him, on
separate slips of paper, something in Polish and in German. I did so,
without being aware what object he had in view. He then immediately gave
the German leaf to Cyrillus, with the question, "Have these characters
any resemblance to the hand-writing of your brother, Monk Medardus?"
"It is precisely his hand even to the most minute peculiarities," said
Cyrillus; and turning to me, was about to speak; but a look of the judge
admonished him to silence. The latter examined carefully the leaf which
I had written in Polish. He then rose, quitted the bench, and came down
to me.
"You are no Pole," said he, in a serious and decisive manner. "This
writing is altogether incorrect, full of errors, both in grammar and
spelling. No native Pole would write in that style, even if he were
destitute of that education which you have enjoyed."
"I was born," said I, "in Kwicziczwo, and therefore am most certainly a
Pole; but even were this not really the case, and if circumstances
compelled me to conceal my true rank and name, yet it would by no means
follow, in consequence of this, that I must turn out to be the Monk
Medardus, who, as I understand, came from the Capuchin Convent in
Koenigswald."
"Alas! Brother," interposed Cyrillus, "did not our excellent Prior send
you to Rome, placing the fullest confidence in your fidelity, prudence,
and pious conduct; and is it thus that you requite him? Brother
Medardus, for God's sake, do not any longer, in this blasphemous manner,
deny the holy profession to which you belong."
"I beg of you not to interrupt us," said the judge, and, turning again
to me, proceeded--
"It is my duty to observe to you, that the disinterested evidence of
this reverend clergyman affords the strongest presumptions, that you are
actually that runaway monk, for whom you have been arrested. At the same
time, I ought not to conceal, that various other persons will be brought
forward, who also insist that they have unequivocally recognised you for
that individual. Among them is one, to whom your escape from the due
punishment or coercion of the law would be attended by no little danger,
at all events, by no little fear and apprehension. Besides, many things
have been discovered in your own travelling equipage, which support the
allegations against you.
"Finally, sir, you may rely, that inquiries will be set on foot as to
your pretended family, on which account application is already made to
the court at Posen. All these things I explain to you the more openly,
because it belongs to my office to convince you how little I wish, by
artifice, or any undue method, to extort from you the truth, which you
wish to conceal, but which, at all events, will soon be brought to
light. Prepare yourself, therefore, before-hand, as you best can. If you
are really that criminal named Medardus the Capuchin, you may be assured
that justice will soon penetrate through your deepest disguise; and you
will learn, in due time, the precise crimes of which you are accused.
If, on the other hand, you are Mr Leonard of Kwicziczwo, and only, by
some extraordinary _lusus naturae_, forced to resemble Medardus, you will
be furnished, even by us, with clear and decisive proofs to support this
identity.
"You appeared at your first trial, in a very disordered state of mind;
therefore I wished that you should be allowed sufficient time for mature
reflection. After what has taken place to-day, you will again have ample
store for meditation."
"Then," said I, "you look upon all that I have said to-day as utter
falsehood? You behold in me only the runaway monk Medardus?"
To this I received merely a slight parting bow, with the words, "Adieu,
Herr von Krczinski;" and I was forthwith led back to my prison.