Waffenburg, a man whose name is above so ridiculous a suspicion," said
Engstein.
"Oh, of course the blackest suspicion attaches itself to Wenzel," said
Fritz; "yet, in the case of a mysterious murder, evidence, occasionally
of so startling and unexpected a nature, turns up as to completely alter
the state of the case.
"The headsman is missing, and a corpse has been found dressed in his
clothes. We presume, therefore, that _he_ is the murderer, but if after
a time the Henker's corpse should also be found----"
"Oh, in that case," said Ludwig, "the aspect of the whole affair would
be changed. Well, we must wait for further evidence. To-morrow the case
will begin in court, and my services will be required. I doubt not
before long that sufficient light will be thrown on the subject to
enable us to discover the true murderer."
Thus our two friends chatted by the way, till in due time they arrived
at the township, and having deposited the head of the murdered man at
the town hall, where the body had been exposed, they spread abroad the
result of their expedition, and clearly proved to the somewhat obtuse
inhabitants their error.
On the following morning, then, the trial began. The court was crowded
to suffocation. Evidence of a very extraordinary nature had turned up,
so it was said, and Ludwig Engstein, attired in his professional robes,
was preparing to conduct the case.
My ancestor was amongst the crowd, and had placed himself as near as he
possibly could to his friend.
"Call in Gottlieb Kraeger," cried the examiner.
A hoary peasant entered the witness-box, and the examination proceeded
in this wise:
"You are a farmer from the village of ----, are you not?"
"I am."
"Just inform us, if you please, what you were doing on the night of the
murder."
"I was returning home after selling some cattle at the ----dorf market,
and it was about midnight when I passed close to the Henker's cottage. I
heard cries and groans as of someone being murdered not far off. I
stopped and listened for a moment, then set off on tip-toe to the spot
whence the sounds proceeded. It was very dark, and the groans at length
ceased.
"I placed myself behind some brushwood to watch who should issue from
the copse, when a friar passed me."
"Stay, are you quite sure the friar came from the very spot from whence
you heard the groans?"
"Well, as to swearing to it, I don't know, but I heard the sound as of
brushwood being trampled under foot, and the next instant the friar
passed close to me. He did not appear to observe me, but moved onward in
the direction of the village of Ahlden."
"Did you follow him or take any further notice of him?"
"To say the truth, I was too frightened to move, but I kept my eye on
him as far as I could see him."
"But you tell me it was very dark."
"Just at that moment the moon had burst from behind the clouds, and
enabled me to see distinctly."
"Well, did you observe anything peculiar in the manner or gait of the
friar?"
"Yes; after he had passed me some ten paces he halted, as if he were
counting money, after which he threw away something that glittered in
the moonlight and then walked on. I followed stealthily behind to
discover what it was that he had thrown away, when I picked up this."
The witness held up a long silk purse knitted with silver beads.
"Give it to me--so--can you recollect anything else about this friar?
Could you manage to catch a glimpse of his face?"
"No, I could not exactly distinguish the features, but----"
"But what?"
"I observed a peculiar patch in his amice over the left shoulder."
"Should you be able to swear to the amice?"
"Aye, that I should, among a thousand."
"Is this the amice of the friar you saw issue from the copse?" asked
Ludwig, holding up a patched amice such as is worn by the Capuchin
friars.
"The very same, I'll swear to it."
"Take care, you are on your oath."
"Well, if it is not the same, it is one made after the same fashion,
patch and all complete. I'll swear to the shape of the patch, for I
observed the garment well."
"Enough; you may retire. Call in Hans Schultz."
A dapper little man with oiled hair and closely-shaven face entered the
court, and having taken his post at the witness-box, gave his evidence
as follows:--
"I am by profession a barber. The morning after the murder I was shaving
an elderly gentleman in my shop. I suggested that a little hair dye
would improve his personal appearance, and offered him a bottle. He
refused to buy it, so I placed it on a table behind me, and continued to
shave him. Whilst I was recommending the hair dye to my customer I
noticed a Capuchin friar pass several times in front of my shop. He
appeared to be listening to our conversation.
"Shortly afterwards he entered the shop and begged for alms for the
convent. I gave him a kreuzer, and after he had chatted a little he left
the shop. I could not see his face well, as he kept it covered with his
hood, but I remember that he had a red beard. He had hardly left my shop
when on looking on the table behind me I found the bottle of hair dye
gone. No one else but the friar and my customer had entered the shop
since I laid the bottle down upon the table, yet I could not suspect my
customer of having stolen the bottle, and I was much at a loss to
conceive what a Capuchin friar should want with hair dye.
"I concluded, therefore, that I must have been mistaken, and must have
laid the bottle down somewhere else without thinking, so I thought no
more of it.
"On the same day I was called to cut the hair of a gentleman at the
other end of the village, when I passed a friar who appeared to be the
same as he who not long ago had entered my shop. I looked at him in the
face, but he had a black beard. I could have sworn it was the same, for
his amice was patched in a peculiar manner on the shoulder, as was that
of the first friar."
"Is this the amice that the friar wore?" asked Engstein, holding up the
patched garment.
"It is like it. I could all but swear to it."
"Did you address him when you met him, as you thought, a second time?"
"I was about to do so, but he pulled out his beads, and began counting
them. Not liking to disturb him in his devotions, I passed on, thinking
that after all I might have been deceived."
"That is sufficient, you may go."
The little barber left the court, and another witness was called for.
"Your name?"
"Max Offenbrunnen."
"Profession?"
"I am host of the Bear Inn in the village of M----."
"Can you tell us anything that happened at your inn within this last
week?"
"Yes; three days after the murder a Capuchin friar stopped at my inn and
called for a tankard of beer. He kept his hood down all the time, so
that I could not see his face, but I remember that he had a black beard,
and I also noticed that he had a patch in his amice over one shoulder of
rather an unusual form."
The patched garment was held up again in court, and recognised also by
the third witness, after which he proceeded as follows:--
"He called for more beer, and I began to enter into conversation with
him and asked him where he came from. He told me from a Capuchin convent
at W----, about a mile off. Just at that moment another friar, an old
friend of mine, passed my inn, who belonged to the aforementioned
convent.
"'Then you know each other,' said I to my friend the second friar, and I
sought to bring them together, but my friend, after eyeing the former
from head to foot, denied all knowledge of him. The first friar then
somewhat confusedly stammered an excuse, saying that he had spoken
without thinking, but that he had intended to say St. Mary's, another
Capuchin convent, six miles further off. Then my friend the second friar
said that he knew all the friars at St. Mary's, but still denied that he
knew this one.
"The former began to mumble that he had only lately arrived, and began
to turn the conversation. My friend whispered to me that he didn't
believe he was a friar at all, but someone in disguise. After my friend
had left, the former friar called for more beer (I never saw a friar
drink so much beer as this one), and being curious to discover who the
man was I tried to draw him out. At first he answered cautiously, but
after drinking deeper he became less cautious and more confidential, but
his utterance was now thick and unintelligible. He drew his chair closer
to mine, and seemed about to let me into some secret, when some other
customers of mine at the next table began to talk about the murder.
