It was a dark November evening; a fog lay heavily on the town, filling
the old streets and squares, and forcing its way into the houses. It
gathered round the street-lanterns, which looked like dull red balls,
and gave no light a yard off. It hung over the river, rolled along the
black stream, under the bridge, up the steps, and clung to the wooden
pillars of the gallery. At times there would be a rift in its masses,
through which the inky stream below became visible, flowing like the
river of death along the dwellings of men.
The streets were empty. Here and there, close to a light, a form would
be seen to emerge, and then suddenly to disappear. One of these shadows
was a short man with a stoop, who unsteadily struggled onward as fast as
he could. He tottered into the court where Itzig's office was, and
looked up at the agent's windows. The curtains were drawn, but there was
a glimmer of light to be seen through them. The little man tried to
stand firm, stared at the light, clenched his fists at it, and then
going up the steps, rang once, twice, thrice. At length a muffled
footstep was heard, the door was opened, and the little man, entering,
ran through the ante-room, which Itzig shut behind him. Itzig looked
still paler than his wont, and his eyes glanced unsteadily at his
untimely guest. Hippus had never been a model of manly beauty, but
to-day he was positively uncanny. His features were sunken, a mixture of
fear and insolence sat on his ugly face, and his eyes looked maliciously
over his spectacles at his former scholar. Evidently he had been drunk;
but some feverish terror had seized him, and for a moment neutralized
the effects of the brandy.
"They are on me," he cried, grasping recklessly at empty air; "they are
on the look-out for me!"
"Who would look out for you?" asked Itzig. But he knew only too well.
"The police, you villain!" shrieked the old man. "It is on your account
that I am in trouble. I dare not go home; you must hide me."
"We are not come to that yet," returned Veitel, with all the composure
he could. "How do you know that the police are at your heels?"
"The children in the street are talking of it," cried Hippus. "I heard
it in the street when I was going to creep back to my hole. It was a
mere chance that they did not find me in my room. They are in my house,
standing on the steps, waiting till I come. You must hide me! I must
have money! I will cross the border. I can't stay here any longer; you
must send me off."
"Send you off!" repeated Itzig, gloomily. "Where to, pray?"
"Any where--where the police can not reach me--over the frontier--to
America."
"And suppose I don't choose?" said Itzig, in a tone of enmity.
"You will choose, simpleton. Are you green enough not to know what I
shall do if you don't get me out of this scrape, you varlet? They'll
have quick ears at the criminal courts for what I have to tell of you."
"You would not be so wicked as to betray an old friend," said Veitel, in
a tone that he vainly tried to make pathetic. "Do look at things more
calmly. What danger is there, even if they do arrest you? Who can prove
any thing? For want of proof they will have to let you off. You know the
law as well as the judges do."
"Indeed!" screamed the old man, spitefully. "You think I shall go to
prison for the sake of a fellow like you? that I shall sit eating bread
and water, while you are feeding upon the fat of the land, and laughing
at the old ass Hippus? I will not go to prison; I will be off; and, till
I can get off, you must hide me."
"You can't remain here," darkly replied Veitel. "There is no safety here
for you or me. Jacob would betray you; the people in the house would
find out that you were here."
"Where best to take me is your look-out," said the man; "but I demand
your help, or--"
"Hold your jaw!" said Veitel, "and listen to me. If I were disposed to
give you money, and get you off by railroad to Hamburg, and over the
sea, I could not do so immediately nor without aid. You must be taken by
night a few miles hence to some small station on the line. I dare not
hire a conveyance--that might betray you; and, as you are, you can not
walk. I must look out for some opportunity of getting you off safely.
Meanwhile, I must get you to some place that the police do not know you
to frequent, for I fear they will look for you here. If you don't go
home, they will probably come here this very night. I must go and
inquire for a conveyance and a safe shelter. Meanwhile, stay in the back
room till I return."
He opened the door, and Mr. Hippus slipped in like a frightened bat. But
as Veitel was about to shut the door upon him, the old creature pushed
between it and the wall, crying in high dudgeon, "I will not remain in
the dark like a rat; you must leave me a light. I will have a light, you
devil!"
"They will see from below that there is a light in the room, and that
will betray us."
"I will not sit in the dark!" screamed the old man once more.
Muttering a curse, Veitel took up the lamp and carried it into the inner
room. Then he closed the door and hurried into the street. Very
cautiously he approached the dwelling of Löbel Pinkus. There all was
still; and, looking into the bar, he discerned Pinkus sitting among his
guests in all the security of a good conscience. He crept up the steps
to his former abode, then took some rusty keys from a hidden corner,
carefully examined the sleeping-room, and saw with satisfaction that it
was both dark and empty. He hurried on to the gallery, where he remained
for a moment looking at the rolling cloud-masses and the dusky stream.
