A week after the death of Hippus, Anton was sitting in his own room,
writing to Fink. He was telling him that the lawyer's corpse had been
taken out of the river at the wear at the end of the town, and that the
cause of his death was uncertain. A child belonging to the house in
which the wretched man lived had told that, on the evening of the search
made by the police, Hippus had been met in the street, near his own
dwelling; since then, nothing had been seen of him. Under these
circumstances, suicide did not appear unlikely. However, the police were
of opinion that the crushed hat afforded evidence of violence. No papers
had been found at his dwelling, and a second search had been made there
without results. Anton gave it as his own opinion respecting the fearful
event that Itzig was in some way connected with it.
At that moment the door was opened, the Galician hastily entered the
room, and, without speaking a word, laid an old pair of spectacles, set
in rusty steel, on the table before Anton, who, looking at the agitated
face before him, sprang from his seat.
"His spectacles," hoarsely whispered Tinkeles; "I found them close to
the water. Just God! that any one should have such a fright as that!"
"Whose spectacles are they, and where did you find them?" inquired
Anton, guessing at what the Galician lacked strength to tell, and
looking with horror at the dim glasses before him. "Compose yourself,
Tinkeles, and speak."
"It can not remain concealed--it cries to Heaven!" said Tinkeles, in
great excitement. "You shall hear how it came to pass. Two days after I
had spoken with you about the two hundred dollars, I went in the evening
to the sleeping-room at Löbel Pinkus's. As I entered the court a man ran
against me in the dark. I thought, is that Itzig, or is it not? I said
to myself, It is Itzig; that is his run when he runs in haste. When I
got up into the large room, it was empty, and I sat down at the table
and looked into my pocket-book; and as I sat there, the wind rose
outside, and there was a knocking in the gallery, as if some one was
knocking who wanted to get in, and could not open a door. I was
frightened, and put up my letters, and cried, 'If any one is there, let
him say so.' No one answered, but the knocking went on all the time.
Then I summoned up courage, took up the lamp, and went into the gallery,
and searched every room. I could see no one. And again there was the
knocking close to me, and then a great crack, and a door flew open,
which had never been open before, and from the door steps led down to
the water. When I put the lamp near the steps, I saw that a wet foot had
come up them, and the marks of it were to be seen all the way to the
room--wet spots on the floor. And I marveled, and said to myself,
'Schmeie,' said I, 'who has gone by night out of the water into the
room, leaving the door open, like a spirit?' And I was afraid; and
before I closed the door, I once more looked along the steps with the
lamp, and then I saw something sparkle in the light close to the water,
on the last step of all, and I ventured down one step after the other:
woe is me, Mr. Wohlfart, it was a hard task. The wind howled, and blew
my lamp about, and the staircase became as dark as a well; and that
which I picked up is yonder"--pointing to the spectacles--"the glasses
that he wore before his eyes."
"And how do you know that they are the dead man's spectacles?" asked
Anton, in painful suspense.
"I know them by the joint, which is tied round with black worsted. I
have often seen him in Pinkus's room with those spectacles on. So I hid
the spectacles, and thought to myself that I would say nothing about
them to Pinkus, but give them myself to Hippus, and see whether he could
be of use to me in business. I carried about the glasses till to-day,
expecting to see him; and when he did not come, I asked Pinkus for him,
and he answered, 'I know not where he is hiding.' And to-day, at noon,
as I entered the inn, Pinkus came running toward me, and said,
'Schmeie,' said he, 'if you want to speak to Hippus, you'll have to go
into the water; he has been found in the water.' It went through me like
a shot when he said this, and I had to hold on by the wall."
Anton went to his writing-table, dashed off a few lines to the
detective, who had not long left him, rang the bell, and desired the
servant to take the note in all haste.
Meanwhile Tinkeles had sunk down on a chair, and kept muttering
unintelligibly.