"I noticed that the would-be friar started, and instead of continuing
his conversation with me, got up suddenly and muttered some excuse for
taking his departure. He paid me hurriedly by lying down a Reichsgulden,
saying that whatever change there might be I might keep for myself. He
had hardly left my house when certain of the guard who had been on the
track of the murderer stopped to question him, and finding he could give
no satisfactory account of himself, took him into custody."
Other witnesses were then examined in their turn, among which were
certain members of the family of the murdered count, and a certain
Fraulein von Berlichingen, his affianced bride, all of whom recognised
the body to be that of the missing Graf von Waffenburg. The silken purse
with silver beads picked up by the first witness was also recognised by
Fraulein von Berlichingen as having been knitted by herself and
presented by her to her lover.
The remains of the murdered count were decently interred. The melancholy
event caused no small commotion in the neighbourhood. The funeral was
followed by a large crowd of relatives and intimate friends, among which
were our two heroes Fritz and Ludwig. The grief of Fraulein von
Berlichingen was too great to allow her to appear at the funeral. She
was inconsolable, and shortly afterwards entered a convent.
But to return to the trial.
The prisoner was now conducted into court. He was a man somewhat passed
middle-age, though his frame was square built and powerful, and his
hair, beard, and eyebrows were of a deep black, yet an observer might
have noticed that whenever a ray of sunlight entered the court and shone
full in the face of the prisoner that his hair and beard turned to a
glowing purple, demonstrating beyond a doubt the presence of dye. Those
who chanced to be stationed near the prisoner declared afterwards that
the hairs of his head towards the roots were of a bright red, and many
were they who recognised, in spite of this disguise, the person of
Franz Wenzel, the executioner.
The prisoner, however, when examined, gave his name as Adolf Schmidt,
and denied stoutly that he was Franz Wenzel, or to having ever had
dealings with such a person.
He denied having stolen a bottle of hair dye for the purpose of
disguising himself, and maintained that he was an honest citizen who had
donned a holy garb for penitence, which had been imposed upon him by his
father confessor.
The prisoner was then asked if such were the case, why he had tried to
deceive the host of the Bear Inn and the Capuchin friar when they asked
him whence he came. To this the prisoner replied that he loved not to
gratify the idle curiosity of others respecting his private affairs.
Ludwig Engstein then asked the prisoner how he came in possession of the
friar's amice, for which he responded that it had been lent him some
time ago by his father confessor, who had obtained it from some Capuchin
friar of his acquaintance.
When asked for particulars concerning his father confessor, he replied
vaguely and confusedly, and when begged to be more explicit, he refused,
saying he had private reasons for not divulging the affairs of his
friends.
Other witnesses were then called for, who stated that they had been
robbed of money and various sorts of ware more than once within the
last three years, about half a (German) mile from the house of the
Scharfrichter by a man who wore a mask, and who corresponded in height
and width of person to the prisoner. Among these latter was a Jew
pedlar, who three years ago had been robbed of a large sum and various
articles of clothing, among which he declared was the identical friar's
amice held up in court, and which he perfectly remembered to have
patched himself.
This and such like evidence naturally went very much against the
prisoner; neither will it be wondered at that his disguise was easily
seen through, and his person recognised as that of Franz Wenzel, the
executioner. He was consequently found guilty of wilful murder and
finally condemned to be beheaded. The day of the execution was fixed,
and the prisoner conducted to the condemned cell.
We have mentioned before in an early part of this story that the
profession of the headsman was hereditary, that the law forced the son
of an executioner to follow in the steps of his father.
The unhappy wretch then, according to this law, was doomed to lose his
life at the hands of his own son. Much speculation, however, among the
inhabitants of ----dorf had arisen as to whether the law would actually
enforce so rigorous a decree, and whether the son of the Scharfrichter
would rebel against it if it did, or bow submissively to so harsh and
unfeeling an order.
Some there were who thought that an exception ought to be made in this
case, and a new Henker selected, as it was hard for the son to suffer
for the crimes of the father; but even if the law were disposed to be
lenient, who was the new aspirant to be? Who would like to come forward
to offer his services?
The office of the Scharfrichter was in such bad odour that it would be
difficult to find a man in the whole village who could be persuaded to
undertake the task, even by the offer of a large reward.
However, after much speculation and gossip, the inhabitants came to the
conclusion that everything might be done with money, and that someone
would be certainly found to accept the bribe.
Others began to spread throughout the village that the man had already
been found, and ventured to point out such or such a citizen as the new
practitioner. Meanwhile the law had remained passive and had not
troubled itself to make an exception in the case, and the burgomaster
who had the superintendence of such affairs was far too phlegmatic and
indifferent even to give the matter a thought.
He knew that an execution had to take place, that someone would be paid
for amputating the head of the criminal, but whether it was to be one
man's duty or another's was all the same to him.
The headsman's trade was hereditary, and he (the burgomaster) had never
heard of any such innovation as that of selecting a new headsman during
the lifetime of the rightful heir; therefore, as a matter of course,
the young Scharfrichter was to decapitate his own father, and there was
an end of the matter.
What to him were the feelings of the son at being forced to obey so
unnatural a dictate? He was paid for it like anyone else, and very good
pay he got, too.
What to him was the additional anguish of the criminal at being executed
by his own son? He knew well enough that his son would step into his
shoes when he himself should be deprived of office, and if he didn't
like to lose his head at the hands of his own son, he ought to have
reflected before he committed the murder.
Now, the burgomaster had a confidential servant, one Heinrich Goebel, a
man of heartless and revengeful nature, who cherished an ill-will
against the prisoner's son for having dared to supplant him in the
affections of a certain blue-eyed damsel, the daughter of a
tavern-keeper in the village.
The father of the lady in question was not over pleased with the
attentions of either of these individuals towards his Lieschen, one of
the aspirants for his daughter's hand being a drunkard, the son of an
executioner, who besides the stigma inevitably attached to his character
for life, would be obliged to maintain his daughter by the scanty
proceeds of his loathsome profession.
The other, a man of notoriously bad character, and dependent upon the
wages he received from his master for a living. Of the two, the maid
herself decidedly favoured Leo Wenzel, the young headsman, and seeing
this, Heinrich Goebel inwardly resolved to take vengeance on his rival
upon the first opportunity.
Whilst plotting vengeance thus in his heart, Goebel sought his master and
shaped his conversation in this wise:
"Herr Buergermeister, this will be a somewhat difficult business, this
execution."
"How so?" inquired his master.
"Why, according to law," answered his servant, "young Leo will have to
take the life of his own father."
"Well, what of that?" said the burgomaster.
"They say he is a young man of spirit, and he might refuse to take his
father's life."
"Refuse! would he? The law will force him."
"But if he is obstinate and persists? He is a young man of spirit."
"Ugh! I hate these young men of spirit, they are always making trouble
and subverting order. Well, if he makes a disturbance, he will be
imprisoned, that's all."
