E-text prepared by Al Haines
I. N. R. I.
A Prisoner's Story of the Cross
by
PETER ROSEGGER
Translated by Elizabeth Lee
Hodder and Stoughton Limited
London
First Edition, September, 1905.
Second Edition, September, 1905.
Third Edition, December, 1905.
Made and Printed in Great Britain.
Wyman & Sons Ltd., London, Reading and Fakenham
PROLOGUE
The difficult path which leads to the gardens where the waters of life
sparkle, takes us first to a big city in which the hearts of men
pulsate with feverish unrest.
There is such a great crowd in the broad square in front of the law
courts that the electric cars are forced to stop. Six or eight of them
are standing in a row, and the police cannot break through the crowd.
Every one is making for the law courts; some hurry forward excitedly,
others push their way through quietly, and fresh streams of people from
the side streets are continually joining the rest. The public
prosecutor is expected every moment to appear on the balcony and
announce the verdict to the public.
Every one was indulging in remarks about the prisoner who had wished to
do so terrible a deed.
"He is condemned, sure enough!" shouted one man. "The like of him gets
to Heaven with a hempen cord!"
"Don't be silly," said another, with lofty superiority. "In half an
hour at most he'll pass the gate a free man. Juries don't condemn the
like of him."
Many agreed with the first speaker, but more with the last.
"Whoever believes that he'll be let off is a fool!" shouted some one.
"Just consider what he did, what he wished to do!"
"He wanted to do a splendid thing!"
Passionate discussion and wagering began. It would have struck a keen
observer that good broadcloth expected condemnation, while fustian and
rags eagerly desired acquittal. A big man of imposing presence asked
in a loud tone, over the heads of the people, if anyone would bet him
ten ducats that the wretch would hang.
A starved-looking little fellow declared himself willing to take up the
bet. The handsome man turned his head in its silk hat, and when he saw
the starved, undersized creature, murmured sleepily, "He! he'll bet ten
ducats with me! My dear sir, you'd better go home to your mother and
ask her to give you a couple of pennies."
Laughter followed; but it was interrupted. The crowd swayed suddenly,
as when a gust of wind passes over the surface of water. A man
appeared on the balcony of the law courts. He had a short, dark beard;
his head with its high forehead was uncovered. He stepped forward
ceremoniously to the railing, and raised his hand to enforce silence.
And when the murmur of the crowd died away, he exclaimed in a thin
voice, but pronouncing every syllable clearly, "The prisoner, Konrad
Ferleitner, is found guilty by a majority of two-thirds of the jury,
and in the name of his Majesty the King is condemned to die by hanging."
He stood for a moment after making the announcement, and then went back
into the house. A few isolated exclamations came from the crowd.
"To make a martyr of him! Enthusiasm is infectious!"
"An enthusiast! If he's an enthusiast, I'm a rascal!"
"Why not?" replied a shock-headed man with a laugh.
"Move on!" ordered the police, who were now reinforced by the military.
The crowd yielded on all sides, and the tram rails were once more free.
A few minutes later a closed carriage was driven along the same road.
The glint of a bayonet could be seen through the window. The crowd
flocked after the carriage, but it went so swiftly over the paved road
that the dust flew up under the horses' hoofs, and at length it
vanished in the poplar avenue that led to the prison. Some of the
people stopped, panting, and asked each other why they had run so fast.
"It won't take place to-day. We shall see in the papers when it's to
come off."
"Do you think so? I tell you it's only for specially invited and
honoured guests! The times when executions were conducted in public
are gone, my dear fellow. The people are kept out of the way."
"Patience, my wise compeer! It'll be a people's holiday when the
hangman is hung."
The crowd melted into the ordinary traffic of the street.
A slender, stooping man sat handcuffed between two policemen in the
carriage that rolled along the avenue. He breathed so heavily that his
shoulders heaved up and down. He wore his black coat today, and white
linen appeared at neck and sleeves. His hair was reddish brown, he had
brushed it carefully, and cheeks and chin were shaved smoothly. He had
felt sure that the day would restore him to liberty, or promise it him
at no very distant date. His pale face and sunken cheeks proclaimed
him about forty, but he might have been younger. His blue eyes had a
far-away, dreamy expression, but they were now full of terror. His
face would have been handsome had not the look of terror spoiled it.
His fettered hands lay on his knees, which were closely pressed
together, his fingers were intertwined, his head sunken so that his
chin was driven into his chest: he looked an utterly broken man. He
drew in his legs so that the policemen might be more comfortable. One
of them glanced at him sideways, and wondered how this gentle creature
could have committed such a crime.
They drove alongside the wall of the large building, the gate of which
was now opened. In the courtyard the poor sinner was taken out of the
carriage and led through a second gate into an inner courtyard where
his handcuffs were removed. He was led through vaulted corridors in
which here and there small doors with barred windows might be seen.
The dark passage had many windings, and was lighted by an occasional
lamp. The air was cold and damp. The openings high up in the wall,
through which glimmered a pale daylight, became rarer, until at length
it was as dark as the tomb. The new arrival was received by the
gaoler, a man with bristly grey hair, a prominent forehead, and
pronounced features which incessant ill-humour had twisted into a
lasting grimace. Who would not be ill-humoured indeed, were he forced
to spend a blameless life in a dungeon among thieves and murderers and
even--worst of all--among those who had been foolishly led astray?
Directly he saw the tottering, shadowy figure of the prisoner come
round the pillar, he knew the blow had fallen. Midnight had struck for
the poor fellow. Annoyed that such people should let themselves be so
stupidly taken by surprise, he had continually snubbed him harshly.
To-day he accompanied him to his cell in silence, and when opening it
avoided rattling the keys. But he could not help looking through the
spy-hole to see what the poor fellow would do. What he saw was the
condemned man falling on to the brick floor and lying there motionless.
The gaoler was alarmed, and opened the door again. So the man was
clever enough to die quickly? That would be a miscarriage! But the
culprit moved slightly, and begged to be left alone.
