the F. family. No one was in the drawing-room except the father,
mother, and daughter, and our friend. The conversation turned upon
sporting matters, and Mr. F. asked if there was any fox-hunting in
Hungary.
“I should think so!” exclaimed Baron K. eagerly. “Foxes are as numerous
in some parts of our country as hares are here! I myself shot five
specimens of Mr. Charley in a single day.”
“What?” cried Mr. and Mrs. F. in the same breath, the former starting
from his rocking chair, the latter dropping her tea-cup, while Bridget
could not repress a low cry of terror.
Baron K. was silenced by bewilderment, and a brief, painful pause
followed. He could not imagine what there had been in his words to
produce so startling an effect upon his hearers, and hit upon the
luckless idea that they perhaps suspected him of exaggeration. So,
after a few minutes, he added somewhat timidly: “You may believe me, I
have shot five foxes in a day and, in a battue, even more!”
“Oh!” said Mr. F, and made no farther comment. Bridget cast imploring
glances at the speaker, which caused him still greater embarrassment,
because he did not understand in the least, and Mrs. F. rang for the
servant to remove the fragments of the cup. Poor Baron K. did not know
what to think. He ventured to ask Mrs. F. what had startled her so, but
received only the reply, accompanied by an icy glance. “Oh, nothing, a
little nervousness, but it’s over now.” Mr. F. suddenly remembered that
he must read the long parliamentary report which had been sent to him
that day, and even Bridget remarked that she had a headache. It was
impossible not to understand. So Baron K. bade them good evening, and
retired, but was not a little perplexed when he saw that Mr. F. did not
shake hands with him, and the lady of the house did not, as usual,
invite him to come again soon.
The young man set out on his walk home with a heavy heart and a
whirling brain. He was in no mood to seek other society, though it was
only eleven o’clock. So he strolled about the park for an hour,
pondering with the utmost earnestness, with all his penetration, over
the incidents of the evening, yet without being able to obtain the
least clue to the mystery. It was barely midnight when he sought his
couch, but he tossed about in his spacious bed, which was almost as
large as a bedroom of moderate size on the Continent, until morning
dawned, without finding sleep.
The next day he reached a decision. He would go to Mr. F. and ask
openly, frankly, and without circumlocution, for an explanation of the
scene of the previous evening. He waited in feverish impatience until
one o’clock, and the hour had scarcely struck when, though not without
hesitation, he let the “knocker” fall on the metal plate of the
well-known door in Albion street. The footman opened it. His face wore
a peculiar expression as he said that—no one was at home. “Not Mrs.
F.?” “No one.” “Nor Miss F.?” “No one, sir. I’ve already said so
twice.” “And when will they return?” “Oh, that’s hard to tell. Not
to-day, nor to-morrow. Who knows.”
Baron K. cast a contemptuous glance at the lackey, and went away. But
he could not help feeling the bang with which the footman closed the
door as an insult. What was to be done now? He must have a clear
understanding at any cost. Entering a stationer’s shop at the corner of
Oxford street and Park lane, he wrote a few hasty lines to Mr. F. The
London mail is prompt and punctual. An hour and a half after, the
postman’s familiar double knock echoed on Baron K.’s door; the
housekeeper brought in a letter, which he snatched from her hand in the
utmost excitement, only to drop it the next moment, fairly stupefied.
It was his own note, on whose back Mr. F. himself had written: “Not
accepted. Return to Baron K.”
An hour after the poor young fellow was seated in the elegant reading
room of the Army and Navy Club, into which a friend had introduced him
as a guest for several weeks; he held in his hand the last number of
the Echo, but, instead of reading, he was gazing into vacancy. His
frank countenance showed mental agitation which even a dull eye could
not fail to notice. At this hour he was almost alone in the spacious
apartments of the aristocratic club, and, consequently, almost
unobserved. But he did not remain solitary long. One of his most
intimate friends, Captain W., entered, looked around in search of
acquaintances, and as soon as he saw Baron K. came up to him, shook
hands, and exclaimed loudly: “What brings you here at so unusual an
hour, old fellow?” But, glancing keenly at him, he instantly added in
an altered tone: “How you look! Are you ill? Is anything wrong?”