"Yes, yes, of course; but for all that, if he positively refuses to lift
his arm against his father, the law cannot force him to do it."
"Well, not exactly, but--but what has put it into your head that he
_will_ refuse? He will be rewarded for his services."
"But if he could not be tempted by a reward, if by chance he should
refuse at the last moment to act the part of executioner towards his
own father, and no one should be found to accept the post--why, in that
case, if _my_ services should be accepted, I should be most glad to
officiate."
"What, _you_, Heinrich! _you_ turn Scharfrichter! Ha! ha!--this is
something quite new. I was not aware that that was anything in your
line."
"Well, sir, knowing your dislike to a disturbance among the populace (a
thing very likely to occur if the headsman should not be found at his
post)--rather than such an old vagabond as Franz Wenzel should get off
in the confusion, why, I'll undertake the job myself."
"You would? Ha! ha!--but stay, if there _should_ be a disturbance (which
Heaven forfend, as any excitement sadly upsets my digestion), I am not
so sure that I should like my servant to take upon himself the office of
Scharfrichter, for the odium of the populace that he would naturally
incur would reflect likewise upon his master, and----"
"Well, sir, if you fear that, I should then advise another line of
conduct."
"Indeed! What may that be?"
"To keep young Leo in ignorance that it is his father that he is called
upon to execute. Listen to me! The Scharfrichter's house is a mile
distant; our villagers have a superstitious dread of the spot, and are
not likely yet to have communicated with the young man, and I know that
he hasn't been in the township since he was last called to swear to the
identity of the murdered man, then commonly believed to be his father.
You will recollect that he identified the corpse as that of his father.
In his lonely dwelling, he can have heard nothing of the trial, and is
consequently still under the impression that it is his father that has
been murdered.
"Now, if you will leave the matter to me I will contrive that he shall
not be undeceived until too late."
"Yes; but how?"
"First of all I will go there myself with the news that the murderer of
his father has been arrested, that the day has been fixed for his
execution, and that he will have the pleasure of trying his hand for the
first time in his life on his father's murderer. Everything will go
straight, provided he has as yet heard nothing from other tongues."
"But if he has?"
"Then our plan is frustrated; but I go to ascertain that, and if he has
not, the greatest care must be taken that no one communicates with him
from this town, to which end you should give orders for the gates of the
town to be closed for some days, under the excuse that you have been
robbed of certain valuables, and have taken this precaution to catch the
thief. It would be as well, perhaps, to hurry on the execution as
quickly as possible."
"Well, but there is one point I don't understand. Supposing all to go on
smoothly, as you seem so confident that it will, won't the young man
recognise his father when led up to the scaffold in the 'poor sinner's'
cart, and afterwards takes his seat on the chair placed for him?"
"There is our great difficulty, but let us hope for the best. The
prisoner, as you know, took the precaution to dye his red head black in
order to escape recognition. This will aid our project. The 'poor
sinner's' garb that he will don the morning of the execution will also
help the disguise. Young Leo is but a superficial observer, and before
he has well taken note of the criminal his head will be off."
"You are very hopeful as to the success of your scheme, but if the
father, in his last moments, makes himself known to his son--should rush
into his arms to embrace him and say: 'My son, do you not know me? I am
your father--you will not have the heart to execute your own father, the
author of your existence.'"
"We must prevent this. Let a handkerchief be tied round his jaw that he
cannot open his mouth to speak. This, after all, will be nothing more
than is usually done to catch hold of the head in order to exhibit it to
the public after decapitation, the only difference being that it is
generally tied on after the criminal has taken his seat on the scaffold,
while in this case it will be done before. Another bandage should be
bound round his eyes at the same time, which is also customary; thus a
great portion of the prisoner's face will be hidden. His arms will be
pinioned firmly to his sides, so as to render all attempt at the removal
of the bandage impossible, and everything will pass off quietly."
"Well, well, you're a queer dog. See that it _does_ pass off quietly,
that's all, and don't bother me any more about it. Mind, I leave the
matter entirely in your hands."
"Never fear, sir, I am off at once to the house of the Scharfrichter;
trust everything to me. Stay, you had better issue an order for the
gates of the town to be closed at once. You can give me a pass before I
start, or they will shut me out with the rest."
"True; just wait one moment. Here--the pen and ink--so now be off as
fast as you can."
Off started the servant of the burgomaster with the order to the
gatekeeper to close the gates, and the pass which was to admit none but
himself, and after the gatekeeper had received the necessary
instructions, Heinrich passed rapidly through the gates and directed his
steps towards the house of the Scharfrichter. He chuckled to himself as
he contemplated the success of his scheme.
"What would the death of his father at my hands be to him to the
discovery of having taken his father's life himself! That will be
revenge indeed! Now to the fulfilment of my scheme there is no
obstacle."
He had proceeded about an English mile on his way when, suddenly lifting
his eyes, he descried in the distance the figure of an aged man, who
appeared to be going the same road as himself. He hastened his steps,
and soon overtook the veteran, whom he now recognised as one of his
fellow citizens, a certain Gustav Meyer, and known to be one of the
greatest gossips in the neighbourhood.
"Good-day, Gustav," said Goebel, with forced good humour. "Where are you
off to on those venerable pins of yours?"
"Ach! lieber, freund Goebel!" exclaimed the loquacious old man; "how are
you? I have not seen you for an age. You have grown proud since you have
been in the burgomaster's service, and forget that it was I who got you
the situation, for you never come to see me now, though we used to be
such cronies, you know. But you young folks never think it worth while
to give us old fogies a call to see how we are. Why, I might be dead and
buried for all you would know about it, and even if you did hear of it,
I suppose it would be all the same to you, eh?
"Well, well, 'ingratitude is the reward of the world,' as the proverb
says, and we old fogies with one foot in the grave and the other about
to follow must make up our minds to be put on the shelf. We all have our
turn; I have had mine, you are having yours, but old age comes at last,
and then there is an end of us all, even to the best of us. Even I have
been young, friend Goebel. Ha! ha! You'd hardly think so to look at me
now with these silvery locks and tottering limbs. I say you'd hardly
think so now, would you, eh? Now, how many years should you think I
could count, friend Goebel, tell me?"
"I haven't the slightest idea," said Goebel, impatiently.
"I am hard upon ninety years old, and all tell me that I carry my years
well. I may say I haven't had a day's illness in all my life. I have
nearly all my teeth yet, and----"
"I have no doubt all you say is very true, my friend," interrupted
Goebel; "but you have hardly answered my question satisfactorily yet. I
asked you where you were going?"
"Friend Goebel," said the old man, "now I'll just tell you what I propose
doing this morning, just by way of stretching my old limbs, seeing that
I have not had a walk for an age. It does old folks good to go out for a
stroll every now and then in the country. Too much staying at home over
the fire isn't good, even for the likes of me."
"Well, well," broke in Goebel, beginning to lose all patience. "I asked
you where you were going."