Anton, scarcely less agitated, paced up and down the room. At last the
silence was broken by the Galician raising his voice, and inquiring, "Do
not you think that the spectacles will be worth the hundred dollars you
have for me in your writing-desk?"
"I don't know," curtly replied Anton, continuing to pace up and down.
Schmeie relapsed into exhaustion and silence. At length he looked up
again and said, "At least fifty?"
"None of your bargaining at present," replied Anton, dryly.
"Why not?" cried Tinkeles, in dudgeon. "I have had a great fright; is
that to go for nothing?" And he was again absorbed in distress.
The interview was interrupted by the appearance of the detective. This
experienced officer made the Galician repeat his tale, took the
spectacles, ordered a coach for himself and the reluctant Tinkeles, and
said to Anton as he left, "Prepare for a sudden clearing up; whether I
shall carry out my purpose is still uncertain, but there is a prospect
for you of finding the documents you seek."
"At what a cost!" cried Anton, shuddering.
The drawing-room in Ehrenthal's house was brilliantly lit up, and
through the drawn curtain a slight glimmer fell upon the small rain that
sank down like mist on the streets. Several rooms were opened; heavy
silver candelabra stood about; bright tea-services, gay sets of
porcelain--every thing in the house had been brushed up, washed, and
displayed; the dark floor had been newly waxed; even the cook had a
newly plaited cap--in short, the whole house was renovated. The fair
Rosalie stood in the midst of all this splendor, in a dress of yellow
silk, trimmed with purple flowers, gorgeous as a <i>houri</i> of Paradise,
and, like them, prepared to receive her elect. Her mother smoothed the
thick folds of her dress, looked triumphantly at her, and said, in a
transport of motherly love, "How beautiful you are to-day, Rosalie, my
only child!"
But Rosalie was too much accustomed to this admiration to heed it, and
went on trying to fasten a bracelet on her round arm. "It was really too
bad of Itzig to bring me turquoises; he ought to have known that they
are out of fashion."
"They are very handsomely set," said her mother, soothingly. "The gold
is massive, and the pattern quite new."
"And where is Itzig? To-day, at least, he ought to come early; the
relatives will all be here before the bridegroom," said Rosalie,
complainingly.
"He will be here in time," replied Itzig's patroness. "You know how he
toils and moils that you may have a brilliant establishment. You are
fortunate," said she, with a sigh; "you are now entering upon life, and
you will be a lady of consequence. You must go to the capital for a few
weeks after your marriage, to spend the honeymoon quietly, and be
introduced to my relations; and, meanwhile, I shall have this story
furnished for you, and will move up stairs, and spend the rest of my
life in nursing Ehrenthal."
"Will my father make his appearance to-day?" inquired Rosalie.
"He must do so on account of our relations. He must pronounce the
paternal blessing upon you."
"He is sure to bring disgrace upon us, and to talk nonsense again," said
the dutiful daughter.
"I have told him what he is to say," answered her mother; "and he
nodded, to show that he understood me."
The bell rang, the door opened, and company appeared. The room soon
filled. Ladies in gorgeous gold-embroidered silk dresses, with sparkling
chains and ear-rings, occupied the large sofa and arm-chairs around.
They were mostly large in figure, with here and there a pair of lustrous
eyes and a set of handsome features. They looked like a gay tulip-bed
out of which the gardener has rooted every sober-colored flower. Behind
them stood the gentlemen, with cunning faces and hands in their pockets,
altogether much less imposing and agreeable to behold. Thus all the
company waited for the bridegroom, who still delayed his coming.
At length he appeared. His eyes wandered suspiciously around; his voice
faltered as he accosted his betrothed. He strove to the utmost to find
some polite words to say to the beautiful girl, and could almost himself
have laughed savagely at the blank he felt within. He did not see her
brilliant eyes, her gorgeous bust, and magnificent attire. Even when at
her side he was obliged to think of something else--of that of which he
was always thinking. He soon turned away from her and joined the
gentlemen, who became more conversable after his arrival. A few
commonplace observations, made by the younger men, were heard from time
to time, such as, "Miss Rosalie looks enchantingly beautiful;" and, "I
wonder whether Ehrenthal will appear;" and, "This long continuance of
fog is unusual, and very unhealthy: one is obliged to wear flannel." At
length some one uttered the words "four and a half per cent." There was
an end of detached remarks; a subject of conversation had been found.