The other burst into a peal of angry laughter as he replied: “Not ill,
but crazy. If, perhaps, I am not already, I soon shall be! But Heaven
sends you to me; perhaps you can give me some explanation. Listen.
Yesterday evening I was at Mr. F.’s.”
“I know,” interrupted the captain, with a significant smile.
“Well, I was at Mr. F.’s. We were talking together in the pleasantest
manner about various matters; I told him that, in Hungary, I had shot
five foxes and even more in a single day—”
“What?” exclaimed the captain, sharply. “You mean killed!”
“Why yes, killed, shot dead.”
“Oh! I see,” answered the captain, in a voice whose chill fairly froze
the marrow in K.’s bones, and, without another syllable, he turned on
his heel, went to the next table, took up a magazine, and walked slowly
to an armchair.
K. looked after him a moment with dilated eyes and open mouth, then,
reaching his side at a single bound, he grasped his shoulder with a
trembling hand and fairly roared into, his ears:
“You too! This is an actual conspiracy! But you must give me an
explanation, you shall not escape.”
The captain looked at the excited young man before him with the cold
apathy of the Englishman, shrugged his shoulders, and answered very
calmly:
“I don’t wish to have anything to do with you, sir.”
The two or three men who were in the room began to turn their heads
toward the pair and, when K. continued to demand explanations from
Captain W. in vehement tones, the latter quietly left the apartment,
while the poor baron remained a prey to the most conflicting emotions.
He let himself drop into an armchair, buried his face in his hands, and
thought of nothing at all. But he was not to retain this position long
undisturbed. Scarcely ten minutes had passed ere a servant entered,
stopped before K., and, with a courteous bow, offered him a note on a
silver tray.
Baron K. opened it; it contained only the following words, very
hurriedly written:
“Upon an oral report made by Captain W., the secretary of the Army and
Navy Club begs to inform Baron K. that he shall not be considered any
longer the guest of our club.”
Baron K. did not utter a word, but convulsively crushed the note,
thrust it into his pocket and left the room.
He went directly to the embassy, where he found a young friend, whom he
entreated to aid him in an affair of honor. But the other, shrugging
his shoulders, said that he could not serve if the person to be
challenged was an Englishman. Besides, he must be on his guard, for the
authorities here understood no jesting in these matters.
Baron K. went out with his wrath unappeased; he had only one
thought—vengeance. Captain W. was an officer and a member of the Horse
Guards, he could not avoid giving him satisfaction. Without troubling
himself any farther about seconds, he went home and wrote a letter, in
which he challenged him to meet him with arms in his hands unless he
desired to be declared a miserable coward and chastised in the public
streets. The letter was posted, and Baron K. felt somewhat calmer. He
spent this evening at home, for he had a secret hope that Captain W.
would answer at once. But half-past nine o’clock came, the last double
knocks echoed and died away in the street, but this time none sounded
at his door. The next morning also the expected reply did not arrive,
but, late in the afternoon, he received an official document, summoning
him to appear the next morning at eleven o’clock before the Westminster
Police Court, on pain of legal penalties, etc., etc.
Baron K. went from one state of astonishment to another; he no longer
knew what to think of himself, the English, the world, and began to
feel really ill. Under such circumstances the hours passed slowly
enough, he naturally felt no inclination for society, and it seemed as
if, in the last two days, he had lived ten years, when, punctually at
eleven o’clock the next morning, he appeared before the alderman who
acted as judge in the Westminster Police Court. He had not long to
wait. First a cabman was condemned to pay four shillings and sixpence
because he had charged a passenger three pence too much, then Baron K.
heard his own name called. Advancing to the judge, he asked what was
wanted. The judge showed him the letter which he had written to Captain
W. and asked if he knew the epistle. K assented. Did he acknowledge
that he was its author? Another affirmative answer. Was it a jest, or
had he been serious in the challenge and threats which the letter
contained? Very serious, K. answered.
