(_Das Grosse Malefizbuch._ HERAUSGEGEBEN VON WILHELM V. CHEZY. Landshut:
1847.)
The peculiar and powerful interest attaching to narratives of remarkable
crimes, and of their judicial investigation, is abundantly evidenced by
the avidity with which that class of literature is invariably pounced
upon by the public. Independently of the romance incidental to the
subject, of the doubts and intricacies and conflicting circumstances of
extraordinary criminal trials, well calculated to captivate the
imagination of the vulgar, and rivet attention on their recital,—such
cases possess a psychological interest, making itself felt by the least
intelligent of readers, appealing with almost equal force to the
scantily educated and to the scholar, to inexperienced youth and
thoughtful age. By the former, it is true, the exact process by which
such narratives lay hold upon the feelings and imagination, may not be
easily detected, but the charm, if unseen, is not the less potent. The
great success and enduring reputation of books of this kind, are the
best proof of their strong and universal fascination. Whilst the legal
works of GAYOT DE PITAVAL are long since shelved and forgotten, the
title of his _Causes Célébres_[1] continues as familiar to our ear as
those of the most notable literary productions of our own century; the
book itself—of frequent reference, and found in every library of
importance—has obtained the honours of repeated translation, and of
reproduction in numerous forms. Those twenty volumes, it might be
thought, were an ample supply of this species of reading, sufficient to
stock the world and blunt the public appetite for such records. But the
varieties of the subject are inexhaustible, as much so as the infinite
shades and capricious directions of human passions, the unceasing
diversity and perverse ingenuity of human crime. And Richer’s
continuation of what Pitaval began, found as eager readers as its
compiler could reasonably desire. In later times, two Germans, Messrs
Hitzig and Häring, have edited with considerable success a work of a
similar nature.[2] Others doubtless will appear. There can be no lack of
materials. Each successive half-century yields matter for a new and
lengthy series. Meanwhile, and although civilisation, impotent wholly to
check crime, is also unable to strip its annals of novelty and pungency,
the remarkable criminal records of ruder ages are frequently recurred to
and reproduced, as wilder and more romantic in their nature than those
of a recent day. Alexander Dumas has collected from various quarters a
voluminous work of this nature; and, although its greater portion was
already a thrice-told tale, the book is one of the most popular of his
multifarious productions. Feuerbach the celebrated jurist, the impartial
narrator and critic of the extraordinary history of Caspar Hauser, the
indefatigable labourer in the arid vineyard of the law, whose lightest
literary pastime would to most men have been toil,[3] deemed it not
unworthy his learned pen to collate and comment two volumes of
trials,[4]—volumes familiarised to the English reader by a recent
translation. His well-stored mind and skilful handling imparted new
depth and value to the subject, and doubtless the book would not so long
have awaited a transfer into our language, but for the warlike
circumstances and interrupted Continental communication of the period at
which its first edition appeared. The interest of such narratives is no
way diminished from their scene being in a foreign land; indeed, it is
most engrossing when exotic, since the illustrations of the peculiar
laws and characteristics of other nations is then superadded to that of
the eccentricities of crime. And, perhaps, the most fertile field at the
disposal of the curious in such matters, is afforded by that wide
country, claiming to include in its bond of brotherhood every land
wherein the German tongue resounds. The variety of the laws by which the
kingdoms and provinces of Germany have at different times been governed,
tends greatly to diversify its criminal calendar. And, doubtless, in
many old libraries, private and public, in the dusty and rarely-opened
book-cases of provincial barons and _Freiherrn_, on the shelves of
museums, and in municipal collections (scarce less neglected and unread)
of ancient books and manuscripts, much curious reading of this
description, well worthy of publicity, lies buried and forgotten.
Footnote 1:
_Causes Célébres et Intéressantes_, by FRANÇOIS GAYOT DE PITAVAL.
Paris: 1734.
Footnote 2:
_Neuer Pitaval._ Leipzig: 1842-6.
Footnote 3:
He beguiled his leisure by a metrical translation of, and commentary
on, the Indian poem, _Gita Gowinda_.
Footnote 4:
_Merkwürdige Criminalrechtsfälle._ ERFURT, 1808-11. A third edition
appeared in 1839, under the title of _Merkwürdige Verbrechen_.
It is from a literary lumber-room of this kind, we suspect, that Mr
Chézy has extracted the contents of the three curious volumes now before
us, containing, as their old French name implies, details of crimes and
malefactors. “What we,” he tells us in his preface, “are wont to call
criminal archives, were in many places styled by our forefathers
‘Malefice-books,’ records kept partly by the public executioner, who, in
his capacity of torturer, had frequent occasion to share in criminal
investigations.” From this passage, and from the expression
_herausgegeben_ (edited) in the title-page, we understand that the
“_Grosse Malefizbuch_” is not to be viewed as an original composition,
which the word _verfasser_, (author) employed in the preface, might have
led us to believe. This makes a certain difference in the critical view
to be taken of the book. Were it a mere fiction, intended as an
imitation of the probable style of the headsman, inditing, chiefly as
matter of duty, but yet not without a certain rude feeling and interest
in the task, the crimes and circumstances his sanguinary profession
brought under his notice, we should admit some skill in the tone
adopted. But, as an editor, Mr Chézy has performed his part in a lazy
and slovenly fashion. He appears to have contented himself with merely
modernising the orthography, and (slightly) the language. With excellent
stuff to work upon, he had it in his power to make a very complete and
remarkable book: he has been contented to put forward a meagre and
deficient one. We would not have had him greatly alter the text. Here
and there a little curtailment might have been advantageously practised,
or a paragraph judiciously interpolated. But the volumes should have
been richly garnished with notes and commentaries, instead of being
wholly without them. From the first page to the last not a line
appears—at the end of each volume we vainly seek an appendix—explanatory
of the singular usages so frequently referred to; referred to usually in
as cursory and off-hand a way as if they were matters of present custom,
to which all men were still habituated, and concerning which none needed
enlightenment. Mr Chézy seems conscious of his fault, for he tells us,
in a half apologetic tone, to bear in mind that he is a poet, and not a
scholar. No great depth of scholarship was essential for what we would
have had him do. A very moderate amount of study and patience would have
put him in possession of the necessary information. Its want is wofully
felt as we wander through his bald pages, at whose foot not the smallest
fragment of a note attracts the reader’s eye, and removes the tantalised
feeling with which he encounters distant and unexplained allusions, and
is compelled to guess their purport. “This work,” says Mr Chézy,
“intended to represent men and circumstances as they once may have been,
is not confined within the limits of the documental authority. The
Malefizbuch may be styled a poetical Pitaval.” In view of this professed
design of poetising his materials, and of conveying, through a romantic
medium, information concerning old times and obsolete customs, we can
but repeat that the author’s performance has fallen short of his
project. But the subject was too good to be wholly spoiled, even by the
clumsiest treatment, with which, however, it would hardly be fair to
charge Mr Chézy, whose faults are rather of omission than commission.
And the anathemas we are tempted, in our progress through his pages, to
invoke upon his head, are frequently checked by the occurrence of
interesting passages and striking incidents.
The three volumes of the Malefizbuch are various in the form and nature
of their contents, although all bear reference to the same subject, and
illustrate, in different points of view, the criminal laws and customs
of a rude, cruel, and superstitious period. Besides the absence of
notes, the author is guilty of the common German carelessness about
dates and places, and is often very vague in his indication of both.