And he was alone, once again in this damp room with the wooden bench,
the straw mattress, the water-jug on a table--things which during the
long period of probation he had gazed at a hundred times, thinking of
nothing but "They must acquit me." Out of the planks that propped up
the straw mattress he had put together a kind of table, a work of which
the gaoler disapproved, but he had not destroyed it. High up in the
wall was a small barred window, through which mercifully came the
reflection from an outer opposite wall, now lighted by the sun. The
edge of a steep gabled roof and a chimney could be just seen through
the window, and in between peeped a three-cornered piece of blue sky.
That was the joy of the cell. Konrad did not know that he owed this
room to special kindness. The scanty light from above had been a
comfort, almost a promise, all the weary weeks: "They will send you a
free man out into the sunshine!" By slow degrees that hope was
extinguished in his lonely soul. And to-day? The little bit of
reflection was a mockery to him. He wanted no more twilight. Daylight
was gone for ever--he longed for darkness. Night! night! Night would
be so heavy and dark that he would not behold his misery, even
inwardly. He could not think; he felt stifled, giddy, as if someone
had struck him on the head with a club.
When the gaoler on his rounds peeped through the spy-hole again and saw
the man still lying on the floor, he grew angry. He noisily opened the
little door. "By Jove, are you still there? Number 19! Do you hear?
Is anything the matter?" The last words were spoken almost gently; a
stupid fellow might imagine that he was pitied. But that was not the
case. As a man sows, he reaps.
The prisoner stood up quickly and looked distractedly about him. When
he recognised the gaoler he felt for his hand. He grasped it firmly,
and said hoarsely: "I want to ask something. Send me a priest."
"Oh, at last!" grumbled the old man. "These atheists! In the end they
crawl to the Cross."
"I'm not an atheist," calmly replied the prisoner.
"No? Well, it's all the same. You shall have a father-confessor."
Konrad had not meant a confessor. To set himself right with God? That
might come with time. But what he now most desired was a human being.
No one else would come. No one will have anything to do with a ruined
man. Each man thanks God that he is not such a one. But the priest
must come.
In about half an hour the condemned man started, every sound at the
door alarmed him--some one came. A monk quietly entered the cell. He
slipped along in sandals. The dull light from the window showed an old
man with a long, grey beard and cheerful-looking eyes. His gown of
rough cloth was tied round the waist with a white cord, from which a
rosary hung. He greeted the prisoner, reaching for his hand: "May I
say good evening? I should like to, if I may."
"I sent for you, Father. I don't know if you are aware how things are
with me," said Konrad.
"Yes, I know, I know. But the Lord is nearer to you to-day than He was
yesterday," replied the monk.
"I have many things to say," said Konrad, hesitatingly. "But I don't
want to confess. I want a man to talk to."
"You want to ease your heart, my poor friend," said the monk.
"You come to me because it's your duty," returned Konrad. "It's not
pleasant. You have to comfort us, and don't know how to do it.
There's nothing left for me."
"Don't speak like that," said the Father. "If I understand rightly,
you have not summoned me as a confessor. Only as a man, isn't that it?
And I come willingly as such. I can't convert you. You must convert
yourself. Imagine me to be a brother whom you haven't seen for a long
time. And now he comes and finds you here, and wellnigh weeping asks
you how such a thing could have happened."
The prisoner sat down on the bench, folded his hands, and bent his head
and murmured; "I had a brother. If he had lived I should not be here.
He was older than I."
"Have you no other relatives?" asked the monk.
"My parents died before I was twelve years old. Quickly, one after the
other. My father could not survive my mother. My mother--a poor, good
woman; always cheerful, pious. In the village just outside. No one
could have had a happier childhood. Ah! forgive me----" His words
seemed to stick in his throat.
"Compose yourself!" counselled the priest. "Keep your childhood in
your memory! It is a light in such days."
"It is over," said Konrad, controlling his sobs. "Father, that memory
does not comfort me; it accuses me more heavily. How can such
misfortune come from such blessing? If only I dared kneel now before
my God--and thank Him that she did not live to see this day."
"Well, well!" said the Father. "Other mothers had different
experiences with other sons."
"I would sacrifice everything too for the sake of our dear Lady,"
muttered Konrad.
"That's right," returned the Father. "Now tell me more. Quite young,
then, you lived among strangers, eh?"
He uttered confusedly: "After the deaths of my father and mother I was
apprenticed. To a joiner. That was a splendid time. Only I read a
great deal too much to please the master--all sorts of things, and
dreamed about them. And I didn't wish to do anything wrong, at least
so I imagined. The master called me a stupid visionary, and gave me
the sack. Then came a period of wandering--Munich, Cologne, Hamburg.
I was two years with a master at Cologne. If only I had stayed with
him! He didn't want to let me go--and there was a daughter. Then to
Hamburg. That was bad luck. I was introduced into a Society for the
protection of the people against traitors. To be a saviour, to risk
one's life! It came to me very slowly, quite gradually, what was the
misery of living under such tyranny. When a boy I once killed a dog
that bit some poor people's children in the street. A dog belonging to
gentlefolk! I was whipped, but it scarcely hurt--there was always in
my mind; 'You freed them from the beast!' And I felt just the same
about the Society. I can't tell you what went on in me. I'm all
bewildered. Everything was laid bare at the trial, the whole horrible
story. Only I said yes with hundreds of others, I said it and thought:
it won't come to me. And it did come to me, as if our Lord had not
wished it otherwise. To me, the lot fell to me, when we drew."
"I know the story, my poor fellow," said the monk.
"I don't," retorted Konrad. "From the moment they took the revolver
out of my hand everything has been dark. I have known nothing. I only
heard to-day that he lives. And they told me----"
"What did they tell you?"
"That I must die." Then violently addressing the priest: "It was a
misfortune. Is it really so great a crime? Tell me."
"I don't think I need tell you that."
"Very well, then. So it serves me right. I desired to do the deed,
and they say that's the same as the accomplishment of it. Quite
correct. Isn't it 'A life for a life'? It is written so in the Bible.