"Did you? Ah yes, I had nearly forgot. We old folks are apt to lose our
memories at times, you know, my friend, so you young folks ought to have
compassion on us, and recollect that we were once like you, and that you
will one day become like us, therefore----"
"This is insufferable," burst out Goebel, whose forbearance was quite at
an end. "I ask you a plain question, and I expect a plain answer. I
repeat the question--Where are you going?"
"Hoity, toity! friend Goebel," cried the old man, in great surprise.
"What! so impatient with your old friend Gustav! Don't you remember how
often I have taken you upon my knee and danced you? We used to be great
friends then. Don't you recollect? But I suppose you have forgotten all
that now, eh?--since you have become a man. Let me see, how long ago
must that be? Full thirty years ago, if it's a day, I'll warrant."
"Will you, or will you not, give me a plain answer to a plain question.
Tell me where you are going?" cried Goebel, now quite furious, and
shaking the old man violently by both shoulders.
"Softly, softly! friend Goebel," cried the veteran, much alarmed. "Save
my life. Prithee, save my life, and I will tell you where I am going, if
you will have patience."
"Well, tell me at once, and let us have no more chattering," said Goebel,
leaving go his hold.
"Well, in the first place, then," began old Gustav, recovering
himself--"in the first place----but stay, upon second thoughts, I'll
just leave you to guess where I am going. Now, where do you think?"
"Dotard, have a care!" cried Goebel, threateningly, "and trifle with me
no longer. Tell me where you are going, or----"
"Well, well, friend Goebel, I'll tell you; don't be afraid, don't let two
such old friends as we are quarrel for a trifle--I'll tell you where I
am going, although I must say that I think you seem to take an uncommon
interest in the doings of an old man like me, who, though he be an old
friend----"
"Take care now!"
"Well, well, my friend, wait one moment; I'll tell you. I told you
before that I would tell you, and I will be as good as my word, if you
will have one moment's patience--for patience, friend Goebel, patience, I
say, is a virtue that we ought all to cultivate, and which we all of us
more or less are sadly wanting in. But to proceed; though, after all, my
friend, what hurry can you possibly have to learn so simple a fact? It
appears to me that the world has grown wondrously impatient since my
time; that is, if everybody is like you, but as I said before----"
"Tell me! tell me!" screamed Goebel, seizing his venerable friend a
second time by the shoulders.
"Well, then, my friend," said Gustav, drawing out his words at a most
provoking length, "if I _must_ tell you, and you are quite sure that you
have sufficient patience to listen to me, learn that I am going to pay a
visit at the house of the Scharfrichter, to have a quiet little gossip.
You know I am fond of a nice little gossip. Well, I am just going to
have a little chat with that poor young man Leo Wenzel. What do you
think? He doesn't know yet that his father is the real murderer, for he
lives so far off and no one ever goes near the house to tell him the
news, and he is still under the delusion that his father has been
murdered and that the assassin has not yet been caught. Poor young man,
I shall have to break the news very gently to him, for he will feel it
deeply. He must know the truth sooner or later, so I have taken upon
myself to be the first to communicate the unwelcome news.
"According to the law he will be obliged to take the life of his own
father. It will be a dreadful blow to him, poor boy, and I am sure I
don't know how he will be induced to act executioner in the present
instance. I know not if the law in this case will make an exception and
choose someone else in his place; it will be very hard upon him if the
law really should insist on being carried out to the very letter. Let us
hope that mercy will be shown to the son, but in any case it is a very
dreadful affair, so I thought I would just go to comfort him a little,
to see how he takes the matter, and give him courage, in case----"
"I thought as much!" muttered Goebel to himself; then aloud to his
friend, "So that is where you are going is it? Ah, then I will save you
the trouble. Being a matter of no importance, you need not be in a
hurry. Listen to me; my master has lost certain valuables, and has given
orders for the gates of the town to be closed until he has discovered
the thief, and has strictly commanded me to arrest any person I might
find leaving the town, until his valuables shall have been recovered. I
should be sorry to suspect you, but as the law respects the person of no
man, it is my painful duty to take you back to the town. Let us have no
more cackling or resistance, but come at once."
"But, my dear friend Goebel!" pleaded the veteran, "you surely can't
suspect--you will not for one moment imagine--nay, if you have any doubt
of my honesty search me. I can assure it will be useless, I am
innocent."
"If you are innocent, you will be proved so in due time, meanwhile I
have orders----"
"But, friend Goebel, I assure you again and again upon my oath that I
have taken nothing. There--look--search me all over, if you will, and
let me go in peace. Is not my character enough? Am I not well known in
----dorf? Have I ever been known to touch my neighbour's goods? Pray
satisfy yourself that I have taken nothing, and let me go. Why trouble
yourself to bring back a man to the town to be searched whom you know to
be innocent. Besides, it will upset my plan. I wouldn't miss my little
gossip with young Leo for all the world just at this moment. Just
consider, my friend----"
"Cease your cackling and come along with me!" shouted Goebel, seizing him
by the collar and dragging him forcibly back towards the town.
"But--but----" stammered the astonished and terrified old man.
"But me no buts, but do my bidding instantly, Sir Driveller, or it will
be the worse for you."
So saying, he dragged his old friend home again at a hurried pace,
regardless of his tottering limbs and of his prayers and entreaties.
It was just mid day, and the sun shone hot, when Goebel returned to the
township, perspiring at every pore, and deposited his charge, more dead
than alive, within the walls of ----dorf. He then retraced his steps
under the broiling sun, cursing and swearing as he went at his plan
having been so nearly frustrated by the cackling gossip of an old
dotard.
"_Potz--Himmel, Donnerwetter, Schock, Schwerer, Noth, noch mal!_" he
muttered to himself. "A pretty obstacle in my path! _Tausend Teufel!_ I
had a mind to dash his brains out on the spot, the old idiot, for his
drivelling."
With these and such like elaborately strung together oaths the servant
of the burgomaster beguiled the time, until at length he arrived at the
door of the Scharfrichter's house, where he discovered young Leo at work
in his garden. The young executioner looked up at the sound of stranger
footsteps, and though he would rather the visitor had been anyone else
than his rival, yet upon the whole he was not displeased to see a human
face after so long. His manner even warmed towards his visitor when he
saw him advance with a smile on his face and an extended hand.
"Leo," began Heinrich Goebel with feigned friendship, "we have long been
enemies, but everything has an end. I have now come to offer you my hand
in friendship, for henceforth we are no longer rivals, but friends.
Lieschen, think of her no more. Her father positively refuses to give
her to either of us, so she has at length plighted her troth to another
man."
"What! Lieschen? Impossible!" cried Leo, mopping his forehead.
"Ay, my friend, it is too true; nay, pray calm yourself. I, too, loved
her as you did, but since the matter has turned out thus, I have made
up my mind to console myself by paying my addresses to another as soon
as possible."
"You never _could_ have loved her as I loved her," gasped out Leo, as he
staggered for support against the garden wall.
"Well, well, my friend, I knew you would feel the blow, but calm
yourself and dismiss these gloomy thoughts. I have better news than that
in store for you."