This is especially the case with his first volume, which many readers
will consider the best, by reason of a certain melancholy interest
running through it. We are appealed to for our sympathy with the
misfortunes of an executioner’s son, who, after absenting himself from
his country, and obtaining an education superior to his station, is
compelled to accept the loathsome inheritance of his father, and wield
axe and work rack in obedience to the law’s stern dictates. This volume
(each volume has a special title, independently of the general one) is
called “Ten Narratives from Master Hammerling’s Life and Memoirs.” They
are chapters rather than detached narratives, for a connecting thread
runs through them, and they in fact form a complete history of the
childhood and youth of _Meister Hämmerling_, the German Jack Ketch. The
name of the latter personage upon an English title-page, would be
suggestive of little beyond the drop at Newgate, and penny tracts sold
at street corners. But none who have any acquaintance with the German
headsman of the middle ages, will be so unjust as to class him with the
vulgar and prosaic official who executes in England the last sentence of
the law. Formerly, by the laws of the empire, the SCHARFRICHTER was held
_ehrbar_ or of honourable repute. The broad bright sword was the only
instrument of death he condescended to touch, and consequently his
dealings were with men of gentle blood, for whom decapitation was
especially reserved. Infamous chastisements were inflicted by the
dishonouring hands of the _Henker_ or common hangman, who was considered
_anrüchig_ or infamous. Gradually, the two offices were blended in one,
the headsman’s privileges were abridged or became totally obsolete; and
the grim romance attaching to the stern saturnine man who, on days of
notable executions, appeared on the scaffold in bright scarlet mantle,
and peaked hat with sable feather, and with one flashing sweep of his
terrible blade severed heads from shoulders of well-born criminals, was
dissipated and forgotten. Still, on the crowded and diversified canvass
of the middle ages, the strange figure stands prominently forth,
recalling, by its associations, many a dark deed and wild legend. But
the change is great since then. “The executioner now-a-days,” says Mr
Chézy, “is a citizen like any body else, an elector and eligible; if he
possess enough property, he may be sent as deputy to the second Chamber,
and perhaps give his vote against capital punishment. The headsman of
former centuries has faded into a tradition; and a poet may therefore be
allowed to sketch his portrait once more, perhaps for the last time, in
all its different aspects and mysterious horrors.” And without further
prelude, we are introduced to the last minister of the law, a meek and
melancholy man, who remembers, one still Sabbath morning, that it is his
bounden duty to keep up the record in the Malefizbuch, begun by his
great-grandfather, the first of his race who could write. Whilst
pondering over this necessity, he incidentally recapitulates some of his
privileges and advantages; how he is of as good descent after his kind
as the best nobleman in the holy Roman empire, tracing back his
genealogy to the days of Henry the First of Germany, surnamed the
Fowler, who nominated his ancestor to the office of executioner, since
when the family has held house and ground, goods and profits, in fief of
the crown. And how he is no way subject to the authorities of the land,
further than that he is bound to serve them with sword, axe, wheel and
cord, with ladder, screws and tongs, pitch, sulphur and rods, either in
his own person or by his assistants, as his letter of privileges
dictates. Neither is he infamous, like those of his men who remove dead
beasts and do such like unclean work; and, whoever addresses him with
contemptuous speech, shall be fined according to law of the empire, as
if he had insulted a lord of the council. Finally, when the number of
unfortunates slain by his hand shall exceed five hundred, the headsman
has a right, if it so please him, to abandon his charge, and mix once
more upon equal terms with his fellow-citizens. After this
recapitulation, Master Hammerling takes up his own history from the day
of his birth, when he was laid in his father’s arms as he returned from
burning an old witch upon the market-place. This he finds set down in
his father’s hand-writing, and also how he was christened by the name of
Berthold, on the very day on which Black Hannah, the child-murderess,
was executed; whilst her accomplice, long Heinz, was compelled to look
on at the execution, and was then flogged out of the town and district.
The latter would have been hung, had not the executioner saved him, in
virtue of an old privilege, which he exercised less out of love for
Heinz than for fear of its becoming annulled by disuse. Had a daughter
instead of a son been born to him, he had a right to save the poor girl
who had fallen victim to a base seducer. So was it set forth in the
headsman’s charter.
Berthold Benz traces back his recollections to a very early period of
his childhood, and in his manner of narrating them there is a quaint sad
simplicity, by no means unattractive. “My mother, God help her!” he
says, “right well do I remember her; and though I should live a hundred
and many hundred years, I still shall ever have her before me, with her
kindly blue eyes and her ringlets of the same colour as the flax which
she drew from the distaff with her slender white fingers, and sent
whirling round the spindle. We were always alone; my father went about
his affairs, and of the servants none came near us in our apartment, or
in our little flower-garden—parted by hedge and fence from the rest of
the court—save and except fat Grethel, a sturdy broad-footed Swabian
girl, my mother’s cousin, and taken in by her for the love of God.” And
Berthold was happy at his mother’s knee, and in his childish fancy
deemed the headsman’s hereditary dwelling, with its high surrounding
wall, to be little short of a fortress, and held the vaulted
sitting-room, with its three narrow windows, at least equal to any hall
in the proud castle that towered upon the cliff beyond the stream. But
his tranquil happiness lasted not long; the troubles of the doomster’s
son had an early beginning. “On a sudden, my dearest mother wept more
than she smiled, grew pale and yet paler, weak and still more weak,
until at last she was unable to lead me out into the garden. At the same
time I ceased to see my father. Neither at meals, nor as formerly, in
the chamber, of a morning, was he visible, and however early I got up,
the answer to my questions always was that he had already gone out. And
one day, Heaven only knows how it happened, dear mother was gone, and
when I screamed and wept for her, Swabian Grethel beat me, and said that
‘_she_ was my mother now.’” From this day, Berthold’s sufferings began.
Hated by his stepmother, neglected by his father, who was infatuated
with his young wife,—he was left to run wild with the executioner’s
assistants. After a while, a brother was born, and then his lot became
still harder. He was sent to sleep amongst the hay in the loft; and the
sole notice he obtained from his father was when the latter instructed
him in the duties of his office. But old Benz was a harsh teacher, and
the child preferred to receive his lessons from Arnulph, the chief
assistant, who took him with him to the town and on rambles in the
forest; taught him to sever cabbage-heads at a single stroke, and told
him, as they sat together upon the top of the lonely gallows-tree,
wonderful tales and strange anecdotes of their craft and its professors.
These Berthold drank in with greedy ear; and, although terrified at
first by the sight of the grim black gallows, of the mouldering
skeletons depending from it, and the ill-omened birds that croaked and
hovered around its summit, he soon got used to his ”father’s workshop,“
gladly climbed the ladder to his lofty perch, and enjoyed the terror of
the passing horseman whom an unexpected greeting in Arnulph’s harsh
voice caused to spur his steed in terror, and hasten on his road. “The
Thief’s Thumb,” one of the narratives of this practical joker and
hangman, is not without its wild interest, but we cannot dwell upon
episodes; our object being rather to exhibit the headsman’s social
position and peculiar privileges. One of the latter—and not the least
curious—is shown in the chapter headed “Vom Rosenthal,”—from the Valley
of Roses—in which Berthold’s adventures may properly be said to begin.