Just that, no more. They must take mine. But--they must do it
unexpectedly, suddenly. Just as I meant to do to him. Otherwise it
won't be fair. Tell me, holy Father, is it cowardly to be so
terrified? I am so terrified--of what is before me. There's nothing
about this terror of death in the Scriptures. Those who settled my
fate to-day looked like men. Then they ought to know that they are
executing me a thousand times, not once. Why do I still live, I who
was slain three hours ago! Quick! From behind! If only they were so
merciful! One of them said to-day it was my duty to die. My God! I
think I have the right to die, and they're the criminals! They haven't
secured me my rights at once! It would have been over by now. O God,
my God, if only it were over!"
So he raged on, wringing his hands, groaning under the torture.
Suddenly his face became deathly white and his features stiffened as if
his heart had ceased beating.
"Poor fellow," said the priest, putting his arm round his neck and
drawing his head down on his breast. "You mustn't talk like that.
Think, if we've been sinners all our lives, oughtn't we to spend a few
days in repenting? Tell me, brother, don't you desire the consolations
of religion?"
"Indeed I do," stammered the poor sinner. "And so I asked----"
"You see, I am ready."
"And I also want the Gospels, if I may be allowed the book."
The monk looked at him, then demanded quietly:
"You want the New Testament?"
"I should like to read in it. My mother had one and used to read it
aloud and explain it. It would give me a home-like feeling if I could
read in it now."
The Father replied: "I'll tell you something, my dear friend. The
Gospel is a very good book, not in vain is it called the glad tidings."
"My God! yes; what do I need more sorely now than glad tidings?" agreed
Konrad.
"Of course. But the book's not an easy one. Out of ten readers
there's hardly one who understands it. And even he doesn't really
understand it. It's too profound, I might say, too divine a book; as
they say, seven times sealed. Therefore it must be explained by
experts. I will willingly go through certain parts of it with you
occasionally, but I shall give you something else for your edification,
from which you will derive comfort and peace."
Konrad covered his face with his hands, and said, almost inaudibly:
"The Gospel is what I should have liked best."
And then the monk said gravely: "My friend, you are the sick man and I
am the physician. And the physician knows best what will do the sick
man good. You should also prepare yourself for taking the Sacrament."
As the poor sinner said no more, the priest spoke a few kind words and
left him. An hour later the gaoler brought him a parcel of books.
"The holy brother sends them so that you can amuse yourself a little."
Amusement! It was a cruel joke. Konrad gave a shrill laugh. It was
the laugh of a despairing man who cannot shut out the vision of his
last journey, which became more hideous every moment. What did the
Father send? Simple prayer-books and religious manuals. Book-markers
were placed to show the passages that applied especially to the
penitent and the dying man, and also prayers for poor souls in
purgatory. The soul physician, all unacquainted with souls, sent the
inconsolable man new anguish of death instead of life. Konrad searched
for the bread he needed, turned over the leaves of the books, began to
read here and there, but always put them down sadly. The more eagerly
did he exercise his memory in order to recall the pictures of his
childhood. His mother, who had been dead many years, stood before him
in order to help her unhappy child. Her figure, her words, her songs,
her sacred stories from the Saviour's life on earth--brought peace to
his soul. It suddenly came upon him; "God has not forgotten me." Just
as before he had raged in despair, so now beautiful shadows out of the
past appeared before him, and tears of redemption flowed from his eyes.
He did not have an hour's sleep the night of his condemnation. He
prayed, he dreamed, and then the horrid terror, which made him shiver
in all his limbs, came again. He kept looking towards the window to
see if daylight was beginning. Early in the morning, just at the first
dawn--so he had often heard--the warders come. The window showed only
darkness. But look, in the little three-cornered bit of sky, there is
a star. He had not seen it on other nights. It sailed up to the crack
in the roof and shone down through the window in kindly fashion. His
eye was riveted on the spark of light until it vanished behind the
walls. When at length day dawned, and the key rattled in the door,
Konrad's hands and feet began to tremble. It was the gaoler, who
brought him a bundle of coarse cotton clothing.
When Konrad asked in a dull voice if it was his gallows dress, the old
man answered roughly: "What are you chattering about? Put on your
house clothes."
The convict went up to the gaoler, clasped his hands, and said: "Only
one thing, if I knew--when, when? This suspense is unbearable!"
"Eh! how impatient we are!" mocked the old man. "My dear fellow, we
don't do things so quickly. The decision was only made yesterday.
Why, they haven't yet settled about the banquet."
"The banquet!"
"The bill of fare--don't you understand? No orders have come yet.
You're safe for twenty-four hours. But if there's anything you'd like
to eat--I'll make an exception for once. And now, get on with your
toilet! You can will away your own things as you please," he pointed
to his clothes. "Have you anyone? No? Well, I know some poor people.
But get on, get on. The hot season is coming on, and cotton isn't bad
wear then."
The rough gaoler's good-humoured chatter was particularly distasteful
to the poor man. To be snubbed and railed at would have pointed to a
long life to come, one not to be measured by hours. Did he know? And
was he silent out of pity? or was it malice? Before, the old man had
been easily moved to anger, and when heated would swing his arms up and
down and plainly threaten to have the obstinate convict sent off. Now
there was no more grim humour nor raging round. He looked at the poor
sinner, sunk in deep gloom, with a sad calmness. "Poor devil!"
Suddenly it was too much for him, and he broke out violently: "But come
now! You must have known it. Be sensible; I can't stand this misery.
Dying is not easy, of course; you should be glad that there's someone
by to help. And then--who knows whether you won't live after all. Do
be sensible!"
When at last deep silence again gathered round him, the prisoner tried
his books afresh. The Father had provided for a varied taste. The
"Devotion to the Holy Rosary," the "Prayers to the Virgin's Heart,"
"Death, Judgment, Heaven and Hell," the "Life of St. Theresa," "The
Seven Bolts of Heaven," and "Prayers of Intercession for Souls in
Distress." What a wealth of edification! The joiner's apprentice had
always loved books. He had once reckoned out as a joke that three
asses could not carry the books which he had read since his childhood.