The judge then raised his voice, saying impressively:
“I ought to condemn you, for disturbance of the peace and dangerous
threats, to three months imprisonment with hard labor, but in
consideration of the fact that you are a young, ignorant, foolish
foreigner, unfamiliar with the laws of the country, you need only pay a
fine of fifty pounds sterling. You must, however, find two persons who
will give bail that you will keep the peace for six months, and you
must also keep in mind that if you utter even the slightest threat you
will be sentenced to hard labor!”
A few days after the incidents related, I chanced to meet Baron K. in
the Zoological Gardens, where, with a friend—an author who had traveled
extensively and possessed much experience of the world—I was inspecting
some animals which had just arrived. I thought that K. was greatly
altered and told him so. He laughed bitterly, and answered:
“Pray don’t ask me to tell you the reason, otherwise the same thing
might happen which has already befallen me twice.”
But as I urged him, he at last resolved to gratify my wishes. When I
had heard the story as I have just related it, I stood still and stared
at him in astonishment, as much bewildered as Baron K. himself. The
English author who was in our company smiled in amusement and, after
looking at the luckless young fellow a while, he said:
“Then you do not know that to shoot a fox, or to kill it in any way
except with a pack of hounds, horses, etc., is a far baser crime, in
the eyes of the majority of my countrymen, than to steal a purse? You
do not know that there is scarcely a gentleman in England who would
give his hand to a man who had killed a fox with a bullet?”
We certainly had not known it, but it was true. Baron K. was now a
wiser, but a sadder man. He left England soon after, and I shall not be
surprised to hear that he does not express the kindest opinions of the
island kingdom and its inhabitants.
WITHIN AN INCH OF ETERNITY.
The windows of the restaurant were open, and the cool, fragrant air of
the spring night was struggling with the smoke-laden atmosphere of the
room. A glance out of doors showed the azure sky and the brilliant full
moon, whose glimmering bluish rays shone through the young leafage of
the blossoming trees, which swayed gently to and fro before the windows
in the light breeze. But nothing was more remote from the minds of our
circle, which met every evening at a certain table for social
intercourse, than poetical ideas. The club, of which I was one,
consisted principally of worthy citizens, who had a far greater liking
for bright gaslight than for dim moonlight, and who appreciated the
charms of a good supper much more than the spell of the loveliest
spring night. The topic of our conversation was prosaic town gossip,
which, as usual, gradually merged into foolish talk about politics or
discussions concerning the Government, the theater, high taxes, and
similar subjects. By a connection of ideas which I do not now recall,
the question had arisen whether it was credible that a person’s hair
could suddenly turn gray from violent mental excitement. Part of the
company received the anecdotes current about such cases with slight
doubts, while others most pitilessly derided persons who were simple
enough to believe such nursery tales.
Just as the conversation became most animated, a man of unusual height
and herculean frame, whom he had not previously noticed, rose from a
side table and approached us. His intelligent features, which bore the
stamp of resolution, seemed spiritualized by the large, kindly blue
eyes. But the most striking peculiarity in his appearance was the snow
white hair and the gray beard framing his face, which, at the utmost,
indicated an age of only thirty-five years.
“Pardon me if I enter into your conversation,” he said, bowing
courteously. “You are speaking of a subject which greatly interests me.
I myself am a living proof that terrible mental agitation really does
exert the physical influence which you all doubt.”
His words awakened the utmost interest. We made room for him at our
table, and, after he had taken his seat, unanimously urged him to tell
us what had caused the whiteness of his hair.