“Regularly each Saturday evening after vespers, my father (now in
heaven) went into the town, turned from the market-place into the alley
known as the Rosenthal, which winds, narrow and dark, in the direction
of the prison and behind St Kummerniss, and struck, at regular
intervals, three heavy blows upon the door of a great dark house,
bearing the sign of the Elephant. Thereupon, an old woman gave him
entrance, ushered him into a spacious arched hall, and placed a wooden
stoup of wine and a loaf of bread upon the table. Whilst he ate and
drank, a number of young women entered the room, every one of whom
handed him a silver coin, sometimes exchanged a word with him, and then
walked away in silence. Almost all these women had a strange look, the
lustre of their staring eyes was quenched, their features were drawn,
their cheeks pale, and their clothes hung loosely upon them; they looked
shyly at my father, but kindly at me, as though they would gladly have
kissed and caressed me. This, however, as I afterwards found, was
strictly forbidden them; and once, when a young girl extended her hand
to pat my cheek, my father exclaimed, ‘Away with you, hussy!’ and struck
her upon the face. Whereupon the poor girl slunk from the room, bleeding
at mouth and nose, and pursued by the laughter of her companions.”
At times, Benz would leave his son in the lower room, whilst he searched
the house to see that no strangers were there at that forbidden hour.
Then Berthold often heard screams and sounds of quarrel; and one evening
that the uproar was greater than usual, he crept in alarm from the
apartment, and found his way through the back door into a court, where a
few trees grew, and at whose further end was a grass-plot, on which
linen lay bleaching. “On the grass, near the fountain, sat a pretty
child, keeping the geese and fowls and grunting swine from the
bleaching-place, with a long stick, and when she saw me, she smiled
kindly at me. I went up to her, took the little maid’s hand, and asked
her name.
“‘I am called Elizabeth. And you?’
“‘They call me Benz,’ I replied, and, although Arnulph had constantly
warned me never to say who I was, unless asked, I thoughtlessly added:
‘and I am the headsman’s boy.’
“I shuddered at the words as I spoke them, and expected Elizabeth to
shrink from me with disgust. Instead of that she said, quite friendly,
“‘Sit down by me, Benz, and help me to watch the linen.’
“I thought myself in heaven; since dear mother had left me, I had never
known the joy of a smile from a sweet face. In a moment we two children
were the best of friends, sat hand in hand beside each other, laughed
and chattered unceasingly, and forgot the whole world besides. I asked
little Elizabeth who were her parents. She looked at me in amazement
with her great black eyes, knew not what I meant, and was only the more
bewildered by my attempted explanation. At last I heard my father’s
whistle; kissed my new friend, and ran into the house. On my way home, I
told my father what had happened, and he said the little maid was an
orphan, whose mother had died in the house, and whom old Sarah had taken
charge of. A father, however, she had never had, at least to his
knowledge. Thenceforward, I went nowhere so willingly as to the town. I
no longer cared that the passengers avoided us, and that boys pursued us
with scoff and insult. I knew that a kind greeting and a loving kiss
awaited me, and little Elizabeth was soon as dear to me as my blessed
mother; so that, in my dreams, their two figures blended into one. It
was very different afterwards, when the heavenly purity, in whose full
glory my mother had departed, had left Elizabeth for ever.
“Thus, I came to the age of twelve, and grew a tall strong lad, skilful
and active; already I was so expert with the sword that with a
horizontal cut I sent the blade between blocks piled on each other, and
without in the least injuring them. I also tied a noose with a dexterity
that filled Arnulph with proud joy, and he declared me fully qualified
to officiate upon the scaffold. It happened one day that my father,
plagued with the gout, ordered me to go alone to the town, and to fetch
the tribute from the well-known house of the Elephant. He made me
promise not to let the women caress me, and to lose none of the bright
pfennings they had to give me. I obeyed his orders, and brought him home
the full amount. But I did not tell him what had happened to me by the
way. When the boys, who usually ran after us, saw that I was alone, they
ventured much nearer than formerly; and amongst them I particularly
remarked a fair-haired lad, who had always been the most spiteful and
violent of them all, and whom his companions sometimes called Engolf,
sometimes by the nickname of Bully-bird. He was the son of a patrician,
of the noble Herr Hahn of Baumgarten, and was somewhat older than
myself. This time he followed me to the very threshold of the house, and
just as the door was opened he struck at me. I warded his blow, and
returned it with one upon the nose, which knocked him down, and gave me
time to enter the house.”
Berthold’s persecutors awaited his exit to take their revenge, but he
provided himself with a stick for defence, and, moreover, Elizabeth
showed him an opening in the garden wall, choked with bushes and
rubbish, and leading into a timber-yard, through which he passed unseen,
and of which he thenceforward availed himself on his frequent visits to
his playfellow. Engolf, however, watched him, and at last, on a certain
afternoon, as he turned into the timber-yard, he heard a shout of
“Huzza! the hangman’s boy!” and was set upon by a number of lads, from
whom he escaped with difficulty, and severely beaten, by the help of
Elizabeth, who dragged him into the garden as he fell senseless from a
blow on the head. In the house of the Elephant he lay for some time, too
ill for removal, carefully tended by his child-mistress, and by the
wretched but kind-hearted women. About that period, however, the
“Lutheran heresy” had begun to take root in the town, and a certain Dr
Neander preached furiously against gambling and drunkenness, and against
such establishments as that in which Berthold was confined by his
wounds; “against all those things, in short, which, according to old
usage and to the emperor’s statutes, paid tribute to the headsman. This
pleased the women beyond measure; with yellow envy they had long seen
their husbands, lovers, and sons, wager away their fair white _groschen_
at skittles and dice and cards; the headsman‘s daughters in the
Rosenthal were a yet sharper thorn in their eyes; and now, supported by
the preacher‘s frantic harangues, they raised such an infernal outcry
that a noble councillor trod our rights under foot for the sake of
peace, forbade all games of chance, and sent his officers to seize the
loose women at the Elephant, and put them across the frontier. This
occurred just at the time I lay ill in the Rosenthal.” Berthold was
carried home to his stepmother, who would not receive him, and Arnulph
made him a bed in the hounds’ kennel, for which piece of humanity his
violent mistress beat him, and procured his dismissal. And throughout
the book we hear no more of the rough but well-meaning journeyman
hangman. Berthold’s father came to visit his son and dress his wounds,
but the henpecked headsman dared not take him into his house. The poor
boy lay suffering and hungry, tormenting himself on account of
Elizabeth, whom the authorities had removed from the Rosenthal, and
given in charge to people of better repute than those who had had care
of her infancy; but who those people were, and where he should seek his
little friend, Berthold knew not. And when he recovered, his stepmother
and her son ill-treated him, and drove him from their presence; and,
Arnulph having left, he had no friend or companion but the shaggy hounds
with which he slept.
At this point of his youthful tribulations, Master Hammerling ceases to
discourse of himself, and abruptly transports us to the sign of the
Thistle, an isolated public house, consisting partly of the ruins of an
old watch-tower, and much frequented by students, who on bright summer
evenings loved to sit under the trees and lie upon the grass before its
door, until the tolling bell warned them to return to the town before
gates and bridges were closed for the night. This inn was kept by a
strange old couple, childless, avaricious, and, as it was reported,
passing rich, who went by the names of Father Finch and Mother Blutrude.