Every thing was favorable, but there was not an instant to be lost, for
a capricious breeze sometimes blew over the water, and the fog seemed to
be breaking up. In a short time the wind would clearly reveal the
stream, the outlines of the houses, and the lanterns, which now looked
like red specks at the corners of the streets.
Itzig hurried on next to the end of the gallery, and turned the key in a
door which concealed the way down the steps. The door creaked as it
opened. Itzig went down to the river and tried to ascertain its depth.
The platform which ran along the base of the houses, and which was
generally visible the whole year through, was covered; but a few strides
through the water would lead from these steps to those of the
neighboring house. Veitel stared down into the river, and put his foot
into it to see how deep one would have to wade before reaching those
steps. So occupied was he with the escape of the old man, that he did
not heed, did not even feel the cold. The water rose to his knee. He
looked round once more. All was darkness, mist, silence, like that of
the grave, but for the wail of the water and the rising wind.
Meanwhile Hippus tried to make himself comfortable. After having sent
all manner of curses after Veitel, he gave his troubled mind to the
investigation of the room. He went to a low cupboard, turned the key,
and looked for some fluid that might restore his sinking strength and
refresh his parched gums. He found a bottle of rum, poured its contents
into a glass, and gulped it down as fast as the fiery nature of the
poison allowed. A cold sweat immediately broke out on his brow, and,
drawing a remnant of a handkerchief from his pocket, he hurriedly wiped
his face, and reeled up and down the room, talking to himself.
"He is a fool! a rascally, cowardly hare! a miserable chafferer! If I
wanted to sell him this old handkerchief, he could not help buying; it
is his nature; he is a despicable creature. And he tries to defy me, and
put me in prison; and he is to sit, forsooth, on this sofa, with the
rum-bottle at his side--the scoundrel!" Then taking up the empty bottle,
he dashed it against the woodwork of the sofa and broke it to pieces.
"Who was he?" he went on, in increasing rage; "a chaffering
jack-pudding. I have made him what he is, the noodle. If I whistle, he
dances; he is only the decoy, I am the bird-catcher." Here Hippus tried
to whistle a tune, and to execute a few steps. Again the cold sweat
rained from his brow, and, taking out his handkerchief, he dried his
face, and carefully replaced the rag in his pocket. "He does not
return," he suddenly cried; "he leaves me here, and they will find me."
Then running to the door and violently shaking it, "The villain has
locked me in--a Jew has locked me in!" shrieked the miserable creature,
wringing his hands. "I am to die of hunger and thirst in this prison.
Oh, he has used me ill--used his benefactor basely; he is an ungrateful
wretch, an unnatural son!" At this he began to sob: "I have nursed him
when he was sick, I have taught him knowing tricks, I have made a man
of him, and this is how he rewards his old friend." The lawyer wept
aloud. Suddenly stopping before the mirror, he started at his own
reflection. His eyes flashed still more angrily as, pushing his
spectacles more firmly on, he examined the frame. He knew that mirror.
Had chance brought one of the articles belonging to his better days into
Pinkus's secret stores, and thence to Veitel's room, or did some
resemblance mislead the drunkard? At all events, the thoughts it awoke
of his former position filled him with rage. "It is my mirror," he
screamed--"my own mirror that the rascal has here;" and, rushing wildly
about the room, he snatched up a chair, and struck the mirror with it.
The glass soon rattled down in a hundred pieces, but he went on
belaboring the frame and screaming like a madman. "It hung in my house;
the rogue has stolen my mirror--he has stolen my prosperity." He poured
forth hideous imprecations against the supposed thief.
At that moment Veitel rushed in, having heard the noise from the
ante-room, and guessing its cause. As soon as the lawyer saw him, he ran
at him with the raised chair, crying out, "You have brought me to want,
and you shall pay for it," aimed a blow at Itzig's head. But the latter
pushed the chair away, and seized hold of the old man with all his
strength. Hippus struggled and cursed in vain.
Veitel forced him down into a corner of the sofa, and whispered, as he
held him down, "If you do not keep quiet, old man, it's all over with
you."
When the drunkard saw in Itzig's eyes, which were fixed upon his, that
he had the worst to apprehend from his anger, the paroxysm left him, he
sank down powerless, and muttered in a low voice, while shuddering all
over, "He will kill me."
"Not if you are quiet, you drunken fool; what devil drove you to destroy
my room?"
"He will kill me," mumbled the old man, "because I have found my
mirror."