"What care I for news now that _she_ has deserted me?" groaned Leo
distractedly.
"Come, come now, let me comfort you a little," said Goebel. "What do you
think? _The murderer of your father has been discovered!_"
"What do I hear? Caught? Safe?"
"Ay, the murder has been proved, and the murderer condemned to die by
the sword. The execution has been fixed for the day after to-morrow. It
will take place at daybreak as usual, and you will have the satisfaction
of taking vengeance on your father's murderer with your own hands. You
will wield your father's sword for the first time in your life before an
admiring crowd. Think of that."
"Vengeance at last!" cried the young headsman, with flushed face and
distorted features. "Vengeance at last! Thank God! thank God!"
"Bravo, old friend!" cried Goebel, slapping his heartily detested rival
on the shoulder in the friendliest manner possible. "I knew you would
take heart at this piece of news. Come, let us sit down together and
console ourselves."
Leo, then entering the house, took from a cupboard a large bottle of
schnaps and two glasses. The two companions, seating themselves, began
to drink deeply and to chat incessantly, the subject of the discourse
being the particulars of the murder according to the version of Goebel.
We need hardly say that the whole was a fabrication of Heinrich's own
brain. At length the servant of the burgomaster rose to take his
departure, and having enjoined his rival to be of good cheer, bent his
steps again towards the township, chuckling by the way at his own
devices. Arrived at the gates of the town, he showed his pass, and was
permitted to enter without let or hindrance. Hurrying through the
streets until he reached the burgomaster's house, he presented himself
before that worthy, whom he found seated at a table before a plate of
sausage, and in the act of draining to the dregs an enormous tankard of
beer.
"Well, what news?" asked his master.
"Oh! the very best; he took the bait greedily. It was quite a pleasure
to see how he enjoyed the news. No one had been before me, so I had him
all to myself. The matter will now go off as smoothly as could be
desired; but, by the saints! I had a narrow escape of failure."
"Indeed! How was that?"
"When I was nearly half way to the Scharfrichter's house, who should I
see just ahead of me but that cursed old gossip, Gustav Meyer. I stopped
him and asked him where he was going. _Potztausend!_ what a chatterbox!
I thought I should not get an answer out of him before nightfall, and
when I did, where do you think he _was_ going? Why, straight to the
house of the Henker to have a quiet chat with young Leo upon the subject
of the murder, and reveal to him all that I had taken such pains to keep
secret. He seemed delighted at the idea of being the first to deliver
the news."
The burgomaster laughed heartily.
"Well, what did you do?" said he, at length.
"What did I do! I told him his presence was particularly wanted at the
township, and seizing him by the collar, dragged him all the way back
again, regardless of his cackling. I informed him that you had lost some
valuables, and had given me orders to arrest anyone leaving the town on
suspicion. He was indignant at the charge. Protested, declared his
innocence, and spoke of the high character he had always borne in the
town, etc., etc. He seemed in despair at being deprived of his little
gossip with the Henker's son, and begged and entreated me to let him
have it out quietly; but, deaf to all his chattering, I dragged him home
again in spite of himself, and lodged him safely within the gates of the
town. _Donner und Blitzen!_ but it was enough to raise the bile of a
saint to listen to the wanderings of that antique driveller, to say
nothing of having one's plan so nearly frustrated; by such a worm as
that too!"
Here and again the burgomaster burst into a loud laugh, in which Goebel,
in spite of himself, joined.
"Ah," said he, at length recovering himself, "there is one thing yet to
be done. I must go to the jailor of the prison with private orders from
you to prevent the prisoner having an interview with his son, should he
ask for one. This accomplished, there will be no more difficulty."
"Ah, yes," said the burgomaster, "it would be as well. But what an
interest you seem to take in this case, Heinrich! One would imagine that
you had a private grudge against the prisoner."
"I like to see things well done," was the reply, and the servant shortly
after left the presence of his master.
A great sensation was caused in ----dorf when it was given out that the
execution had been hurried on a week, and much speculation arose as to
what could have been the burgomaster's motive. Half the town already
knew by the tongue of old Gustav of his having been arrested by the
servant of the burgomaster on suspicion of having robbed his master of
certain valuables just at the very time when he (Gustav) was
contemplating the pleasure he would have in being the first to
communicate the melancholy tidings of the murder to the young headsman.
They therefore concluded that Leo must still be in ignorance of the real
state of the case. The other half of ----dorf, however, never gave a
thought as to whether he knew it or not; enough for them that someone
was going to be beheaded and that they should have a spectacle to vary
the monotony of their humdrum lives.
At length the fatal day arrived. The gates of the town were thrown open
(for the servant of the burgomaster gave out that the thief had been
discovered and the valuables regained), and now all ----dorf was in an
uproar, while crowds of peasants from all the surrounding villages
flocked to witness the bloody spectacle.
The scaffold, or the mound of earth which was to serve as such, had been
erected half way between the township and the house of the executioner,
and was already surrounded by a file of soldiers, around which thronged
the mob so closely that they were every now and then repulsed by the
military. From the sea of human heads that inundated the place of
execution resounded a hum of voices, in which salutations, sallies, bad
language, coarse jokes, and coarser laughter, together with murmurs and
imprecations, and an occasional scream from the women when the crowd
pressed too closely, were confusedly mingled, and resembled at a little
distance the bleating of an immense flock of sheep. Classes of all sorts
were jostled together, from the lowest grade of handwerksbursch to the
university student. There were pretty peasant girls in their holiday
costumes, and sturdy peasants from all parts of the country. There were
Jew hawkers, sharpers, pickpockets, ruffianly bullies, cripples, and
mendicants. There were mothers with young children in their arms, which
latter contributed their feeble cries to the general buzz.
All had turned out to feast their eyes upon the death of a fellow
mortal. Nor was this an ordinary execution like that described in an
earlier part of this story. No; this was an exceptional case--something
out of the common way, a sublimer spectacle.
In this case the condemned was no obscure handwerksbursch, of whose
career the multitude knew nothing, and cared as little about. The
criminal was no less a man than Franz Wenzel, the far-famed
Scharfrichter, who had amputated the heads of "poor sinners" for the
last thirty or forty years, and was now doomed to lose his own.
The interest in the case was considerably heightened when it was known
that the veteran executioner was to be operated upon by the hands of his
own son. Then the facts of the murder were so strange, so unnatural.