The stranger feigned no undue modesty, but yielded to our entreaties
and related the following story:
“If you have ever paid any attention to American affairs, the name of
Auburn cannot be unfamiliar; it has about the same significance in the
United States as Spielberg has in Austria. You must not imagine Auburn
as an immense gloomy prison, a single large building, but rather a
whole colony of criminals, a metropolis of the miserable outcasts of
society. Inclosed by enormous walls, which rise menacingly to a
considerable height above the plain, are a great number of single
structures, houses which contain the cells of the prisoners, the
residences of the wardens, barracks, hospitals, and workshops, all
desolate and dreary, with here and there a bit of turf, a row of trees,
a bed of flowers, like an innocent memory of childhood among the evil
thoughts of a criminal.
“Circumstances which I will not weary you by recounting had led me,
after completing my education in my native city, Hamburg, to America,
and after a brief time in New York I found myself prison surgeon in
Auburn, which, as perhaps you know, is in the State of New York.
“I had charge of a part of the prison which contained the worst
criminals, men, or, rather, human hyenas, to whom blood had ceased to
be a very special liquid, as Mephistopheles terms it. Two, who were
condemned to lifelong imprisonment in the institution, and were
distinguished among the others by great bodily strength, craftiness,
and intelligence, had, in consequence of repeated bold and cunning
attempts to escape, been placed under more rigid oversight than the
rest. I had incurred their special hate because I had once caused the
discovery of several iron tools, which—heaven knows how obtained—they
had concealed under their clothing, and on another occasion discovered
that they were shamming when, on the plea of illness, they desired to
be placed in the hospital, probably because they hoped to find the
conditions there more favorable for their plans of escape. The
scoundrels were separated and heavily chained, but nevertheless one
morning one and, a few days later, the other vanished, chains and all,
without leaving a trace. About a fortnight afterward I went to Cayuga
Bridge on some private business.
“It was noon when I reached the end of my ride, and I gazed with
delight at the sunlit landscape before my eyes. Cayuga Lake, one of
those which, with Lake Erie, form the network of inland lakes, lay
before me in its peculiar loveliness. Between rugged, rocky shores,
confronting each other like sullen foes, the long, narrow sheet of
silver extended its clear surface as if striving to reconcile the two
enemies who had stared defiantly at each other for centuries. Across
the lake, which is about forty miles long, and, at this point, a mile
wide, the railway trains run on an immense wooden bridge, a marvel of
American enterprise, which has a station at Cayuga Bridge, an
insignificant village.
“My business was soon completed, and toward evening I set out on my way
home. Are you familiar with the pleasure of a ride on a summer evening?
Cayuga Bridge is surrounded by extensive oak forests, through which I
had to ride a considerable distance. The huge, lofty trunks cast long
shadows and the tops rustled so softly that one rather felt than heard
them. As I passed beneath these woodland giants, sweet memories of my
far-off home stole into my heart. Absorbed in thought, I loosened the
bridle of my horse, which trotted slowly forward. I admired the
bewitching blending of colors produced by the rays of the setting sun,
as they shone through the dense, dark green foliage and seemed to
kindle the edges of the leaves. Suddenly I was roused from my dreams by
a rustling in the underbrush on both sides of the road. I seized my
pistol and turned quickly, but at the same moment received a terrible
blow, which deprived me of my senses. True, I opened my eyes once more
and fancied I saw indistinctly, as if in a dream, one of the escaped
criminals bending over me, then darkness shrouded my mind.
“It must have been late at night when consciousness returned. I opened
my eyes and saw above me in the deep blue sky a radiant full moon. A
dull, heavy sensation in the back of my head made me try to put my hand
on the aching spot, but I discovered that I was bound hand and foot.
Gradually I collected my thoughts, remembered the attack by highwaymen,
and a terrible foreboding, which made my heart stop beating, darted
through my brain. I felt that I was laid across two sharp parallel
projections, which pressed against me most painfully and, listening
intently, I heard, far below me, a faint splashing noise. There was no
doubt—I was lying across the rails of the Cayuga Bridge, bound, unable
to move, with the terribly certain prospect of being cut into three
pieces by the next train.