They had afforded him a glimpse of all times and places, and of all
provinces of human life. Now he asked himself what it had all brought
him. Confusion, perplexity, nothing besides. He had thought about
everything, but he could not be clear about anything. That was not
generally possible, he had read in one of the books, and the statement
pacified him. He had read all kinds of theological books, had easily
and trustfully given himself up to the echo of words heard in
childhood, but it had not gone deeper. Now that they ought to prove
their worth, they left him in the lurch. He turned over the pages, he
read and prayed and sought, and found nothing to relieve his need.
Discouraged, he pushed the books away from him, and some of them fell
over the edge of the table on to the brick floor.
In the night that followed Konrad had a dream, vivid and clear as never
dream had been. It was a dark country, and he had lost his way. He
wandered about amid cold, damp rocks, and could not find a path. Then
his fingers felt a thread; he seized it, and it guided him through the
darkness. The land grew brighter and brighter; the thread brought him
into his sunny native valley, to the place with the old gabled houses,
to his father's house which stood amidst the fruit-trees, and the
thread to which his fingers still clung involuntarily led him into the
room where it had been spun from his mother's distaff. And there she
sat and span the thread, with her pale face and soft wrinkles and kind
eyes, and directly the boy stood near her she told him tales of the
Saviour. He listened to her and was a happy child. That was his
dream. And when he awoke in the prison cell, his mother's gentle voice
still sounded in his ears: "My child, you must cling to Jesus."
Konrad was taken every day for half an hour into the dirty and sunless
courtyard. But he dreaded that half-hour. It stirred a vain longing
for light. And the rough and insolent fellow-prisoners with whom he
was brought in contact! He preferred to be alone in his quiet cell.
During his imprisonment he had often asked for work, but was always
informed that nothing of the sort had been provided for by the
authorities. Besides--work was an honourable thing, and it must first
be proved that he was worthy of it. But now it was not a time for
work, rather a time for preparation. What could he do in order to get
through these days? Or what could he do in order to keep the days from
flying so quickly? Look how a flash of lightning seems sometimes to
pass over the floor. Then it is gone again. High up in the opposite
wall, on which the sun sometimes shone, was a casement window, and its
glass doors, swayed by the breeze, were reflected in the prison.
Konrad was terrified by these sparks from heaven; he would grope on the
ground as if for a gold piece that had rolled away.
Then came visitors, unexpected, alarming visitors! The judge's stiff
figure and serious face appeared in company with the gaoler.
Konrad felt stunned, and could only think: "The hour has come!" The
man had pronounced his sentence as coldly and unfeelingly as if he had
been a machine which, when its keys are pressed, gives forth sounds
like words. The judge ordered the gaoler to withdraw. The old man
hesitated--what could that mean? The judge had to repeat his order
before the old man would go. When the judge was alone with the
prisoner, he bent down and felt with his hands, for he was not yet
accustomed to the darkness. Then he said kindly: "Konrad Ferleitner, I
have come to ask you if there's anything you wish for?"
The prisoner wrung his hands convulsively; wild pulsations, that beat
in strong double strokes at irregular intervals, coursed through his
body. So violent was his agitation that the poor wretch stuttered
forth words that the judge could not understand.
"Compose yourself!"
When he caught the words "Father-confessor!" amid the sounds uttered by
the prisoner, it occurred to the judge that the poor fellow imagined
that the hour of execution had arrived. "Ferleitner," he said, "come
and sit by me on the bench. You think it's the end--no, it hasn't come
so far yet, and perhaps it won't come so far at all. I may tell you
that a petition for mercy has been sent to His Majesty."
Konrad looked up as if in a dream, and the dim light showed how
terribly pale and sunken his cheeks were. "Mercy!" he muttered in
suppressed tones. "Mercy for me? Then--why did you condemn me?"
The question appeared to puzzle the judge. The delinquent seemed in
all seriousness to think himself innocent. "You were there yourself,
Ferleitner, and heard how the jury decided after listening to the
witnesses. After that the judge must condemn; he has no choice."
"For mercy? The king?" asked Konrad, who, more bewildered than
consoled, had sat down on the bench, for his legs would scarcely
support him.
"The advocate ventured it," replied the judge. "Your whole bearing
proves that you were inveigled into the business. We want nothing
further. You see, Ferleitner, that evil cannot be eradicated from the
world with evil. To fight evil with evil only increases its power.
But a large heart can pardon such a deed or purpose. Let us hope
meanwhile that our king possesses one. The Chancellor is getting
better. Here, just look--sign the paper." He pulled out a folded
sheet, then an inkpot and a pen. Konrad bent over the table and
groaned while signing his name.
"Ah," he said, "if only I could be free again! I should never think of
such things again. The world could go on as it pleased. I should do
my work, and not trouble about anything else. Only," and he said it
softly, uncertainly, "only I shall not forget God again."
"There is naturally only a moderate chance," said the judge. "In some
cases, where it is concerned with the whole----"
"It is very uncertain, then?" asked Konrad. "But, my God! how is it to
be borne? If this time is lengthened, how is it to be borne? This
terrible suspense!"
"It can be a time of hope," said the judge.
"But how long will it last?" asked Konrad.
The judge shrugged his shoulders. "It may last three weeks, but it
might last double that time."
Konrad asked confidingly: "Do you think, sir, that a man can hold
out?--with the terror of death lasting for weeks?"
"Haven't you just a little confidence?" asked the judge. "Haven't we
all to endure uncertainty?--the judge as well as the condemned man?"
"But what am I to do?" demanded Konrad. "How am I to employ myself all
the dreadful time? It's being buried alive."
"Unhappily it's not in my power to give you a better room, though you
haven't the worst cell in the building. But perhaps you have some
other desire that can be granted. Speak out frankly, Ferleitner," said
the judge.
Therewith he folded the paper, and put the writing materials into his
coat pocket. Konrad followed his proceedings with his eyes. He could
not comprehend how this dread personage came to speak to him in so
kindly a fashion. "As to the room," he said, "it's all I need--when
you've nothing to do, and are not likely to have anything to do, what
can a man want? If a man isn't free, nothing else matters. But one
thing--I have one request, sir."