They professed great poverty, and were furious if any doubted it, which
few cared to do, since a certain rash scoffer had suddenly fallen sick,
and gradually withered away and expired, in consequence, it was
supposed, of certain unholy incantations of Mother Blutrude. The fear of
her incantations, however, did not deter a reckless and debauched
student from laying a plan for appropriating her concealed treasures. He
found means to ingratiate himself with the old people, and to conceal
himself in a nook at the top of the old tower, whence he saw them in the
dead of night counting a large sum in silver coin. He only waited their
departure to possess himself of the store, when he heard them talk of
removing to the same place a large amount of Hungarian ducats they had
bestowed elsewhere, and he resolved to wait where he was for this richer
booty. He waited so long, that hunger, thirst, want of sleep and greed
of gold bewildered his weak brain, and drove him mad. With delirious
eagerness he filled his cap and pockets with the silver, rushed down the
high steep staircase, forced the door with his foot, and bursting into
the public room, seized Father Finch by the throat, and demanded his
gold. The guests came to the rescue, dollars and crowns were scattered
on the floor, and at last the madman was dragged away to prison, whilst
old Finch drove every one from his house, barred the door, and set to
work with his wife to collect the treasure. Benz and his son were in the
town when the lunatic student was carried by, and soon afterwards a boy
came running in with news that Father Finch had committed suicide from
anxiety and despair. Straightway the headsman ordered one of his men to
fetch his great sword and get ready his cart, and then he took the road
to the Thistle, followed by an inquisitive mob, pressing as close to his
heels as their aversion to his calling would allow. He went to exercise
one of the most remarkable privileges of his office. What this was may
best be told in the words of Mr Chézy’s hangman.
“We found the old house surrounded by gaping idlers, whom nothing short
of my father’s presence could have induced to open a path. They gave way
before his threatening gesture and raised voice, and we reached a loft
where the gray-headed sinner hung from a strong staple, his stiffened
feet almost touching an iron chest, from which Blutrude, who, cowered in
a corner, never diverted her gaze. Soon after us came councillors,
writers, and bailiffs, then a man bearing the sword, which the headsman
took, and after cutting down the dead, he drew a circle round the corpse
as far as his weapon’s point could reach. Then he raised his voice and
said:
“‘I stand as headsman on my property and heritage, or do any here say
nay?’
“Then one of the council replied: ‘None say nay. You are headsman within
the precincts of the city and in the Count’s domain, Master Benz; act
then according to your sealed rights and privileges, and with God’s
help, as we are ready to give you ours.’
“My father continued: ‘Thus runs the emperor’s decree: Wheresoever any
one, with sinful hand, shall take his own life, there is every thing, in
hall or chamber, cellar, barn, or stable, the headsman’s property, so
far as he, standing beside the corpse, can reach with his sword above
his head, below his feet, and on all sides. Have I spoken well?’
“‘On my soul and conscience,’ replied the councillor, ‘you have spoken
well. And so take hence what to thee pertaineth.’”
And, in spite of old Blutrude’s screams and protestations, the
treasure-chest was conveyed away in the headsman’s cart. Whilst this
went on, Berthold, in rambling over the house, found Elizabeth, who had
been given into the untender care of the hostess of the Thistle. The
little hand-maid was delighted to meet her old friend, and they were
engaged in affectionate colloquy when Blutrude, furious at the loss of
her pelf, fell upon them with blows and abuse. Berthold cared little for
her violence to himself, but when she attacked Elizabeth his forbearance
deserted him, and, apostrophising her as a witch, he expressed a
passionate hope that the day would come when he should set fire to her
death-faggots. The effect of this wish is described in a singular
passage:—“She shrank from me and was silent. Whether it was that my
words sounded prophetically to her evil conscience, or that my boyish
glance already possessed that peculiar power which has since often made
strong men quake, and given noble horses the mad staggers, Blutrude
reeled aside like a drunken person, allowed me to take leave of
Elizabeth undisturbed, and for some time afterwards did not regain her
usual vigour and malice.” This strange power, attributed to himself by
the headsman, is referred to further on in the volume, when a horse
shies and is seized with staggers at the mere glance of Berthold’s eye.
That the gaze of the public executioner might have a strong effect upon
men, in an age when he was regarded with a feeling of superstitious
horror, would have nothing to surprise; nor is it astonishing that an
old woman, already suspected of witchcraft, should be terrified and
tongue-tied by a hint of tar-barrels from the mouth of the hangman’s
son. The power of his evil eye upon horses is more difficult to explain
and credit. But admitting the substance and incidents of the book before
us to be extracted from _bona fide_ chronicles, and there is not wanting
a certain amount of internal evidence corroborative of the editor’s
assertion to that effect, such passages as this are highly curious
illustrations of the superstitions of that day. In most parts of the
world the evil eye has been a favourite belief. The French have their
Mauvais-œil, the Germans their Schelauge, the Italians the Malocchio;
and if in any of those countries mesmerism had been invented and
practised two or three hundred years ago, its disciples would, in all
probability, have been held endowed with the power attributed to himself
by Berthold Benz.
The dismissal of Arnulph, his chief aide-de-camp, had left the headsman
short-handed, and in vain he sought some one to supply his place; so
that after having, for very many years, put his hand to no instrument of
punishment save the broad short sword, the chief emblem of his office,
he suddenly found himself compelled to descend to lower functions, and
to break a murderer on the wheel. At this execution a rare incident
occurred, showing another of the _Scharfrichter’s_ privileges. The
culprit was bound upon the grating, and Benz dealt him the first blow,
upon the shin. The bone snapped, and the unhappy victim, a man of
gigantic frame and strength, maddened by extremity of agony, wrenched
out the cramp-iron to which his right wrist was bound, and extended his
arm to ward off the coming blow. Thereupon a forward young man stepped
thoughtlessly out of the crowd, seized the criminal’s arm and drew it
back, whilst one of the executioner’s assistants again drove in the
iron. Then the headsman laid down his wheel, stepped up to the imprudent
youth, clapped his hand upon his shoulder and said, “Now art thou mine
till thy day of death.” Voluntary aid given to the executioner entailed
perpetual servitude, inevitable and infamous. In this instance, the
volunteer, by trade a turner from Nuremberg, and who was also a
professional pugilist, was compelled, in spite of prayers and
repugnance, to, strip his jerkin and assist in the horrible execution
then going forward, after which he mournfully accompanied his new mates
to the executioner’s dwelling. House and home, his honest name, and a
loving and expectant bride, were all for ever lost to him by this one
rash act. And the only hope he dared indulge was, that his family and
friends might never learn his fate, but deem him dead in distant parts.