Fancy the cunning of that hardened old sinner, the ex-headsman, who,
according to his own confession, made in prison the day before the
execution, had waylaid, robbed, and murdered the innocent Count of
Waffenburg, a scion of one of the most wealthy and respected noble
families for miles round, disguised as a Capuchin friar, and in order to
conceal the identity of the murdered man, had dissevered the head of the
corpse, which he had endeavoured to hide for ever from the eye of man by
throwing it into the trunk of a hollow chestnut tree. Then having
stripped the corpse of its clothes, and afterwards having stripped
himself of his outer garments, he dressed up the corpse of his victim in
his own well known crimson-coloured doublet and hose, thereby conveying
the idea to the public mind that the corpse found was his own, after
which, returning to his house close by, having again donned the friar's
habit, he deposited the sword usually set apart for the beheading of
criminals, and in this case used for amputating the head of the murdered
count, and wiping it well, he lighted a fire on his hearth where he
burned one by one the habiliments of his victim. He then left his house
a second time, still disguised as a friar and laden with his ill-gotten
treasure, passed once more the scene of the murder and wandered all
night in the direction of ----. How strange the evidence, too, that
convicted him, the theft of the bottle of hair dye, the remarkable patch
on his amice. Every particular of the murder had an indescribable
interest in the minds of the populace of ----dorf and its surrounding
villages. No wonder the adjacent townships vomited forth their scum of
the curious, idle, and depraved! This was a sight not to be missed on
any account, and would furnish them with gossip for the next six months
at least. At length, when the long streaky rose-tipped clouds announced
the approach of the fatal hour, the crowd burst out simultaneously into
a cry of "He comes! he comes! the Henker comes!"
The crowd made room for a young man in a cart, who, having thrown the
reins on the horse's neck, passed through the file of soldiers and
mounted the hillock of earth, armed with the two-handed weapon that he
was about to use for the first time in his life.
"Look!" said one of the crowd; "it _is_ young Leo, after all. I thought
they had found a substitute."
"What a hard-hearted young ruffian to consent to take the life of his
father with his own hands!" said another.
"And he doesn't seem to feel it a bit," said a third; "why, he is
actually smiling."
"Some folks say that he does not know who it is that he is going to
behead," said a fourth.
"Not know that the criminal is his father?" exclaimed the former
speaker. "Nonsense, I don't believe it."
The young headsman was attired in a buff leather jerkin slashed with red
and hose of a dark green. He appeared about two-and-twenty, and was as
yet beardless. He was considerably taller than his father, but his
frame, though powerfully built, was devoid of that excessive and almost
preternatural muscular development that characterised that of the old
executioner. His hair was of a reddish brown, his complexion florid, his
eyes light blue, and his features, though somewhat coarse, had something
in them not altogether disagreeable. He leaned firmly on his sword and
gazed around calmly on the crowd, when suddenly the human sea became
violently agitated and began to groan and hiss in its fury.
The cause of this tumult became speedily known. It was the arrival of
the "poor sinner," who was drawn in a cart between two priests and
habited according to the custom of the condemned on such occasions. Loud
hooting and execrations burst forth on all sides from the crowd as it
made way for the condemned cart.
"But that is not Franz Wenzel," said one to his neighbour. "The old
Henker had red hair; this man's hair is black."
"Fool, don't you know how that is?" said his neighbour. "Haven't you
heard yet how he dyed his hair black in order not to be recognised?"
"No, did he though?" said the former. "But look! why is his head tied up
so with two handkerchiefs? I can't see anything of his face."
"H'm, I don't know; some innovation I suppose. The handkerchief always
used to be tied on when on the scaffold in my time," answered his
friend. The criminal had now alighted from the cart, and, followed by
the two priests, ascended the place of execution, where he took his seat
on the chair placed for him. The assistant executioner, whose face was
most successfully disguised with a black mask, pushed his way through
the crowd and mounted the platform.
"Who is _he_?" was a question asked by everyone of everybody; "and why
is he masked while Leo, who bears the sword, is unmasked?"
"Who knows? Perhaps he is the new headsman that they all talked about,
and young Leo will not really behead his own father; but we shall see."
The crowd had grown more curious than ever. Every one stood on the
tip-toe of expectation with his eyes and mouth wide open. An intense
silence reigned around, during which the man in the mask bound the
criminal firmly to his seat with a strong cord, then seizing the
handkerchief that was tied round the head of the condemned, he gave the
signal for the blow. The two priests who had hitherto been whispering
consolation in the ear of the criminal now retreated a few paces to the
rear, while young Leo advanced, flushed and triumphant, his whole
countenance distorted with an expression of malice and revenge. Before
brandishing his sword to give the final blow he lowered his head close
to the ear of the victim and hissed out in accents sufficiently audible
to be overheard by that part of the crowd that had assembled nearest to
the scaffold: "Wretch! thine hour has come at last. Learn now the
vengeance of a wronged son. Thou shalt see if I am the son of my father
or no, and whether it is for nothing that I have been bred a
Scharfrichter. Prepare now, for thou art soon to learn how I have
profited by my lessons--whether I am an apt pupil. My sword is sharpened
well on purpose for thee, and when thou feelest the cold steel close to
thy neck, then, then, to h----l with thee, and bear throughout eternity
the curses of a ruined son!"
During this speech of the young headsman the criminal was observed to
tremble convulsively, as if struggling to speak, but the assistant
executioner grasped the handkerchief still tighter round his head and
repeated the signals impatiently.
"Did you hear?" said one of the foremost in the crowd. "Did you hear how
he cursed his father? He actually reproached him in his last moments for
having brought him up a Scharfrichter! Oh! the unfeeling young villain!
What a heart he must have."
"Ah! neighbour," answered another, "these executioners are not like
other mortals; they do not know what it is to feel. They are brought up
to kill their fellow creatures as butchers are to kill cattle, and they
think nothing of it. Bless you, there is nothing these men would not do
for money."
"'Tis strange, too," said another close by. "I always thought young Leo
loved his father. I never thought so bad of him as to think that he
would curse him in his dying moments, wretch though he may have been."
"Take my word for it, neighbour," said a sturdy inhabitant of ----dorf,
"that young Leo does not know yet that it is his father."
At this moment everyone suddenly broke short his discourse, and the
crowd again was silent for a moment. The two-handed weapon was raised
high in the air, glittered for a moment in the rays of the rising sun,
then descended with the rapidity of lightning, while the head of the
murderer having slipped out of the handkerchief with the force of the
blow, fell with a crash on the platform.
A loud cheer is raised by the crowd, and young Leo having thrown away
his sword and pushed aside the assistant executioner, has seized the
head of the criminal and torn off the bandage from his eyes. He holds it
high in the air by its purple locks and gloats with fiendish
satisfaction on its writhing features. The muscles of the face are
fearfully convulsed, as if the spirit had not as yet quite departed, but
still lingered about the corpse, being loth to leave its tenement. The
eyes roll hideously and appear to gaze reproachfully upon the face of
the young executioner. Suddenly a change comes over the features of the
young man. His countenance, the moment before so flushed with triumph
and revenge, now assumes a ghastly pallor; a cold sweat breaks out on
his forehead, his matted locks stand on end. His eyes start from his
head, his jaw drops low. Then, with a preternatural shriek, he drops the
head, which rolls down the hillock of earth among the crowd, staggers
and falls heavily upon the platform, gasping out "_Oh, Gott! mein
Vater!_"
No words can describe the sensation created among the crowd at this
horrible scene. Questions and explanations ensued, and a rush was made
towards the scaffold. Assistance was at length procured, and the son of
the late executioner was lifted from the ground and driven toward his
own house in the cart that he had set out in that morning to execute his
fearful mission. A doctor was sent for, who declared that he was in an
apoplectic fit. In time, however, he recovered, and the doctor left
someone with him to attend to him and keep him quiet. Nevertheless, when
he came to reflect upon what had happened that morning, in spite of all
restraint, he rushed wildly into the chamber where his poor paralytic
mother lay on her death-bed, and losing all caution and reflection in
his emotion, he related in a wild and excited manner the dreadful events
of the day. The result may be anticipated. The poor woman, long given up
by the doctors, sank under the startling news, and expired almost
instantaneously.