"Then speak it," said the judge, and holding Konrad's hand firmly in
his, broke out with: "Don't you see, it's cruel to think, to believe,
that we must be the personal enemies of all whom we're obliged to
condemn. You think the proceedings in court were so callous, you've no
idea how we actually feel about the business. It is not only the
accused who passes sleepless nights--the judge, too, knows them. We
lawyers--outside our profession--have founded an association to support
and encourage those we are obliged to pronounce guilty, that they may
not sink down uncomforted. So, my dear Ferleitner, you may trust me
that, as far as I can, I will alleviate your position."
Then Konrad, looking down on the floor, said: "I should like to have
writing materials."
"You want to write?" asked the Judge.
"If I might ask for paper, pens, and ink," returned Konrad. "In former
years I used to like writing down my thoughts--just as they came, I had
little education."
"You wish to write to your friends?" inquired the judge.
"Oh no! If I had any, they'd be glad not to hear from me," said Konrad.
"Or to draw up a plea of justification?"
"No."
"Or an account of your life?"
"No, not that either. My life has not been good enough. Misfortune
should be forgotten rather than recorded. No, I think I can write
something else," stated Konrad.
"You shall have writing materials," said the judge. "And is there
anything else? A more comfortable bed?"
"No, thank you. It's right enough as it is. If a hard bed was the
only thing----"
"And is everything kept properly neat and clean?" interrupted the judge.
"If you're always waiting and thinking, 'Now, now, they're coming!' I
tell you, sir, you don't sleep well," replied Konrad.
"Don't keep worrying yourself with ideas, Ferleitner," said the judge
warningly to the man, who had again worked himself up into a state of
excitement. "Not one of us knows what the next hour may bring, and yet
we live on calmly. Use the time," he continued playfully, "in avenging
your condemnation by some great literary work. In olden times great
minds often did it."
"I can't write a great work," answered Konrad. "And I've nothing to
avenge. I deserve death. But it's this waiting for it. The torments
of hell cannot be worse."
"We've nothing to do with hell. We've merely to think of the purgatory
in which we are placed. Let heaven, as they say, follow. Haven't you
any business to arrange? Nothing to settle for anyone?" asked the
judge.
"No one, no one!" Konrad assured him.
"That's a piece of luck that many of your comrades in misfortune would
envy you. A man can settle things easily for himself alone. If it's
any consolation, Ferleitner, I may tell you that we don't regard you as
a scoundrel, only as a poor creature who has been led astray. Now
that's enough for the present. Your modest request shall be granted at
once."
After this remarkable conversation with the poor sinner, the judge left
the cell. He was not satisfied. Had he not listened enough, or had he
spoken too much? How could so childlike a creature take an oath to
commit murder? In the corridor he spoke seriously to the gaoler.
"I must point out to you that the man is very ill. Don't treat him
harshly."
The old man was annoyed.
"I beg your pardon, sir! To treat a poor devil like that harshly! If
you pity him, why were you so rough with him?" He rubbed a lamp-glass
with a coarse rag in order to get the black off. "'To die by hanging.'
Even said as gently as that, it hurts more than when we roundly abuse
the people, and yet that's at once taken amiss. Only to prove it.
Ill! Of course he's ill, poor devil. I am only surprised the doctors
haven't been to cure him. I suppose he's well enough to be hanged?"
"That will do, Trapser."
The gaoler put down his work, stood up straight in military fashion,
and said: "Sir, I beg to resign my post."
"What!" exclaimed the judge, "you wish to go?"
"I respectfully hand in my resignation." He stood up straight as a
dart. "Do you know, I've got accustomed to most things here in
six-and-twenty years, I've seen seventeen hanged--just seventeen, sir.
There ought to have been twenty-four, but seven were granted
imprisonment for life. They're still undergoing that mercy. Do you
know, sir, it's a miserable calling! But as to that Ferleitner, I
never afore saw anything like him. What has he done, I ask you? He's
done nothing. You see we've had quite different gallows-birds here. A
speculator who had ruined six families and driven the seventh to
suicide--eight months. A student with two duel murders on his
conscience--six months. But he is there now--because he's done
nothing, it seems to me. Well, the long and the short of it is, it
horrifies me."
"Always the same in temper and disposition, you old bear! God keep
you!" And then a kindly tap on the shoulder. The attempt at
resignation was again met with a refusal. The judge formally put it
aside. But the old man growled on for a long time. "Old bear! old
bear! That's his whole stock of wit every time, I'll show him the old
bear. Good God! that's how things are with us!" He whistled and made
a harsh noise with his bunch of keys so that the prisoners could make
their preparations before he performed his duty of looking through the
spyhole to see how his charges were spending their time. Then he went
and procured a big bottle of ink and a packet of foolscap paper for
Number 19.
"Is that enough?" he asked.
"Thank you, thank you!" said Ferleitner; "only now I want a pen."
"Oh no, my dear sir, no. We know that sort of thing. Since the notary
in Number 43 stabbed himself with a steel pen five years ago, I don't
give any more," said the gaoler.
"But I can't write without a pen," returned Konrad.
"That's not my business; I can't let you have a pen," the old man
assured him.
"The judge gave me permission to have one," Konrad remonstrated
modestly.
Then the old man exclaimed afresh: "Do you know this judge, he just
comes up as far as this," and he placed his hand on a level with his
chin. "He crumbles everything up and then we're to spoon it out."
Then he muttered indistinctly in his beard; "I say just this, if they
let a man hang for a week before they hang him, it's a--a--good God! I
can't properly--I can't find any more fine words! If a man puts a
knife into himself, no wonder!"
"I shan't kill myself," said Konrad quietly. "They say I may put my
hopes in the king."
"And you want to write to him? That won't help much, but you can do it
if you like; there's time. For once it's a good thing that our
officials are so slow. If it's any comfort to you, you may know that
they wrong me, too. They won't accept my resignation. Yes, that's how
it is with us," concluded the old man.
Then he went and brought a pot with rusty steel pens. "But don't you
spoil them!" For they were the very pens with which death-warrants had
been signed--the old man had a collection of such things and hoped to
sell it to a rich Englishman. "Does your honour require anything
else?" With those mocking words he left the cell and raged and cursed
all along the corridor. The prisoners thought he was cursing them.