The cruel severity with which Master Benz enforced his privilege was
requited to him by his pressed recruit, who found undue favour in the
eyes of Grethel. The Nuremberger, however, absorbed in grief, took
little heed of the lady’s amorous advances; and she, incensed by his
indifference, applied to old Blutrude for a love-philter. All this forms
a part of the romantic plot which is made the vehicle for exhibiting the
public and private existence of the headsman of the middle ages, and we
need but briefly touch upon it. The Nuremberg Joseph drank the potion,
which reminded him, by its exhilarating effects, of “the foaming,
reaming drink he had once tasted at his master’s wedding at Namur, in
Brabant, and which the Walloons fetch from the county of Champagne, in
France, to thin their blood, clogged by thick barley beer.” Soon,
however, the young man repented of deceiving Benz, who was kind to him
after his rough fashion; and one morning that the headsman called him to
his room, to eat a savoury pottage his wife had prepared, but for which
he himself felt little appetite, Veit (the Nuremberger) thought the
moment opportune to make a clean breast, and, whilst eating, began his
confession. Meanwhile Grethel, superintending in the kitchen the
breakfast of her household, missed and asked for her favourite. “He is
in the master’s room,” was the reply, “eating the pottage.” The
headsman’s wife grew pale as death, for the pottage was poisoned. She
hurried into the room just as Veit, after completing his confession,
fell in convulsions upon the floor; and her husband, indignant at her
infidelity, stripped his leathern girdle and furiously beat her, loading
her with opprobrious epithets. She escaped from his hands, and ran into
the town, exhibited the cuts upon her face and arms to the authorities,
accused her husband of this ill-treatment, and of having poisoned his
assistant in a moment of groundless jealousy. Benz was forthwith
arrested. Appearances were strong against him. He had gone out of his
way to invite his servant to eat the mess intended for himself. And when
the effects of the poison manifested themselves, he had beaten his wife
instead of rendering assistance to the sufferer, who had died soon
afterwards. His protestations of innocence were discredited; and as he
persisted in not confessing a crime he had not committed, he was
conducted to that torture-chamber whose horrors he had so often
superintended. He shrunk not at sight of the rack, but stood upon his
rights and privileges; repudiated the jurisdiction of the city council,
and appealed to a higher tribunal. “My lords would not listen to this,
and appealed, in their turn, to the special privileges of the town; but
the strange headsman, whom they had summoned to their assistance, pulled
down to the wrist the shirt sleeves he had rolled up, put on his
doublet, and declared, with steadfast voice, that he must certainly, in
execution of a legal judgment, torture his own son, if required, but
that he would not act against the Emperor’s ordinances, or lay hand upon
a brother-craftsman in obedience to an arbitrary command.” So the
counsellors, finding the executive fail them, and being also, as it
would appear, legally in the wrong, were compelled to concede Master
Benz’s claim to be arraigned before another court of judicature. The
delay was the headsman’s salvation. Count Ruprecht, a sort of lord of
the manor, and nobleman of great weight in the district, obtained
admission to his dungeon, under pretence of consulting him about a
disease, which “leech and surgeon, wise-women and farriers, had been
unable to cure.” From this it would appear that in those days the
executioner either dabbled in the medical art, or was supposed to
possess prescriptions (perhaps charms) of efficacy in certain cases. We
have been unable to trace any particulars connected with this belief;
and Mr Chézy, although he must have access in Germany to many more
sources of such information than are open to us, leaves his readers, as
usual, wholly in the dark.
The brief dialogue in the dungeon is curious and characteristic. The
Count, straitened in his finances, covets the iron chest with a golden
lining, taken by Benz from beneath the feet of Father Finch the suicide.
In consideration of its receipt, he engages to rescue the executioner
from his unpleasant position. The latter, although innocent, is by no
means confident of acquittal, and accepts the terms. Then says the Count
to the headsman, with touching confidence, “You have been known to me
for many years as an honourable man, I require no other guarantee than
your word. And I pledge my honour as a nobleman to rescue you, either by
craft or by the strong hand.” Recourse to violence was unnecessary. The
Count revived an old tribunal, long in disuse, which sat under an aged
oak by the river’s brink, and consisted of himself alone. The council
had little fancy for giving up their prisoner, but yielded to menaces in
the emperor’s name, and Benz was brought before this primitive court.
The burgomaster supported the accusation, but, on the other hand, seven
nobly-born persons deposed on oath to the prisoner’s innocence, and
Etzel the cup-bearer, a stalwart retainer of the Count’s, renowned in
all the country-side for his reckless courage and powerful arm, threw
his glove into the ring, and challenged to mortal combat any who should
question it. Thrice the herald proclaimed the defiance, but none took it
up; the sun went down, and the Count declared the charge unfounded and
the prisoner free. This was the first and last time Count Ruprecht
asserted his right to hold this penal tribunal. And subsequently an
imperial decree declared the judgment null and the Count’s privilege
obsolete. But before that came to pass, the headsman’s innocence was
established, and the true culprit discovered.
During his captivity, Benz had reflected on his unkindness to his
first-born, and resolved to repair past injustice by better treatment.
On returning home, his first inquiry was for Berthold. The answer was,
that the boy had run away. The truth was, that his stepmother had had
him conveyed to a long distance from his father’s house, and by
frightful menaces deterred him from returning. And now she wheedled her
husband out of a pardon, and things resumed their old course in the
headsman’s house. We pass over a good deal of episodical matter, having
little to do with the main subject of the book; amongst other things, a
long account of a son of Count Ruprecht, who was sent on his travels in
charge of a learned preceptor and bad horseman, one Dr Wohlgemuth, on
whom the scamp of a pupil played an infinity of mischievous tricks,
proving that travelling tutors three hundred years ago had by no means a
sinecure. After an absence of some duration, Berthold returns home in
the suite of this young Count Ulrich, finds Elizabeth still at the sign
of the Thistle, and his old enemy Engolf and other dissolute companions
persecuting her with their insolent addresses, to which she turns a deaf
ear. She has not forgotten Berthold; their childish affection has grown
into love, and they mutually plight their troth. Soon afterwards,
Berthold sets out on a three years’ pilgrimage, during which to learn
surgery and farriery, and Count Ruprecht promises that, on his return,
none but he shall shoe his horses and cure his servants. But the
headsman’s son has higher aspirations, and resolves to become a
physician. At Heidelberg and Paris the three years pass quickly by in
diligent study, and at the end of that time he has conquered the
doctor’s gown, and returns to his native place as Dominus Bertholdus. As
he draws near to the town, he prays in heart for a good omen to welcome
his return; but none is vouchsafed him, and in its stead he meets Engolf
and has an angry colloquy. At the little inn he sees Elizabeth, who
betrays great agitation on beholding him, for a report had been set
about of his death. At a ball to which he accompanies her, held at the
old house of the Elephant, now converted into a respectable inn, he
meets Engolf, who coarsely taunts him with taking up with his cast-off
mistress. Elizabeth cannot repel the imputation, Berthold spurns her
from him, and strikes Engolf; a fight ensues, blood is shed, and the
headsman’s son is obliged to conceal himself for a while. Then comes
some more extraneous matter, until we find Berthold established as
assistant in the house of Master Baldwin the physician, who one day
sends him to attend the infliction of torture on an old woman accused of
witchcraft. In the wrinkled wretch bound upon the rack, he recognises
old Blutrude, and here, after seven years’ separation, he meets his
father.
“The headsman had grown old in those seven years: his silver hair hung
scantily over his temples; his high bald brow was crossed with furrows;
his long beard resembled thick snow-flakes; but still he was strong and
vigorous. From his short and muscular neck his broad shoulders spread in
powerful development; his long arms were nervous, his fists of iron; his
eyes glittered as in the days of his prime; and the dusky red of his
countenance bore witness that the old man had not yet abandoned the
pleasures of the bottle, in spite of the gout, whose presence was
indicated by his wide shapeless boots of soft buckskin. On beholding
him, a cold shudder came over me; and yet it needed an effort not to
fall into his arms and greet him with the name of father, and offer my
aid in his horrible office. Behind him stood his assistant, a stout
young fellow, in whose features and reddish hair I recognised Grethel’s
son.” Here a touch of witchcraft comes in; Blutrude, after terrible
tortures, confessing her dealings with the demon, and implicating
Grethel and her son, the former of whom had long been in the habit of
accompanying her once in the year to a witches’ sabbath upon the
Blocksberg, whilst an evil spirit assumed her form in her husband’s
couch. Upon receiving this startling information, old Benz falls down,
struck with apoplexy, and presently expires, in spite of the remedies
applied by Berthold, who in his emotion betrays himself as the
headsman’s son. He is immediately seized, and put in irons. His life is
in danger, for he has incurred the penalty of the gallows by daring to
mix with his fellow-men, and to forget the stigma and isolation
prescribed by his birth. But the executioner being dead, his youngest
son accused of witchcraft, and the prison full of criminals, several of
whom are soon to be put to the torture, the authorities let Berthold, go
free, on condition of his assuming his father’s office. To this he
consents, as the only means of escaping the halter, and at once takes
possession of the house whose threshold he had expected never again to
cross.