"You are mad," cried Veitel, shaking him. "Collect your senses; you
can't stay here. You must come away; I have a hiding-place for you."
"I won't go with you," wailed Hippus; "you want to kill me."
Veitel uttered a horrible curse, took up the old man's shabby hat,
forced it on, and, seizing him by the neck, cried, "You must come, or
you are lost. The police will look for you here--and find you too, if
you lose any more time. Come, or you'll oblige me to do you a mischief."
The old man's strength was broken; he wavered. Veitel took him by the
arm, and drew him unresistingly away. He took him down the steps,
anxiously looking round for fear of meeting any one.
In the cold night air the lawyer's senses partially returned, and Veitel
enjoined him to be silent, and to follow him, and he would get him off.
"He will get me off," mechanically repeated Hippus, running along at his
side. As they neared Pinkus's house, Veitel proceeded more cautiously.
Leading his companion through the dark ground floor, and whispering,
"Take my hand, and come quietly up stairs with me," they reached the
large public room, which was still empty. Much relieved, Veitel said,
"There is a hiding-place in the next house; you must go there."
"I must go there," repeated the old man.
"Follow me," cried Veitel, leading him along the gallery, and then down
the covered staircase.
The old man tottered down the steps, firmly holding the coat of his
guide, who had almost to carry him. In this way they came down step
after step till they reached the last one, over which water was rushing.
Veitel went first, and unconcernedly stepped up to his knee in the
stream, only intent upon leading the old man after him.
As soon as Hippus felt the cold on his boot, he stood still and cried
out, "Water!"
"Hush!" angrily whispered Veitel; "not a word."
"Water!" screamed the old man. "Help! he will murder me!"
Veitel seized him and put his hand on his mouth; but the fear of death
had again roused the lawyer's energies, and, placing his foot on the
next step, he clung as firmly as he could to the banisters, and again
screamed out, "Help!"
"Accursed wretch!" muttered Veitel, gnashing his teeth with rage at this
determined resistance; then, forcing his hat over his face, he took him
by the neckcloth with all his strength, and hurled him into the water.
There was a splash--a heavy fall--a hollow gurgling--and all was still.
Beneath the leaden clouds that overhung the river, a dark mass might be
seen rolling along with the current. Soon it disappeared; the mist
concealed it; the stream rushed on; the water broke wailingly over the
steps and palings, and the night-wind kept howling out its monotonous
complaint.
The murderer stood for a few moments motionless in the darkness, leaning
against the staircase railings. Then he slowly went up the steps. While
doing so he felt his trowsers to see how high up they were wet. He
thought to himself that he must dry them at the stove this very night,
and saw in fancy the fire in the stove, and himself sitting before it in
his dressing-gown, as he was accustomed to do when thinking over his
business. If he had ever in his life known comfortable repose, it had
been when, weary of the cares of the day, he sat before his stove-fire
and watched it till his heavy eyelids drooped. He realized how tired he
was now, and what good it would do him to go to sleep before a warm
fire. Lost in the thought, he stood for a moment like one overcome with
drowsiness, when suddenly he felt a strange pressure within
him--something that made it difficult to breathe, and bound his breast
as with iron bars. Then he thought of the bundle that he had just thrown
into the river; he saw it cleave the flood; he heard the rush of water,
and remembered that the hat which he had forced over the man's face had
been the last thing visible on the surface--a round, strange-looking
thing. He saw the hat quite plainly before him--battered, the rim half
off, and two grease-spots on the crown. It had been a very shabby hat.
Thinking of it, it occurred to him that he could smile now if he chose.
But he did not smile. Meanwhile he had got up the steps. As he opened
the staircase door, he glanced along the dark gallery through which two
had passed a few minutes before, and only one returned. He looked down
at the gray surface of the stream, and again he was sensible of that
singular pressure. He rapidly crept through the large room and down the
steps, and on the ground floor ran up against one of the lodgers in the
caravansera. Both hastened away in different directions without
exchanging a word.
This meeting turned his thoughts into another direction. Was he safe?
The fog still lay thick on the street. No one had seen him go in with
Hippus, no one had recognized him as he went out. The investigation
would only begin when they found the old man in the river. Would he be
safe then?
These thoughts passed through the murderer's mind as calmly as though he
were reading them in a book. Mingled with them came doubts as to whether
he had his cigar-case with him, and as to why he did not smoke a cigar.