Young Leo, who, with the exception of his drunkenness had really nothing
very bad in him, now gave way to the most excessive grief, for he loved
his mother tenderly. He felt himself now guilty of the murder of both
his parents, and refused all consolation. What had he now to live for,
thought he. His father he had murdered with his own hands and sent with
curses to the tomb; his mother, so dear to him he had hurried to the
grave through his insane want of self-restraint. His lady-love, false
(as he thought), for secretly they had plighted their troth together.
What was life to him now but a burden? He loathed it. These gloomy
thoughts clouded his mind with a profound melancholy, a deep incurable
despair. On the following morning Leo Wenzel, the young executioner,
fell upon his own sword, yet moist with the blood of his father, by him
so unconsciously shed on the day before.
With the death of Leo Wenzel the family became extinct, and the
profession of the Scharfrichter went begging. But who was the assistant
executioner? Nobody could find out. He had disappeared as mysteriously
as he had made his appearance. Some said it was one, and some another,
while the most settled belief was that it could be none other than the
arch-fiend himself who had come to carry off the Henker's soul. In the
confusion that followed the swoon of young Leo he had vanished, and no
one had seen whither. No human being could have passed through a crowd
without being seen by someone, therefore it must have been the
arch-enemy of mankind. Thus reasoned the people of ----dorf.
And Lieschen, what became of her? Poor girl! the news of her lover's
suicide, for she had truly loved the youthful headsman, had completely
overwhelmed her. She fell into a decline and outlived her lover but one
year.
The servant of the burgomaster was mistaken in believing that after
Leo's death the course would be now clear for him. His heartless scheme
had come to light (for it was difficult to keep anything long a secret
in ----dorf), and he found the door of Lieschen's house closed upon him
for ever.
He soon knew himself hated by all the town, and tradition goes on to
relate that some years afterwards, when he was in the service of another
master, his employer having missed certain articles of plate and called
in the police to search his coffers, they found not only the missing
articles, but also a black mask and a suit of sad coloured clothes,
recognised as having been worn by the assistant on the day of Wenzel's
execution.
Finding his reputation lost in ----dorf, he deemed it advisable to
retire to another village, where he afterwards married. The last we hear
of him is that he ultimately accepted the office of Scharfrichter, and
took up his abode in the house of Franz Wenzel, where he reared up a
long line of executioners, which was only broken many years later by the
profession of the Henker ceasing to be obligatory.
But what of our two friends Fritz and Ludwig? We had nigh forgotten
them. That they were both of them present at the execution is undoubted
from certain passages in their correspondence after my ancestor had left
Germany for ever. The day after Wenzel's execution was the last time
they met on earth. They each of them passed the remainder of their days
in their own respective countries though they corresponded frequently.
The most recently dated letter from Ludwig Engstein bears with it the
news of his marriage, and in a postscript he mentions having been just
informed that since the execution of Franz Wenzel the tricks of the
Poltergeist had ceased for ever.
* * * * *
Murmurs of applause were upon every lip as our artist finished his
narrative, when Mr. Oldstone, rising, thus addressed the club.
"Gentlemen; I think you will all agree with me that my friend Mr.
McGuilp has fully earned his sitting from the fair Helen?"
"Yes, yes," cried several voices; "he has paid us beforehand. Let him
have his rights."
At this moment the door opened ajar and the head of Dame Hearty appeared
at the aperture to inform the club that her daughter was now at their
disposal.
"Let her be brought in!" shouted a chorus of voices. "It is but fair
that we should have one more look at Helen before Mr. McGuilp walks off
with her."
Helen then appeared in the doorway and was greeted enthusiastically by
the whole club, in the midst of which the painter, after looking at his
watch and ascertaining that it was yet early enough for a good sitting,
left the room and made for his studio, where, having set his palette, he
was joined shortly afterwards by his fair model. Having arranged his
colours and placed his canvas on the easel, he sat contemplating the
portrait he had commenced so recently. Alas! how flat and insipid his
poor work looked after having gazed on the bright original! It was but
the first painting, it is true, and we know that nothing really good can
be done at once; but, then, what drawing he found to correct now that he
looked at his work with a fresh eye! The awfulness of the difficulties
in art now rose up in his mind to appal him, and he uttered a sigh.
"Can all the glazing and scumbling in the world," muttered he to
himself, "ever advance this portrait one step towards the divine
original?"
Thus musing, the painter seized the canvas in both hands and breathed
over its surface. Immediately afterwards, mixing up some colour
sparingly, he scumbled over the entire surface of the portrait. Helen,
whose eye dwelt upon the artist's every movement, whether from
curiosity, or from some mysterious sympathy she felt for the young
painter, demanded of him why he breathed on the face of her picture.
"To breathe into it the breath of life, Helen," replied McGuilp,
smilingly.
Helen opened her large blue eyes with an expression of half wonderment,
half doubt, not knowing whether the painter spoke in jest, or whether an
artist really had some occult power in his very breath that could vivify
the canvas. How was she to know, poor innocent child! Village bred and
born in an age, as our readers will recollect, before photography had
rendered too familiar the representation of the human face even for the
veriest peasant any longer to wonder at the art by which it is produced?
In the days we speak of the painter's art was the only mode of
transfixing the lineaments of a dear friend or parent and rendering them
immortal. Painters, too, were much less common then than now-a-days, for
art was still in its infancy in plain matter-of-fact old England. The
painter, or limner as he was then called, was a being of far greater
interest than at the present day. He was patronised by royalty and
nobility, and though the prices that he received for his works were
considerably less than in our times, and he was nearly always a poor and
needy individual, yet he met with a certain amount of respect from his
patrons, as they knew that by his hand alone could they hope to become
immortal. Everyone liked to see his own features represented upon
canvas, or those of his wife and family. Oft times his favourite horse
or dog. In order to secure the services of the limner therefore, it was
necessary to court him, nor was this respect or appearance of such ever
denied him, save perhaps by the pampered menial of some nobleman or
wealthy squire, who looked superciliously down upon the itinerant
painter as a being far inferior to himself. We will hope, however, for
the honour of humanity that the number was comparatively small that
measured the painter's respectability by the length of his purse.