The closing chapter of the volume, entitled “The Headsman’s Wedding,” is
perhaps the most striking and original of the whole book. Berthold’s
installation in his father’s house and office had not long occurred,
when he was called upon to exercise the latter, and to put to the rack
his old and bitter foe Engolf of Baumgarten, accused of conspiracy
against the state. Even under the torture, the profligate found sneers
and sharp words to address to his executioner, and boasted of his base
triumph over the unhappy Elizabeth, then in prison on the charge of
murdering her infant. Whilst in a state of frenzy, she had thrown it
into the water. Maddened by his enemy’s taunts, the headsman exercised
to the very utmost the tortures at his command, and tugged and strained
till every joint of the unhappy wretch was dislocated, and the foam
stood upon his lips. At last Engolf confessed his crime and was released
from the hands of him who had crushed his body, and whose heart he had
broken. Then Berthold received orders to hold himself ready, in three
days from that time, to execute Elizabeth, condemned to die by the
sword.
“It was a hard trial for me, when, upon the eve of this execution, I had
to betake myself to her prison, to share, according to old custom, the
culprit’s last meal. The priest had just left her when I entered the
narrow cell, and she sat buried in thought, her head sunk upon her
breast, her long black hair falling like a veil over her face, her hands
folded in her lap.” The poor girl could not make up her mind to die, and
wildly implored her former lover to save her, ignorant that she was to
perish by his hand. But his feelings towards her had undergone a total
change; indignation and contempt had replaced affection; and he beheld
her despair and heard her entreaties without a spark of compunction.
“You must die, Elizabeth,” he said, “and truly by no other hand than
mine.”
“She gazed at me with expanded eyeballs, her features, distorted by
despair, gradually assumed a milder expression, a scarcely perceptible
smile crossed her pale lips. ‘Death from your hand is sweet,’ she at
last said. ‘Here is my heart, strike! why delay? I am ready.’ These
gentle words broke down my anger; I had to lean against a pillar in
order not to sink to the ground, and had hardly strength to reply. ‘Will
you not understand me, Elizabeth? Have you forgotten whose son I am?’”
Then she told him how a traveller had come to the inn, and had said
(probably at Engolf’s instigation) that Berthold was dead. And how,
after that, the seducer had perseveringly environed her with his wiles,
and at last, by aid of a potion old Blutrude supplied, had effected her
ruin. And as the headsman heard her sad tale, his anger was converted
into pity. He partook her last repast, and at parting they pressed each
other’s hands in friendship. But the love Berthold once had cherished
for the orphan playmate of his boyish days had fled for ever.
That same night the tribunal condemned Engolf to the gallows. All the
grace his anguished parent could obtain for him was that he should die
by the hands of the headsman himself, not of an inferior executioner—and
in his own clothes, booted and spurred. This favour cost fifty marks of
gold, and a bequest to the hospital of all the property his father could
will away.
With the dawn, Berthold repaired to the city, where the sentence was
read in the public market-place, and “a white wand was broken and thrown
in fragments at the feet of the child-murderess.” Then Elizabeth was
delivered over to the executioner, who lifted her into the cart, where a
Capuchin monk took his place beside her, and the melancholy procession
to the scaffold began. On the way, Berthold’s men encouraged him,
exhorting him to strike the blow on Elizabeth’s slender neck with the
same firmness and precision with which, just before he left the house,
he had severed that of an old wether. They considered him fortunate,
that his first essay with the sword should be made on a meek and
unresisting girl, and not on some tough old culprit, who would
spitefully shrug his shoulders, so as to disappoint the aim and bring
shame upon the headsman. “At last we stood, Elizabeth and I, face to
face between the three pillars, gazed at each other, and shook hands for
the last time. Then I bound her eyes, bid her kneel down, and whilst an
assistant, standing on one side, with body bent forward, and
outstretched arm, held up her head by the long hair, I threw off cloak
and doublet, grasped the sword with both hands, and, settling myself
firmly on my feet, prepared to give the cut that should deprive her of
life. Mute and breathless with expectation, the mob looked up at the
scaffold; the monk ceased to mutter his prayers aloud, but moved his
lips in silence; the stillness of death reigned around. I felt a
dizziness in my brain; instead of one head I saw three, and I turned
about, and asked in a loud voice, which of them the law commanded me to
strike off. The populace began to murmur, my assistants exchanged
meaning smiles and scornful glances, the magistrate impatiently called
to me to make an end; Elizabeth stirred not and made no sign. Then I had
pity on the youth and beauty of the murderess; I felt I should never be
able to strike her death-blow, and a sudden resolution took possession
of my soul, the resolution to save her. I sank the sword’s point, leant
upon its hilt, and, claiming my privilege, demanded Elizabeth for my
wife. Thereupon the murmurs of the crowd were converted into loud
rejoicings, and whilst I supported the fainting girl in my arms, the
people insisted I should at once conduct her to the altar. My Lords of
the Council knew well that I was in my right, and none ventured to
hinder or object. Followed by the noisy mob, we returned to the city,
and within the hour the priest of St Kummerniss united me to Elizabeth.
Then she once more ascended the cart, which drove away with her, this
time at a brisk trot instead of a funeral pace, whilst I went to the
council-house to hang Engolf.... The body remained hanging till sunset,
then I took it down, laid it in the coffin, and went my way home.”
“There was revel and jubilee in the house. With song and dance, and
play, and flowing jugs, the servants celebrated the headsman’s wedding
day. And when the hour came, I led Elizabeth to her chamber, drew my
father’s sword from its scabbard, and placed it in the bridal bed
between her and myself. There it has ever since remained.”
With this singular and thoroughly German incident, the headsman’s
memoirs, as conveyed in autobiographical form, conclude, although we may
presume the greater portion of the other volumes to be derived from
similar records, moulded into a different shape by Mr Chézy. The second
volume consists of one long narrative, entitled “Hildebrand Pfeiffer,” a
story of the seventeenth century. An executioner plays an important part
in it, but is not the hero of the tale, as in Benz’s narrative.
Hildebrand Pfeiffer is a man of five-and-thirty, of handsome face and
person, who has studied long and successfully at Heidelberg, Prague, and
Paris, and has learnt surgery at Cologne, where we now find him.
Possessed by the demon of pride and ambition, he sees no better way of
attaining the brilliant position he covets, than through the medium of
the philosopher’s stone, at whose discovery he ardently labours under
the guidance of Doctor David da Silva, or Master Wood, as the vulgar
translated his Portuguese name—a learned physician and ex-teacher at the
high school, to whom Hildebrand serves as assistant and amanuensis.
Besides dabbling in white magic, the old Jew-leech is shrewdly suspected
of dealing in the blacker sort, but this does not prevent scholars
flocking to gather wisdom from his lips, and sick persons sending for
him so often as their fears of death prevail with their avarice to pay
his heavy fee. And he has long been left unmolested to his mysterious
pursuits, when, in an evil hour, he sends his old servant, in company
with a young maiden, to gather mandragora at the gallows’ foot. The
plant is to be employed in some alchemical conjuration, and is valuable
only if gathered at the witching hour by a perfect virgin. The one
selected is Adelgunde, a beautiful girl, who loves Hildebrand, and is
beloved by him. Unfortunately, upon the night selected for plucking the
mystical mandrake, the headsman and his assistants repair to the place
of execution to inter the corpse of a suicide, and there detect and
seize the two women, the elder of whom throws the blame of her unholy
proceedings upon Da Silva and Hildebrand. There is, perhaps, rather too
much of witchcraft in the volume, but some of the incidents are very
wild and original. With more skill and care, and power of description,
Mr Chézy might have constructed a three volume romance of a striking
kind out of the materials he has loosely and hastily crammed into a
third of the space. There is a certain Count Philippus, or Philipps, of
whom much was to be made, but he is neglected, and roughly sketched. He
comes to Cologne to raise troops for the emperor, and is very successful
in his recruiting, having mustered a strong body of idle artisans,
debauched students, and desperadoes of all kinds. In the joy of his
heart he drinks himself ill; Hildebrand attends him, and wins his heart
by tolerating the flagon, when the soldier had expected to be put on a
diet of drugs and spring water. The Count’s levies are drawn up, and
about to march away, when the police make their appearance at Dr Da
Silva’s door, to arrest him and his assistant on a charge of witchcraft.