Itzig was one of the loudest, gesticulating on all sides. They spoke of
the funds--of wool--of the failure of a money-broker who had
over-speculated in paper. The ladies were forgotten; and, being quite
accustomed to it on such occasions, they solemnly held their tea-cups in
their hands, smoothed the folds of their dresses, and moved their
throats and arms so as to make their bracelets and chains sparkle in the
light.
The conversation was now interrupted by a strange sound: a door was
opened, and in the midst of profound silence a heavy arm-chair was
rolled into the room.
In the arm-chair sat an old, white-haired man, with a fat, swollen face,
with staring eyes, bent frame, and arms supinely hanging down. It was
Hirsch Ehrenthal, the imbecile. The chair being rolled into the midst of
the assembly, he looked slowly round, nodded, and repeated over and over
again the words he had been taught: "Good-evening--good evening." His
wife now bent over him, and, raising her voice, said in his ear, "Do you
know the company here assembled? They are our relatives."
"I know," nodded the figure; "it is a soiree. They all went to a great
soiree, and I remained alone in my room, and I sat on his bed. Where is
Bernhard, that he does not come to his old father?"
The guests who had surrounded the arm-chair now retreated in confusion;
and the lady of the house again screamed in the old man's ear, "Bernhard
is traveling, but your daughter Rosalie is here."
"Traveling?" mournfully inquired the old man. "How can he be traveling?
I wanted to buy him a horse, that he might ride it; I wanted to buy him
an estate, that he might live on it, like a respectable man, as he
always was. I know," he cried, "when I last saw him, he was in bed. He
lay on a bed, and he raised his clenched hand, and shook it at his
father."
"Come here, Rosalie," cried her mother, distressed at these
reminiscences. "When your father sees you, my child, he will have other
thoughts."
Rosalie approached, and, spreading out her handkerchief, knelt down
before the arm-chair. "Do you know me, father?" she cried.
"I know you," said the old man. "You are a woman. Why should a woman lie
on the earth? Give me my praying-cloak, and speak the prayer. I will
kneel in your place, for a long night has come upon us. When it is
past, we will kindle the lights, and will eat. It will be time to put on
gay garments then. Why do you wear gay garments now, when the Lord is
wroth with the congregation?" He began to murmur a prayer, and again
collapsed.
Rosalie rose impatiently; and her mother said, in much embarrassment,
"He is worse to-day than he has ever been. I wished your father to be
present at his daughter's betrothal, but I see that he can not perform
the duties of the head of the family. I have, then, in my character of
mother, to make a happy announcement to the company assembled." Then
solemnly taking her daughter's hand, she said, "Draw nearer, Itzig."
Hitherto Itzig had silently stood with the rest, and stared at the old
man, from time to time shrugging his shoulders, and shaking his head
over the melancholy spectacle, as became his position in the family. But
there was another form present before his eyes: he knew better than any
who it was that wailed and groaned; he knew, too, who had died and had
not forgiven. Mechanically he advanced, his eyes still fixed on
Ehrenthal. The guests now formed a circle around him and Rosalie, and
her mother took his hand.
Then the old man in the arm-chair began again. "Hush!" said he,
distinctly; "there he stands--the invisible. We go home from the burial,
and he dances among the women. He will strike down all he looks upon.
There he stands!" he screamed, and rose from his chair. "There! there!
Throw down your water-jars and fly into the house, for he who stands
there is cursed of the Lord. Cursed!" he screamed; and, clenching his
hands, he tottered like a madman toward Itzig.