He cogitated long about it, and at length found himself returned to his
dwelling. He opened the door; the last time he had opened the door a
loud noise had been heard in the inner room. He listened for it now. He
would give any thing to hear it. A few minutes ago it had been to be
heard. Oh, if those few minutes had never been! Again he felt that
hollow pressure, but more strongly, ever more strongly than before. He
entered the room, the lamp still burned, the fragments of the rum-bottle
lay about the sofa, the bits of broken mirror shone like silver dollars
on the floor. Veitel sat down exhausted. Then it occurred to him that
his mother had often told him a childish story in which silver dollars
fell upon a poor man's floor. He could see the old Jewess sitting at the
hearth, and he, a small boy, standing near her. He could see himself
looking anxiously down on the dark earthen floor, wondering whether the
white dollars would fall down for him. Now he knew--his room looked just
as if there had been a rain of white dollars. He felt something of the
restless delight which that tale of his mother had always awaked, when
again came suddenly that same hollow pressure. Heavily he rose, stooped,
and collected the broken glass. He put all the pieces into a corner of
the cupboard, detached the frame from the wall, and put it wrong-side
out in a corner. Then he took the lamp, and the glass which he used to
fill with water for the night; but as he touched it a shudder came over
him, and he put it down. He who was no more had drunk out of that glass.
He took the lamp to his bedside and undressed. He hid his trowsers in
the cupboard, and brought out another pair, which he rubbed against his
boots till they were dirty at the bottom. Then he put out the lamp, and
as it flickered before it went quite out, the thought struck him that
human life and a flame had something in common. He had extinguished a
flame. And again that pain in the breast, but less clearly felt, for his
strength was exhausted, his nervous energy spent. The murderer slept.
But when he wakes! Then the cunning will be over and gone with which his
distracted mind has tried, as if in delirium, to snatch at all manner of
trivial things and thoughts in order to avoid the one feeling which ever
weighs him down. When he wakes! Henceforth, while still half asleep, he
will feel the gradual entrance of terror and misery into his soul. Even
in his dreams he will have a sense of the sweetness of unconsciousness
and the horrors of thought, and will strive against waking, while, in
spite of his strivings, his anguish grows stronger and stronger, till,
in despair, his eyelids start open, and he gazes into the hideous
present, the hideous future.
And again his mind will seek to cover over the fact with a web of
sophistry; he will reflect how old the dead man was, how wicked, how
wretched; he will try to convince himself that it was only an accident
that occasioned his death--a push given by him in sudden anger--how
unlucky that the old man's foot should have slipped as it did! Then will
recur the doubt as to his safety; a hot flush will suffuse his pale
face, the step of his servant will fill him with dread, the sound of an
iron-shod stick on the pavement will be taken for the tramp of the armed
band whom justice sends to apprehend him. Again he will retrace every
step he took yesterday, every gesture, every word, and will seek to
convince himself that discovery is impossible. No one had seen him, no
one had heard; the wretched old man, half crazy as he was, had drawn his
own hat over his eyes and drowned himself.
And yet, through all this sophistry, he is conscious of that fearful
weight, till, exhausted by the inner conflict, he flies from his house
to his business, amid the crowd anxiously desiring to find something
that shall force him to forget. If any one on the street looks at him,
he trembles; if he meet a policeman, he must rush home to hide his
terror from those discerning eyes. Wherever he finds familiar faces, he
will press into the thick of the assembly, he will take an interest in
any thing, will laugh and talk more than heretofore; but his eyes will
roam recklessly around, and he will be in constant dread of hearing
something said of the murdered man, something surmised about his sudden
end. He may deceive his acquaintance: they will perhaps consider him
remarkably cheerful, and one and the other will say, "Itzig is a good
fellow; he is getting on in business." He will hang on many an arm that
he never touched before, will tell merry stories, and go home gladly
with any one who asks him, because he knows that he can not be alone. He
will frequent the coffee-houses and beer-shops to hunt out acquaintance,
and will drink and be as much excited as they, because he knows that he
dare not be alone.
And when, late of an evening, he returns home, tired to death and worn
out by his fearful struggle, he feels lighter hearted, for he has
succeeded in obscuring the truth, he is conscious of a melancholy
pleasure in his weariness, and awaits sleep as the only good thing earth
has still to offer him. And again he will fall asleep, and when he
awakes the next morning he will have to begin his fearful task anew. So
will it be this day, next day, always, so long as he lives. His life is
no longer like that of another man; his life is henceforth a battle, a
horrible battle with a corpse, a battle unseen by all, yet constantly
going on. All his intercourse with living men, whether in business or in
society, is but a mockery, a lie. Whether he laughs and shakes hands
with one, or lends money and takes fifty per cent. from another, it is
all mere illusion on their part. He knows that he is severed from human
companionship, and that all he does is but empty seeming; there is only
one who occupies him, against whom he struggles, because of whom he
drinks, and talks, and mingles with the crowd, and that one is the
corpse of the old man in the water.