Warned in time, Hildebrand conceals himself amongst the men at arms, and
follows Philipps to the field as body-surgeon. It is the period of the
thirty years’ war, and the ambitious mediciner, interrupted in his
pursuit of the grand secret of gold-making, conceives the more feasible
project of rising to eminence and wealth by deeds of arms. He is
confirmed in his new aspirations by the gift of a sword, manufactured by
the headsman, and supposed to confer invincibility on him who wields it.
There is a remarkable chapter, from which we gather the details of this
superstition. Hannadam, the executioner, has his fortified dwelling in
the suburbs of Cologne, and one evening a Lutheran officer rides up from
the adjacent Swedish camp, and endeavours to induce him, by the bribe of
a well-filled purse, to make him a charmed sword. From the battlements
of his little fortress, Hannadam holds converse with the Swede, who
complains that he has had his foot in the stirrup for twenty years, and
is still a cornet, whilst his comrades of equal standing have risen to
high rank. He holds it high time to look after his promotion.
“‘Undoubtedly it is,’ said the headsman jeeringly. ‘A forty-year-old
cornet cuts a poor figure. I will promote you to a majority.’
“‘So you shall,’ replied the horseman, ‘and I will tell you how. But
first answer a question,—you are a popish idolator?’
“‘Infernal heretic!’ shouted the executioner. ‘Would you have me set my
dogs at you?’
“The Swede was astounded by this burst of anger. He had intended no
harm, but in the simplicity of his heart had designated the Roman
Catholics by the epithet that from childhood upwards he had heard and
used.
“‘If you are no idolator,’ he replied very quietly, ‘give me back my
purse.’
“The headsman laughed.
“‘I am papist enough,’ he said, ‘to take example by my priests, and
restore no offering.’
“‘Indeed,’ said the cornet. ‘But I begin to see what offended you. Never
fear, you shall not hear the word again.’
“‘You will do wisely not to repeat it. And now say what you would for
your money.’
“‘Did I not tell you I cannot get promotion?’
“‘Well—’
“‘Well? In the name of all the idols, I would have a charmed sword, such
as only a headsman and a Romanist can make.’
“The purse fell jingling at the Swede’s feet.
“‘Begone!’ cried the headsman. ‘I am no sorcerer.’
“‘The charmed sword is a matter of white magic, seeing it is made under
invocation of the holy Trinity and of the blessed cavalier, St Martin,
without aid of the powers of darkness. To-night is favourable to its
forging—such a night will not for a long time recur—for me, perhaps,
never—with the like concurrence of fortunate circumstances. Do my
bidding, and take the rich reward. After midnight, red Mars is in the
ascendant, and in the direct aspect of Venus. That is the lucky hour to
put the weapon together. The blade must be a sword that has served upon
the scaffold, and severed a criminal’s head from his body; the wood of
the hilt must be part of the wheel upon which some poor sinner has been
broken; the guard must be of the metal of chains in which a murderer has
been hung. You need put it but loosely together; the armourer shall
complete the work. The blade is the most important; let it be long and
slender, not above two fingers broad, and with a single edge. The
Tubal’s-fire you of course have: our executioners, also, keep that. Will
you prepare the sword, master?’
“‘I would do so,’ replied the headsman, ‘and have all things
needful;—but the fire is wanting.’
“‘Impossible!’ exclaimed the cavalier.
“‘But nevertheless true,’ replied Hannadam. ‘I have only lately
inherited my charge; I found the lamp in the forge extinguished, and
since then no oak has been struck by lightning.’
“The Swede cursed and swore like a blind heathen, rode disconsolately
away, and forgot, in his disappointment, to reclaim the purse he had
again thrown up to the headsman. The latter whistled a peasant’s dance
between his teeth, and gave orders to raise the drawbridge.
“‘You told the man an untruth,’ said his wife gently; ‘the lamp now
burning in the smithy received its light from a blasted oak.’
“The headsman laughed. ‘I know it right well, darling,’ he replied; ‘but
it will be long before I give such a sword to an unbelieving heretic,
for him to use against those he styles idolators. I will at once to
work, and prepare the weapon. In our days a blade is not to be despised,
from whose mere glitter the foe will fly by dozens.’”
At midnight the sparks flew fast in the headsman’s smithy, and the
wondrous weapon was prepared. The Swede might well have found it useful
in the severe action between his countrymen and the Imperialists, which
took place the following day within sound and sight of the city. The
battle over, Count Philipps and Hildebrand rode up to Hannadam’s
dwelling; and the Count, whose vassal the headsman was, demanded
admittance and lodging. Hildebrand showed some repugnance to enter the
house of the executioner. “No need to fear,” said the Count. “According
to imperial charter, the headsman’s office is honourable; and, moreover,
he and his household will have sufficient sense not to touch us. His
bread, his wine, his meat do not defile those partaking them, neither
does his roof dishonour those it covers. But you must have the goodness
to see to our horses yourself. At the worst, my nobility is good enough
to shield us from stain even in the knacker’s dwelling.”[5] So the count
and the leech take up their quarters in the house of Hannadam, whose
wife is no other than that beautiful Adelgunde, with whom Hildebrand had
been deeply in love, and whom he had now long mourned as dead. She had
been tried at Cologne on a charge of witchcraft, having been detected
gathering mandragora at midnight beneath the gallows, and had been put
to the torture; but Hannadam, to whose lot it fell to inflict it, was
touched by her beauty, and handled her gently. In a conversation with
Count Philipps, he explains to him how it is in the executioner’s power
greatly to aggravate or lighten the agony he is ordered to inflict.
Finally, Hannadam marries her, in virtue of the privilege already
exemplified in the story of Berthold Benz. She is a somnambulist, and
having seen her former lover enter the house, (although her husband does
all in his power to keep her from sight of him, and even confines her in
her room,) she gets up in the night, and by a most perilous path across
the roof of the house, reaches Hildebrand’s chamber, bearing with her
the sword of her husband’s manufacture, which she gives to her lover,
bidding him use and conquer with it. Taking little heed of the supposed
power attributed to the weapon, Hildebrand nevertheless girds it on, and
the next day joins Colonel Madelon’s regiment of cuirassiers. Distracted
at finding Adelgunde the wife of another man, he covets death, and
resolves to seek it in action. The count unwillingly parts with him, on
condition of his returning that evening to his post. But evening comes,
the fight is over, the wounded count looks anxiously for his leech, and
Hildebrand appears not. The cuirassiers are far away, pursuing the
beaten foe.
Footnote 5:
The office of knacker (_Schinder, Abdecker_), in recent times often
united with that of public executioner, was formerly exercised by his
knaves and subordinates, (German, _henkersknechte_; French, _Valets de
Bourreau_) and was held especially infamous.