Itzig's face grew ghastly; he tried to laugh, but his features quivered
with fear. Suddenly the door was opened, and his errand-boy looked
anxiously into the room. One glance sufficed to tell Itzig all that the
youth had to say. He was discovered--he was in danger. He sprang to the
door and disappeared.
Lay aside your bridal attire, fair Rosalie; throw off the turquoise
bracelet. For you there is no betrothal--no marriage feast. Soon you
will leave the town with drooping head, glad, by flying among strangers,
to escape the mockery of cruel hearts at home. The gold that your father
heaped up for his children by usury and fraud will again roll from hand
to hand, will serve good and bad alike, will swell the mighty tide of
wealth by which human life is sustained and adorned, peoples and states
made great and powerful, and individuals strong or weak, each according
to his work.
Without, the night was dark, small rain was falling, and the air was
chill. Itzig rushed down the steps. A trembling voice called out after
him, "The police are in the house; they are breaking open the
room-door." He heard no more; a horrible dread filled his soul. Thought
after thought passed through his brain with delirious rapidity. He felt
his pocket, in which he had for the last week kept a large sum of money.
It was not the hour of departure of any train that would take him to the
sea, and at all the stations he would be watched for. He ran along
through narrow streets in remote parts of the town, turning back
whenever he got near a lamp, his pace increasingly rapid, his thoughts
increasingly confused. At last his strength failed him, and he cowered
down in a corner to collect himself. But soon he heard a watchman's
hollow horn sound near him. Here, too, was danger. Again he rushed
onward to the one and only place that stood out clearly defined in his
thoughts--the place he shuddered at, yet turned to as a last refuge. As
he neared the inn he saw a dark shadow at the door. The little lawyer
had often stood there in the dark, waiting for Veitel's return. Was he
standing there now and waiting? The wretched fugitive started back, then
approached--the door was free; he stepped in, but the shadow rose again
behind him and stood at the door. Veitel took off his boots and crept up
stairs, groped in the dark for a room door, opened it with trembling
hand, and took down a bunch of keys from the wall, with which he hurried
to the gallery, hearing, as if at a great distance, the long-drawn
breath of sleeping men. He stood at the door of the staircase; a violent
shudder convulsed him as he went down step after step. When he first put
his foot into the water he heard a lamentable groan. He clung to the
banisters as that other had done, and looked down. Again there was a
groan, and he now found out it was only his own breathing. He felt the
depth of the water with his foot. It had risen since that time--it was
higher than his knee, but he found a footing and stood safely in the
stream.
The night was dark, the rain still came down, the mist hung thick over
the houses--a gable, a paling peeping out here and there; the water
rushed along, the only sound to break the silence of the night, and in
this man's ear it roared like thunder. He felt all the torments of the
lost while wading on and groping for his way. He had to cling to the
slippery palings in order not to sink. He reached the staircase of the
next house, felt in his pockets for the key--one swing round the corner,
and his foot would be on the lowest step. Just as he was about to turn
he started back, his raised foot fell into the water; he saw a dark
stooping figure on the staircase. There it sat motionless. He knew the
outline of the old hat; dark as it was, he could see the ugly features
of the well-known face. He wiped his eyes, he waved his hands to dispel
it; it was no illusion; the spectre sat there a few steps off. At length
the horrible thing stretched out a hand toward him. The murderer started
back, his foot slipped off the platform, he fell up to his neck in
water. There he stood in the stream, the wind howling over him, the
water rushing ever louder and louder. He raised his hands, his eyes
still fixed upon the vision. Slowly it rose from its seat--it moved
along the platform--it stretched out its hand. He sprang back
horror-stricken into the stream--a fall, a loud scream, the short
drowning struggle, and all was over. The stream rolled on, and carried
the corpse away.
There was a stir along the river's edge; torches flared, arms glistened,
loud shouts were heard, and from the foot of the steps a man waded into
the water and exclaimed, "He was gone before I could reach him.
To-morrow we shall find him at the wear."