The judge, his hands behind his back, walked up and down his large
study. What a cursed critical case! If the Chancellor had not been
given up by the doctors on the day of the trial, the sentence would
have been different. The petition for mercy! Would it have any result
except that of prolonging the poor man's torture? Whether in the end
it would not have been better----? Everything would have been over
then. An old official came out of the adjoining room and laid a bundle
of papers on the table.
"One moment. Has the petition for mercy been sent to His Majesty?"
"It has, sir."
"What's your opinion?" asked the judge.
The counsellor raised his shoulders and let them fall again.
Konrad cowered down and stared at the table.
On it lay everything--paper, ink, pens. What should he write? He
might describe his sadness, but how did a man begin to do that? He
lifted up his face as if searching for something. His glance fell
through the window on to the wall, the upper part of which was lighted
by the evening sun. The mountain tops glowed like that. Ah, world,
beautiful world! Still three weeks. Or double that time. Then--the
very beating of his heart hurt him; his temple throbbed as though
struck by a hammer. For he always thought of the one thing--and it
suddenly flashed into his mind--there were other executioners! His
supper was there--a tin can with rice soup and a piece of bread. He
swallowed it mechanically to the last crumb. Then came night, and the
star was again visible in the scrap of sky between the roof and the
chimney. Konrad gazed at it reverently for the few minutes until it
vanished. Then the long, dark, miserable night. And this was called
living! And it was for such life that you petitioned the king. But if
a king grants mercy, then the sun shines. The kindness shown him by
the judge had strengthened him a little, but the last of his surging
thoughts was always, "Hopeless!"
The next night Konrad had another visitor--his mother, in her Sunday
gown, just as she used to go to communion. And there was some one with
her. She went up to her son's bed, and said: "Konrad, I bring you a
kind friend."
When he felt for her hand, she was no longer there, but in the middle
of the dim cell stood the Lord Jesus. His white garment hung down to
the ground, His long hair lay over His shoulders. His shining face was
turned towards Konrad.
When the poor sinner woke in the morning his heart was full of wonder.
The night had brought healing. He jumped blithely out of bed. "My
Saviour, I will never more leave you."
Something of which he had hardly been conscious suddenly became clear
to him. He would take refuge in the Saviour. He would sink himself in
Jesus, in whom everything was united that had formed and must form his
happiness--his mother, his innocent childhood, his joy in God, his
repose and hope, his immortal life. Now he knew, he would rely on his
Saviour. He would write a book about Jesus. Not a proper literary
work; he could not do that, he had no talent for it. But he would
represent the Lord as He lived, he would inweave his whole soul with
the being of his Saviour so that he might have a friend in the cell.
Then perhaps his terrors would vanish. In former days it had pleased
him, so to speak, to write away an anxiety from his heart, not in
letters to others, but only for himself. Many things which were not
clear to him, which he found incomprehensible--with pen in hand he
succeeded in making clearer to his inward eye, so that vague pictures
almost assumed corporeal shape. He had in that fashion created many
comrades and many companions during his wanderings in strange lands
when he was afraid. So now in his forlorn and deserted condition he
would try to invite the Saviour into the poor sinner's cell. No
outward help was to be hoped, he must evoke it all out of himself. He
would venture to implore the Lord Jesus until He came, using his
childish memories, the remains of his school learning, the fragments of
his reading, and, above all, his mother's Bible stories.
And now the condemned man began to write a book in so far as it was
possible to him. At first his dreams and thoughts and figures were
disconnected through timidity, and the painful excitement which often
made his pulses gallop and his heart stop beating. Then he cowered in
the corner, and wept and groaned and struggled in vain with the desire
for mortal life. When he succeeded in collecting his thoughts again,
and he took up his pen afresh, he gradually regained calm, and each
time it lasted longer. And it happened that he often wrote for hours
at a stretch, that his cheeks began to glow and his eyes to shine--for
he wandered with Jesus in Galilee. Suddenly he would awake from his
visions and find himself in his prison cell, and sadness overcame him,
but it was no longer a falling into the pit of hell; he was strong
enough to save himself on his island of the blessed. And so he wrote
and wrote. He did not ask if it was the Saviour of the books. It was
his Saviour as he lived in him, the only Saviour who could redeem him.
And so there was accomplished in this poor sinner on a small scale what
was accomplished among the nations on a large scale; if it was not
always the historical Jesus as Saviour, it was the Saviour in whom men
believed become historical, since he affected the world's history
through the hearts of men. He whom the books present may not be for
all men; He who lives in men's hearts is for all. That is the secret
of the Saviour's undying power: He is for each man just what that man
needs. We read in the Gospels that Jesus appeared at different times
and to different men in different forms. That should be a warning to
us to let every man have his own Jesus. As long as it is the Jesus of
love and trust, it is the right Jesus.
It often happened that during the prisoner's composition and writing, a
wider, softer light from the window spread through the cell, flickered
over the wall, the floor, the table, and then rested for a space on the
white paper. And so light even entered the lonely room, but
unspeakably more light entered the writer's heart.
The gaoler saw little of the writing. Directly he rattled his keys, it
was hidden under the sheet--just as children hide their treasures from
intrusive eyes. When five or six weeks had gone by, hundreds of
written sheets lay there.
Konrad placed them in a cover and wrote on it
I.N.R.I.
CHAPTER I
When darkness covers the world men look gladly towards the east. There
light dawns. All lights come from out of the east. And the races of
men are said to have come hither from that quarter. There is an
ancient book, in which is written the beginning of things and of men.
The book came from the nation of the Jews, and the old Jews were called
the people of God, for they recognised only one eternal God. And great
men and holy prophets arose in that nation. The greatest of them was
named Moses, and it is written that he it was who brought down to men
the Ten Commandments. But the Jews fell on evil times, they sank lower
and lower and were heavily oppressed by stronger nations. Like us,
they suffered poverty and curses and despair, and this lasted for a
thousand years and more. Prophets appeared from time to time, and with
words of mercy announced that a Saviour would come to lead the Jews
into the kingdom of glory. For that Saviour they waited many hundreds
of years. Oftentimes one would appear whom they took for Him, but they
were deceived. And when at last the real Saviour, the real, mighty
Saviour appeared, they did not recognise Him. For He was different
from what they had imagined.