“I almost lost consciousness again. But I soon recovered my composure.
Then I tugged desperately at my bonds till they almost cut my muscles,
shrieked, and at last wept like a child. I tried to roll myself into a
different position, and remembered that an incautious movement would
hurl me into the silent waves of the Cayuga—bound hand and foot,
motionless as a stone.
“I shuddered and lay still. But not long. The light of the large, to
me, fearfully brilliant moon, the plashing of the water below, the wind
blowing softly, then the deathlike silence again, rarely interrupted
even by the distant note of a bird—all became unendurable and inspired
me with unspeakable terror. And the rails! The rails! My senses
tortured me. I could not escape them. The wooden beams of the bridge
trembled almost imperceptibly from the washing of the water. I imagined
I felt the approach of the train and my hair bristled; the wind sighed
a little louder, I fancied I heard the dull panting of the engine and
my heart stood still, only to throb the next instant with such dreadful
speed that the pulsations were almost audible.
“There are some things, gentlemen, which are totally incomprehensible
to me; one of them is how I survived that night. One thought stood
distinctly before my mind. I must endeavor to work myself into another
position—if possible, get into the space between the rails—if I was
not, perhaps the next moment, to become the victim of the most
agonizing death.
“And I succeeded! I strained every muscle, every sinew to the point of
breaking. I writhed, I twisted, I panted, my head seemed bursting, and,
after tremendous exertion, which appeared to me to last an eternity,
though perhaps it was only moments, I found myself in the hollow
between the rails.
“Was I safe? I had not time to consider or rejoice in my new hope, for
all my vital powers were concentrated in the single sense of hearing.
In the far distance I distinguished, at first vaguely, then more and
more distinctly, the regular, monotonous, dull noise which is produced
by the engine of a moving locomotive. The awful silence of the night
merged minute by minute into the still more awful, confused jarring
sounds, the rattling and groaning, rumbling and panting of a
locomotive, which was rushing forward at the mad speed of American
trains. A thousand feet more, five hundred—all the terrors of the
infernal regions assailed me, but not a muscle moved; I lay as if
turned to stone. I tried to shriek, but did not even hear my own voice;
how should it reach those on the train?
“Now, for an infinitely brief space of time, I fancied that I saw a
bright light, a blast of hot air fanned me, then suddenly darkness
shrouded me, I heard a thundering roar as though the very heavens were
falling.
“Close, very close, barely an inch above, the monster dashed over me—I
was safe. Still half unconscious, I heard a deafening rumbling and
clattering, and saw shadowy masses flit by; there was another moment of
mortal dread—the hook of a chain which hung lower than the rest caught
me, dragged me along a few feet and finally tore a large piece from the
breast of my coat, releasing me—then every object danced around me, the
moon, the bridge, and the high bank whirled in a giddy maze above and
below me, and my senses failed.
“When I regained my consciousness I found myself in my bed, with
familiar faces around me. To make the story short, I had been picked up
the morning after that terrible night by a signal man, recognized, and
taken to Auburn. A violent fever kept me for a fortnight within the
shadow of death, but my strong constitution conquered. When, after my
recovery, I looked in the glass for the first time, I saw what traces
those moments had left upon me.”
The physician paused. His pallid face, the expression of horror in his
eyes, the perspiration which stood in large drops upon his brow, showed
how vivid must be his remembrances of the scene, and how greatly the
narration had exhausted him.
Gradually the breathless anxiety with which we had listened to the
story related with such graphic power passed away, and cheerfulness
returned.
Then we paced to and fro for a long time in the moonlight, in the
garden behind the tavern, listening to the doctor’s tales of less
harrowing experiences in the young land of liberty, wonders, and
adventure.