Indeed, the titled and the wealthy seem to have prided themselves in
doing everything in their power to set the example of respect towards a
disciple of the fine arts. Among this class the painter had seldom
anything to complain of; in fact, provided he were affable in manner,
decent in appearance, could paint the ladies' hands and ears small
enough to please them, their eyes sufficiently large and languishing,
and, lastly--but which was of no small importance--could represent
faithfully the texture of their silks and satins, their lace, velvet,
fur, or swansdown, oh, then he was caressed, petted, and acknowledged by
all as a most agreeable member of society and sure of making his
fortune. But woe to him if he were above his business and attempted high
art--we mean subject pictures that were not portraits. However much he
might be gifted in that line, his friends would instantly desert him,
and he might starve in a garret. His patrons knew nothing of high art
and cared as little. All they wanted was to see their own effigies
adorning the walls of their mansions, and as long as the limner was
content to be of service to them they were willing to support him, but
no longer. It was set down as an axiom that the human _face_ divine--by
which they meant their own faces--was the highest aim that a painter
could aspire to. This was the sort of high art they wanted, and no
other.
A painter must be content with the work his patrons set him to do and
not indulge his own caprices. Well, well, admitting the range of the
painter's art to have been cramped and limited, has any age or country
the power to cramp the genius of an artist? Is high art only to be found
in imaginative pictures? Does not a portrait become high art under a
master hand? Can that be called a mechanical art that gives intellect or
sentiment to the eye, firmness or softness to the lip, the natural bloom
to the cheek, truth and beauty to the whole? Few, let us hope, even in
this matter of fact age, but would rank the real artist before the
photographic artisan who usurps his name. If, in the present age, now
that we are accustomed to a much more rapid process of reproducing the
human face, there are to be found those who honour the true artist,
imagine how his art must have been held in honour when it was the only
way of immortalising men! It need not be wondered at that among those
classes where the appearance of a painter was less common, that the
respect he inspired almost amounted to awe in certain instances. This
was the case with our Helen, who never having set eyes before on a real
artist, looked with awe and wonder on our painter as a species of
magician who possessed an art not merely unknown in her humble sphere,
but which she was sure that the worthy members of the club were alike
ignorant of, however learned they might be in other respects. The
painter's youth and good looks, together with his possessing this
mysterious art at such an early age, elevated him at once into a hero in
her eyes. Then there was the strange fact of his having seen and spoken
to a ghost in the same house where she herself had been born and bred,
the very ghost she had been frightened so often with in her childhood,
but which was, nevertheless, so chary of its appearance that it had
found no one for upwards of half a century worthy of revealing itself to
until now, and had chosen for that purpose the young artist before her,
and that, too, the very first night that he arrived at the Inn. What was
there peculiar in the organisation of our painter, that he should have
been selected before all others to gaze on the august presence of one
risen from the dead? The haunted chamber had been repeatedly slept in by
all the members of the club in turn, and by many strangers beside, for
years back, and yet never before within the experience of our host had
the headless lady vouchsafed a parley with any one of them. The
preference, therefore, shewn towards our friend McGuilp by the tenant of
the haunted chamber had raised him at once in the esteem of the whole
club, and the marked respect with which he was treated by the other
guests, all of them older men than himself, did not fail to escape the
quick eye of Helen, who felt inwardly flattered that the man for whom
she had conceived so warm a sympathy, should be so honoured among his
better fellows.
Our artist and his model had been left together for upwards of
three-quarters of an hour, during which time McGuilp had not opened his
mouth to exchange a single word with his sitter, a habit of his when
unusually engrossed in his work. He had glazed and scumbled, chopped and
changed about his drawing, laid on impasto, worked upon the background,
and so absorbed was he with his picture, the time had passed as if it
had been five minutes. A considerable change, however, had taken place
in the portrait. There was more life and vigour, the tints were more
natural and the head now stood more out in relief. Helen never once
attempted to break the silence, but remained modest and immovable in her
position as a statue. Had she been a vain and foolish girl or a
coquette, she might have been irritated by the painter's silence,
misconstruing it into a sign of insensibility to her charms, but no such
thought for a moment entered the head of our Helen. On the contrary, she
looked with the deepest awe and reverence on the painter whose art
required so much silence and concentration, and instead of calling away
his attention from his work by some frivolous remark, she mentally
resolved to aid him to the utmost by posing as patiently as it lay in
her power.
Nevertheless, after a long sitting, a change is apt to come over the
face of the sitter. The muscles become flaccid, the colour vanishes, the
eye grows vacant, and an expression of languor and weariness takes the
place of the bright healthy look that the sitter bore at the
commencement. This is especially the case with young people, and so it
was with Helen, who, spite of her laudable endeavours to do justice to
her portrait painter, had unconsciously grown several shades paler, and
had so altered in expression that our artist, finding it impossible to
continue his work, deemed it advisable to give his model a little
repose.
"That will do, Helen, for the present," said he; "take a little rest,
until you can call back the roses to your cheek and the life to your
eye. There, then, you may look if you like, but there is much to be done
yet, I can tell you."
"Oh, I think you have done wonders this sitting," said Helen, as she
stood contemplating her own portrait from behind the artist's chair,
with her head resting on her hand.
"It appears to me as like as it can possibly be already. I do not see
what more there is to do to it."
"Do you not, Helen?" said McGuilp. "Then you are very easily satisfied,
but it is not so with us. We artists are the most discontented people
under the sun. We know that however well a portrait may be painted, it
can never come up to the original, and yet we are never contented, even
with our utmost endeavours to approach it."
"Then, we who know nothing about your art are happier in our ignorance
than the artists themselves who have studied art all their lives,"
remarked Helen.
"Very often," replied McGuilp with a sigh; "nevertheless, there is a
pleasure in the mere pursuit of art, however far removed the work of the
artist may be from his ideal, that he would not exchange for the calm
satisfaction of the uninitiated who perceive no fault."
At this moment a sound of cheering and clapping of hands proceeding from
the club-room interrupted the dialogue between the painter and his
model.
"What can all that noise mean?" ejaculated Helen. "Ah, I can guess.
Mother has just finished telling her story to the gentlemen of the club,
and they are applauding her."
"Is it so, Helen?" said McGuilp.
"Well, as they have been enjoying a story from which we have been
excluded, I see no reason why we should not have a story all to
ourselves. What do you say?"
"Oh, by all means," said Helen; "but I am a poor storyteller. Pray do
not ask _me_ for one, but if you know of a story, why of course I am all
attention."
"Let me see, then," said McGuilp. "What sort of story would you like to
hear?"
"Oh, tell me something about Italy. _I should_ like to hear so,"
answered Helen.
"Would you? Then I think I can remember a little circumstance that
occurred in Italy within my experience, which I will relate to you if
you will resume your seat, for I have but little time to lose. We can
work and talk at the same time. Your colour has now returned, and my
story may possibly help to preserve it until the end of the sitting."
Helen then resumed her seat, and McGuilp having seized once more his
palette and brushes and placed himself in front of his easel, continued
his portrait whilst he related the following story.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] Scharfrichter or executioner; literally, "the sharp judge."
[2] The reader is begged to excuse the anachronism. Byron did not write
these lines until several years later.
[3] Another name for headsman or hangman.
[4] Philister or Philistine.
[5] The moss. Slang word among German students for money.
[6] Loewen--also money.
[Illustration]