Told by the Death's Head Part 25

At last I came in sight of the house in which dwelt my parents--the dear, familiar home of my boyhood! There it stood; and beside it, the same tall mulberry tree with its branches shading the street.

Perched among those branches, I had learned to decline the cla.s.sical formula: "_Hic gallus cantans in arbore sedens, kukuriku dicens!_" At the moment of my arrival, however, instead of a _gallus cantans_ on the tree, an auctioneer's a.s.sistant was standing under it, and vigorously beating a cracked drum.

"What is going on here?" I asked of the man, in whom I recognized an acquaintance of my boyhood.

"There's going to be an auction, Master Soldier."

"What is to be sold?"

"Everything that belonged to the old tanner. You may take a look inside if you like," he added, nodding toward the house. "It won't cost you anything."

"But why are you selling the old man's property?" I asked again.

"To get money, naturally!"

"For whom?"

"For the numerous Jebucees, Sadducees, and publicans, to whom the old man was indebted. If they sell everything--to the brood of sparrows under the eaves!--there will not be enough money, by a good deal, to pay all he owes."

"Why," said I, "the old man was a good manager; and his wife an industrious and thrifty house-wife, when I knew them."

"And so they were! The old man was all right, until he took to drinking."

"Took to drinking? Why did he do that?"

"Well--you see, he had a worthless son, who ran away from home about ten years ago. The scamp joined a band of robbers; and when he left them, he gave out that he was a Polish count; played all manner of tricks; broke out of prison; robbed churches. Every year the news which came to the old man about his Hugo grew worse; until at last he was afraid to venture on the street, for the whole town was talking about his worthless son. So he took to drink--had it fetched to the house, and drank harder and harder--especially after his wife died--"

"Dead?" I interrupted. "Is the old dame dead?" my heart almost burst because I had to keep back the words "my mother."

"Yes, Master Soldier, she is dead, and it is a mercy the good old soul did not live to see this sorrowful day! But, you must excuse me. I have got to beat this drum, so that a good lot of people will come to the sale."

A dozen or more purchasers came in response to the summons. I took up my station by the open window, and looked into the familiar room, where the buyers were higgling over the various articles to be sold.

My mother's Sunday mantle was just then under the hammer--the pretty silk mantle with the silver fastening at the neck. How I wished I were able to put an end to the disgusting higgling, by shouting in the window:

"I'll take the whole lot for a thousand thalers!"

But, alas! there was only a single, miserable thaler in my pocket.

The mantle at last became the property of an old-clothes dealer: he flung it around his shoulders, and made believe to promenade to church. It was a revolting sight! The entire higgling crew laughed uproariously, and clapped their hands. I could endure it no longer, my heart was bursting.

I stepped back to the drummer, and asked:

"Is it long since the old dame died?"

"Not so long but you may find her grave if you care to see it. She is buried in the cemetery on the Templeberg."

"And where is her husband?"

"Well"--and he scratched his ear--"that is a question I am unable to answer: what was immortal about him, is in heaven, or h.e.l.l, or purgatory--who can say? Flesh, bones and skin, are about to be buried in the earth--just where though, I can't tell you."

"Buried now?" I repeated. "Why, there's no bell tolling for the funeral?"

"No, Master Soldier, the death bell doesn't ring for such corpses. The poor old man hung himself--just here, on this limb above us!"

"Hung himself?" I repeated in horror.

"Yes, Master Soldier--he hung himself on that limb! You see he couldn't stand it when, after he had been told that his property would have to be sold to pay his debts, he heard that the burgomaster had received from Hamburg a warrant to arrest Hugo, his vagabond son, who had murdered a comrade of his in that city."

You may imagine my feeling when I heard these words! They banished from my mind all thought of making myself known as the long-lost Hugo, and the determination to keep my ident.i.ty a strict secret was strengthened by the drummer who, at every beat he inflicted on the cracked calf-skin, exclaimed: "The rascal!" "The vagabond!" "The gallows-bird!" and similar t.i.tles of honor!

I deemed it wise to join him in execrating the reprobate, whose evil conduct had forced the honest old tanner to end his life on the green branch over our heads.

The b.l.o.o.d.y deed I had committed in Hamburg had driven my poor father to a suicide's grave. I could listen no longer to the monotonous drum-beats, and the call which came from the house: "Who bids higher?"

I stole away from the house to which I had brought disgrace and death.

I stole away to that city of the silent mult.i.tude, where there is no higgling, no outbidding, no "who bids higher?"

Here, the wooden cross at the head of the gra.s.s-grown mound of earth, serves the same purpose, and serves it as well as the majestic marble monument. After a long search among many familiar, and some unfamiliar names, I found, on one of the wooden crosses, the name to which I had a claim.

Underneath that mound, bare of green sod, with no mourning wreath of never-fading flowers adorning the cross, rested the woman who had left behind her on earth nothing but a drunken husband, who drank to forget his shame; and a worthless son, whose name was a public disgrace in every city in the land.

I flung myself beside the mound. I dared not give vent to my sorrow in moans and tears, for fear a grave-digger, or some pa.s.ser-by might hear me, and suspect me to be the son of the woman in the grave.

The Hamburg magistrates had offered one hundred thalers for my arrest; consequently it behooved me to be very cautious. I pretended I had chosen that spot to rest; and lay very still; for, just then, a good many people--chattering old women, noisy lads, and all sorts of shabby folk--were pa.s.sing through the cemetery, toward the further wall.

The crowd seemed to be expecting something--an imposing funeral, I said to myself. I soon found out why they were so eager to get to the boundary wall of the cemetery: In the strip of earth just outside the wall was the suicide's grave.

He is not to rest among the respectable Christians; but in the strip of unconsecrated ground outside the sacred inclosure. No priest leads his funeral train; his body comes to its last resting place in the knacker's cart, on a bier made of four rough deals. The coffin is unpainted; there is no name-plate on the lid.

The bell on the neck of the knacker's old steed tolls him to the grave. Instead of a solemn funeral dirge, there is the noisy chatter of the curious mob; and in lieu of funeral oration are the knacker's stupid and offensive jokes, which he cracks while he prepares to lower the coffin into the grave. Before he does this, he takes a knife from his pocket, and whittles a few chips from the coffin; and over these the gaping crowd--especially the old women--quarrel and higgle, gladly giving their last pence for the relics. And these people never suspect that the man who leans heavily against the broken cross, hard-by the new-made grave, might rush suddenly upon them, and with the stump of the broken cross crack the skulls of those whom he chanced to strike!

At last the knacker took note of me:

"Well, Master Soldier," he called, "and how goes it with you? Don't you want to exchange a few pence for a chip from the coffin of the man who hung himself? There is great virtue in such a bit of wood! It will preserve you from lightning, and--"

"I would rather have a nail out of the coffin," I interrupted, "for iron will attract lightning, which is what I most desire."

The fellow was ready enough to comply with my request, but he said the nail would be worth a thaler. I gave him the thaler, the last money I possessed in the world! and received the nail--my legacy from my father!

Later, I had a ring made of the coffin-nail, and I still wear it on the fore-finger of my right hand.

"Well," enunciated his highness, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket; "you certainly were punished for your misdeeds, my son. Your sufferings must have been greater than if you had been tortured on the wheel."

The chair's comments were inaudible amid the sounds of emotion, which came from behind the prince's handkerchief.