Shall I try to tell how it happened, just as my mother used to tell me,
her little boy, the story on winter evenings? Shall I recite it to
myself like one who desires to wake himself at midnight before the Lord
comes? Shall I, who am without learning, search in my poor confused
head for the fragments that have remained in it? So much has been lost
in the wear and tear of the world, and yet since it has grown so dark
with me something flashes out, and shines forth on high, like some
starry crown in the night! Shall I invoke the holy figures that they
may stand by me through the anguish of my last days, that they may
surround me with their glad eternal light, and let no spirit of despair
come near me?--The path between the walls of this cruel fortress is
narrow, and through it only a feeble light penetrates to me.
As God wills. I am grateful for and content with the pale reflection
of the sky that comes to me from the holy east through the cracks in
the wall. Oh, God, my Father, let glad tidings come to me from distant
lands and far-off times, so that my simple heart can hold and
understand them. I am thirsty for God's truth, and whatever shall
strengthen, comfort, and save me, will be for me God's truth. Oh, thou
pale light! Art thou my mother's heritage and blessing? Oh, my
mother! From out the eternal dwelling speak to thy unhappy son--oh,
speak!
Did I not always see you in the woman who, during the cold winter
season, was compelled to go across the mountains far from home? And so
I will begin.
At that time the land of the Jews was under the dominion of the Romans.
The Roman Emperor wished to know how many Jews there were, and
commanded that an enrolment of the people should be made in Judaea.
All the Jews were to go to the place of their birth, and there report
themselves to the Imperial officer. In the little town of Nazareth, in
Galilee--a mountainous district of Judaea--there lived a carpenter. He
was an elderly man, and had married a young wife of whom a folk-song
still sings--
"As beautifully white as milk,
As marvellously soft as silk;
A woman very fair to see,
Yet full of deep humility."
They were poor people, but pious and industrious and obedient. No man
in the wide world troubled about them, and yet had it not been for them
the Roman Empire might not have fallen. Years afterwards, indeed, it
fell because of that carpenter. People from all quarters of the globe
dwelt in Galilee, even barbarians who had wandered there from the west
and the north. And it was often difficult to distinguish their
descent. Our carpenter was born in the south of Judaea, in the town of
Bethlehem, which, in olden times, had been the native place of King
David. Joseph, the carpenter, was not unwilling to speak of that, and
even to let it be known that he was of the house of David, the great
king. But yet he might well have thought it a finer thing to rise up
from below than to come down from above. And is it not so? Does not
man rise up from below, and God come down from high? In his boyhood
David was a shepherd; it is said that he slew the leader of the enemy
with stones from his sling, and that was why he rose so high. Now for
that reason, and because Joseph, the carpenter, was glad to visit his
native town once again, and to take his wife with him and show her the
land of his youth, the enrolment of the people was right pleasing unto
him. So the two made their plans, and set out for Bethlehem. It was
three days' journey and more, and they might well have complained. If
a workman to-day has not all that is of the best, he should think of
Master Joseph, who always cared more for good work than good money.
They probably took a packet of food with them from home, and the bride
was often obliged to rest by the way. The path over the rocky
mountains was difficult and tiring, and they had to pass through the
suspected land of Samaria. But Joseph never grumbled. And at last
they reached Judaea. And when they came upon ancient monuments, he
liked to stop, first in order to see how they were built, and then to
ponder over the great men and great deeds of olden times. They spent a
night at a place called Bethel, and there Joseph dreamed that he saw a
ladder before him, and that it reached from earth to heaven. And
Joseph thought, if the rungs would bear him, he might perhaps ascend
it; meanwhile, he saw how an angel, robed in white, slowly descended it
until he came down to where Joseph was. But when Joseph stretched out
his hand to him, the angel was no longer to be seen. Joseph awoke, and
the sweet dream filled his soul. It was the place where once the
Patriarch Jacob saw the heavenly ladder, and there it had remained ever
since, so that angels might continually descend and ascend between
heaven and earth. And then they cheerfully continued their way.
Joseph was afraid when he heard the jackals shriek in the desert and
saw the Bedouin camps. But he thought the angel who had come down was
hovering near him, and often imagined that he felt his wings fanning
his cheek.
The land through which they journeyed was barren; the plants were dried
up by the frost and were all faded. Snow lay on the summits of
Lebanon, which the travellers now saw from afar, away in their native
land, and pale gleams fell on to the lowlands of Judaea through the
cloudy atmosphere, so that stones and grass were white. When they
rested beside a brook the woman gazed thoughtfully into the pool and
said, "Look, Joseph; what are the wonderful plants and flowers on the
surface of the water?"
And Joseph said, "Haven't you ever seen them before, Mary? You are
young and have only known a few cold winters. And you don't know what
these flowers mean? Let me tell you. A maiden stands in the dawn.
Her feet are on the moon and the stars circle round her head. And
under her foot she crushes the head of the serpent who betrayed our
first parents in Paradise. And see, Spring courts the maiden and
brings her his roses. And Winter, too, courts the maiden, and because
he has no other flowers he makes these to grow on the surface of the
water and on the window-panes. But they are stiff and cold, and the
maiden, the mysterious rose, of whom a prophet sang, 'All nations shall
call thee blessed!' she chose the Spring."
That was the story Joseph told, Joseph whose beard was white as the
ice-flowers. Mary listened to the tale and was silent.
On the third day the royal city lay before our wanderers. Magnificent
it stood on the hill-top with the domes and pinnacles of its temples.
At that time Herod, king of the Jews, sat on the throne and imagined
that he ruled. But he only ruled in so far as the strangers allowed
him to rule. The town which had once been the pride of the chosen
people, now swarmed with Roman warriors, who filled the streets with
noise and unruly conduct. Joseph led his young wife down towards the
sloping rocks where were the graves of the prophets. There he was so
overcome that suddenly he stretched forth his hands to heaven:
"Almighty Jehovah, when will the Messiah come?" His cry was re-echoed
in the hollows of the rocks, and Mary said: "You should not shout so,
Joseph. The dead will not awaken, and Jehovah hears a prayer that is
quietly spoken."