Time passes—the exact period is not defined—and we again meet the
warlike physician, who is brought before us in a very remarkable
chapter, detailing the punishment and degradation, at the headsman’s
hands, of an entire regiment that has disgraced itself in action. At
that period the affairs of the Imperialists were in any thing but a
flourishing state. At Leipsig—on the same ground where, eleven years
previously, Gustavus Adolphus had beaten Tilly—the Swedes, under the
gallant Torstenson, had gained a signal victory over the Archduke
Leopold-William; a victory shameful to the German name from the
cowardice and want of discipline of a portion of the troops engaged. The
remnant of the beaten army rallied near Prague, whose gates, some time
after the fight, a regiment of cavalry was seen to approach, its ranks
thinned less by hostile sword than by scandalous desertion. Deep shame
sat upon the bearded countenances of the horsemen, and their hearts were
oppressed by apprehension of punishment; for rumour said that the corps
was ordered to Prague to answer for its misconduct. The officers were
even more cast down than the men; they spoke in whispers, consulting
each other how they might best justify themselves, and proposing to
throw all the blame on their subordinates. On the other hand, the
private soldiers did not scruple to say above their breath, that “a
sensible housekeeper begins to sweep his stairs from the top.” The
regiment was close to the town, ordering its ranks previous to entrance,
when a young officer came up at full gallop, saluted the colonel
courteously but coldly, and said:
“I am the bearer of an unpleasant order.”
“Duty is duty, Sir,” replied the commanding officer; “be good enough to
deliver your message.”
This was to the effect that the men should dismount, lead their horses
into the town with lowered colours and without trumpet-sound, and then,
so soon as the beasts were put up, repair to the market-place with
swords at side, officers as well as men. This reception was ominous of
even worse things than had been anticipated; and many a soldier
regretted he had not followed an example abundantly supplied him, and
deserted immediately after the battle. In two hours time, however, the
regiment arrived with downcast eyes at the appointed place of muster.
They marched two and two, with long intervals between the files. At the
entrance of the narrow streets were pickets of dismounted dragoons, four
deep, their musketoons on their arms, their drawn swords hanging from
their wrists; the doors and windows of the houses were lined with
carabineers, their weapons at the recover. A major and a provost-marshal
were there on horseback, the latter attended by his men, who stood round
a couple of carts. As each rank of the cuirassiers reached the square,
the major commanded them to halt, and then gave the word “Draw swords!”
followed by “Ground arms!” Whereupon every man, without distinction, had
to lay his naked sword upon the ground, before he was allowed to move
forwards. The cornets did the same with their colours, and the provost’s
men took up swords and standards and put them in the carts. The disarmed
soldiers formed up as prisoners in the square, and their hearts misgave
them when they saw it arranged as for an approaching execution. True,
there was neither scaffold nor gallows, but in the centre stood the
gloomy man in the red cloak, his assistants behind him, between an iron
vice and a pile of brushwood. A hedge of halberds surrounded the whole
square. On one side a crowd of military officials of high rank sat upon
their horses, to try the offenders, if indeed trial could be said to
await men manifestly already condemned. Hard upon the circle of military
pressed the populace; windows, roofs, and balconies were thronged with
curious spectators; but it was as much as the nearest of them could do
to catch a few words of what passed, when the disarmed regiment appeared
before the court-martial.
The heads of accusation were tolerably well known, and resolved
themselves into the one undeniable fact that the regiment, at first
victorious, but afterwards repulsed, had fled in shameful haste and
confusion, communicating its panic to the rest of the cavalry, leaving
the infantry exposed, and causing the loss of the already half-won
fight. These circumstances were too notorious to need proof; and the
chief question was, whether the soldiers had fled in spite of every
exertion of their officers, or whether the latter had been, by their
pusillanimity, the chief causes of the disaster. This question it
probably was that was debated for nearly two hours, and produced such
violent dissensions amongst the prisoners, that the intervention of the
guard was required to keep them from coming to blows. The bystanders
could not distinguish words, but only a confused clamour of voices,
which suddenly ceased at the blast of a trumpet. The prisoners drew
back; the judges, consulted together for a moment; and then there was an
abrupt and uneasy movement, amongst, behind, and in front of them, the
motive of which immediately became apparent. The spectators knew not
whither first to turn their eyes. Here policemen bound the officers’
hands behind their backs; in another place the provost’s men separated
the soldiers by tens, something in the way in which a tithe-owner counts
the sheaves in a field. Drums were placed on end, with dice upon their
heads: yonder the brushwood blazed up in bright flames, which the
headsman’s helpers fed with the colours and decorations of the regiment,
whilst their master snapped sword-blade after sword-blade in his iron
vice. With mournful eyes the officers saw their flags consumed and their
weapons broken at the hangman’s hands. The most painful death would have
been sweet and welcome compared to this moral agony. Despondingly they
sank their heads, and those esteemed themselves fortunate whose hair was
long enough to hide their shame-stricken countenances.
Whilst the officers endured the curious or spiteful gaze of the throng,
the men threw dice for their lives upon the sheepskin tables. He of each
ten who threw the lowest, was immediately seized by the executioners,
who bound his hands and placed him with the group of officers. And the
closing act of this terrible ceremony was performed by the public crier,
who proclaimed the whole regiment, from the lieutenant-colonel down to
the last dragoon, as “_Schelme_” or infamous knaves. After which the mob
dispersed, streaming through lanes and alleys to the place where the
officers and tenth men were to be hanged. The remainder of the regiment
were conveyed to a place of security, till such time as they could be
sent to dig fortifications in Hungary, or to labour on the wharves of a
seaport.
Hildebrand Pfeiffer is amongst those saved from death to undergo
slavery; but he contrives to escape his doom, and is next seen dwelling,
a pious ascetic and penitent, in a mountain hermitage, under the name of
Father Gregorius. Enthusiastic in whatever he does, he passes his time
prostrate before a crucifix, lacerating his shoulders with many stripes.
His despair arises partly from grief at the loss of Adelgunde, and
partly from shame at having been branded as a dastard with the rest of
Madelon’s cuirassiers. His old friend and patron, Count Philipps, finds
him out, reasons with and consoles him, and makes him his chaplain. But
after he has long been esteemed for his piety and eloquence, he offends
the Count by a diatribe against the prevalent belief in witchcraft,
whose absurdity his good sense and early education enable him to
recognise. There is an extraordinary scene at a convent, where
Adelgunde, who deserted her husband’s house on the night of her
interview with Hildebrand, has taken refuge. She falls into a manner of
ecstasy, repeats Solomon’s Song in Latin, and commits other
extravagancies, greatly to the scandal of the sisterhood, and of Father
Bonaventura, the convent chaplain. Finally, both Hildebrand and
Adelgunde are burnt for sorcery. There is a vein of interest in the tale
to the very end, although the book, in an artistical sense, is roughly
done. The style is crabbed, and the dialogue quaint, but often
effective. The final volume of the Malefizbuch, under the agreeable
title of “Galgenvögel,” (Gallowsbirds) contains four tales of very
middling merit, and is altogether the worst. It differs from the other
two as saying little concerning the headsman and his functions, further
than that he steps in at the close of each tale, to execute the sentence
of the law on the criminals whose offences and adventures it narrates.
M. Chézy announces his store of materials to be by no means expended,
and promises a further series should this one find favour. If it does
so, he must attribute the success to the interest inseparable from the
subject, not unlikely to attract readers in spite of the editor’s
negligence, and of the book’s manifold deficiencies.