Mary had hoped in her heart that they would enter Jerusalem and spend
the night there. Joseph said it could not be, for he had no relatives
in the town who could give them lodging, and he had not money enough to
pay strangers for a lodging. Also he did not like the strange ways of
the place; he yearned for his beloved Bethlehem. It wasn't very far
off now; could she manage it?
Mary signed "Yes" with her head, and gathered together all her
remaining strength. But just beyond the city walls she sank down
exhausted, and Joseph said: "We will stay here so that you may rest,
and to-morrow I can show you the Temple."
There was a man on a stony hillock nailing two beams of wood together.
Joseph understood something of that sort of work, but he was not quite
clear over this particular thing. So he asked what it might be.
"He for whose use it is, doesn't want it," replied the workman. It
then flashed into Joseph's mind that it was a gallows.
Mary grasped his arm: "Joseph, let us go on to Bethlehem." For she
began to be frightened.
They staggered along the road. A draught of the spring of the Valley
of Jehoshaphat refreshed them. Farther on in the fertile plain of
Judaea lambs and kids were feeding, and Joseph began to speak of his
childhood. His whole being was fresh and joyful. Home! And by
evening time Bethlehem, lighted by the setting sun, lay before them on
the hill-top.
They stood still for a space and looked at it. Then Joseph went into
the town to inquire about the place and the time of the enrolment, and
to seek lodging for the night. The young woman sat down before the
gate under the fan-shaped leaves of a palm-tree and looked about her.
The western land seemed very strange to her and yet sweet, for it was
her Joseph's childish home. How noisy it was in Jerusalem, and how
peaceful it was here--almost as still and solemn as a Sabbath evening
at Nazareth! Beloved Nazareth! How far away, how far away! Sometimes
the sound of a shepherd's pipe was heard from the green hills. A youth
leaned up against an olive tree and made a wreath of twigs and sang:
"Behold, thou art fair, my love. Thine eyes are as doves in thy
fragrant locks, thy lips are rosebuds, and thy two breasts are like
roes which feed among the lilies. Thou hast ravished my heart, my
sister, my spouse." Then he was silent, and the leaves rustled softly
in the evening breeze.
Mary looked out for Joseph, but he came not. And the singer continued:
"Who art thou that shinest like the day-dawn, fair as the moon, and
clear as the sun, divine daughter of Eve?" And Mary still waited under
the palm-tree and listened, and she began to feel strange pangs. She
drew her cloak more closely round her, and saw that the stars already
stood in the sky. But still Joseph came not. And from the hill the
singer: "And from the root of Jesse a twig shall spring." And a second
voice: "And all nations shall rise up and sing her praises." So did
the shepherds sing the songs of their old kings and prophets.
At last Joseph came slowly from the town. The enrolment was to take
place to-morrow at nine o'clock; that was all right. But there was
difficulty over the lodging for the night. He had spoken with rich
relations; they would have been very glad, but unfortunately a wedding
feast was going forward, and wanderers in homely garments might easily
feel uncomfortable. He quite understood that. Then he went to his
poorer relations, who would have been even more glad, but it was
deplorable that their house was so small and their hearth so cramped.
All the inns were overcrowded with strangers. They did not seem to
think much here of people from Galilee because all kinds of heathenish
folk lived there--as if any one who was born in Bethlehem could be a
heathen! And so he did not know what to do.
Mary leaned her head on her hand and said nothing.
"Your hands and feet are trembling, Mary," said Joseph.
She shook her head; it was nothing.
"Come, my wife, we will go in together," said Joseph. "We are not
vagabonds to whom they can refuse assistance."
And then they both went into the town. Mine host of the inn was stern.
"I told you already, old man, that there's no place for the like of you
in my house. Take your little daughter somewhere else."
"She's not my daughter, sir, but my true wife, trusted to me by God
that I may protect her," returned Joseph, and he lifted up his
carpenter's hand.
The door was slammed in their faces.
A fruit-seller, who had witnessed the scene, stretched forth his brown
neck and asked for their passport.
"If you show me your papers and three pieces of silver, I'll take you
in for the love of God. For we are all wanderers on the earth."
"We've no passport. We've come from Nazareth in Galilee for the
enrolment, because I am of the house of David," replied Joseph.
"Of the house of David! Why, you don't seem to know whether you're on
your head or your heels," and with a laugh the fruit-seller went his
way.
"It is true," thought Joseph, "noble ancestors are useless to a man of
no importance." For the future he would let David alone.
Mary now advised him to go outside the town again. Perhaps the very
poor or entire strangers would have pity on them. And as they
staggered along the stony road to the valley the woman sank down on the
grass.
Joseph looked at her searchingly. "Mary, Mary, what is it?"
A shepherd came along, looked at them, and listened to their request
for shelter.
"My wife is ill, and no one will take us in," complained Joseph.
"Then you must go to the beasts," said the shepherd cheerfully. "Come
with me. I'll gladly share my house with you. The earth is my bed,
the sky my roof, and a rocky cave my bedchamber."
And he led them to a hollow in the mossy rocks, and it had a roof woven
out of rushes. Inside an ox was chewing the hay it had eaten out of
the manger. A brown ass stood near by and licked the ox's big head.
There was still some hay left in the manger and in the corner was a bed
of dry leaves.
"Since you have nothing better, lie down here and rest as well as you
can. I will seek a bed at my neighbour's."
So saying the shepherd went away. It had now grown dark.
The young woman lay down on the bed of leaves and heaved a sigh from
her terrified heart. Joseph looked at her--and looked at her. Lightly
the angel's wings touched his face.
"Joseph, be not afraid. Lift up your heart and pray. It is the secret
of all eternities, and you are chosen to be the foster-father of Him
who comes from heaven."
He looked round him, not knowing whence came these thoughts, these
voices, this wondrous singing.
"You are tired, Joseph, you must sleep," said Mary. And when he
slumbered peacefully she prayed in her heart: "I am a poor handmaiden
of the Lord. The will of the Lord be done."