AND yet I must tell it, though the telling consume me like a flame. I saw a bed and Veronika lying on it, face downward. She was dressed in her customary black gown. I supposed she was asleep. I supposed she was asleep, for one short moment. That was the last moment of my life. For then the truth burst upon me, fell upon me like a shaft from out the skies and hurled me into hell. I saw—not that she was dead only. If she had only died it would be different. I saw—merciful God!—I saw that she was murdered.
Oh, of course I would not, could not, believe it. Of course it was a dream, a nightmare, an hallucination, from which I should presently awake. Of course the thing was impossible, could not be. Of course I flung myself upon the bed at her side and crushed her between my arms and covered her with kisses and called and cried to her to move, to speak, to come back to life. And although her hands were icy cold and her body rigid and her face as white as marble, and although—ah, no! I may leave out the horrible detail—still I could not believe. I could not believe—yet how could I deny? There she lay, my sweetheart, my promised bride, deaf to my voice, blind to my presence, unmoved by my despair, beyond the reach of my strongest love, never to care for me again—Veronika, my tender, sad Veronika—oh, she lay there, dead, murdered! And still, with the knife-hilt staring at me like the face of Satan, still I could not believe. It was the fact, the unalterable fact, the fact that extinguished the light of the sun and stars and flooded the universe with blackness: and still, in spite of it, I called to her and crushed her in my embrace and kissed her and caressed her and was sure it could not be true. And meantime people came and filled the room.
I did not see the people. Only in a vague way I knew that they were there, heard the murmur of their voices, as if they were a long distance off. I had no senses left. I could neither see nor hear distinctly. My eyes were burned by a fierce red fire. My ears were full of the uproar of a thousand devils. But I knew that people had intruded upon us. I knew that I hated them because they would not leave us two alone. I remember I rose and faced them and cursed them and told them to be gone. And then I took her in my arms again and pressed her hard to me and forgot every thing but that she would not answer.
Gradually, however, nature was coming to my rescue. Gradually I seemed to be sinking into a stupor—had no sensation left except a numb, bruised feeling from head to foot—forgot what the matter was, forgot even Veronika, simply existed in a state of half conscious wretchedness. The first frenzy of grief had spent itself. The very immensity of the pain I had suffered acted as an opiate, exhausted and rendered me insensible. I heard the voices of the people as a soldier who is wounded may still hear something of the din of battle.
I don’t know how long I had lain thus when I became aware that a hand was placed upon my shoulder. Some one shook me roughly and said, “Get up and come away.” Passively, I obeyed. “Sit down,” said the same person, pushing me into a chair. I sat down and relapsed into my stupor.
Again I don’t know how long it was before they disturbed me for a second time. Two or three men were standing in front of me. One of them was in uniform. Slowly I recognized that he was an officer, a captain of police. He spoke. I heard what he said without understanding, as one who is half asleep hears what is said at his bedside. This much only I gathered, that he wanted me to go with him somewhere. I was too much dazed to care what I did or what was done with me. He took my arm and led me away. He led me into the street. There was a a great crowd. I shut my eyes and tottered along at his side. We entered a house. Somebody asked me a lot of questions—my name and where I lived and so forth—to which my lips framed mechanical answers. I can remember nothing more.
When consciousness revived I was made to understand that I had fainted.
“But where am I? What has happened?” I asked, trying to remember.
The police-captain explained. “Mr. Neuman,” he said, “I have made all the inquiry that is as yet possible, and the result is that I deem it my duty to take you in custody. I prefer no charge, but I believe I am bound to hold you for the inquest. The hour of your leaving her last night, the time that Miss Pathzuol has apparently been dead, and the fact that you were the last person known to have been in her company, make it incumbent upon me to place you under arrest.”
I pondered his words. Every thing came back. I was accused, or at least suspected, of having murdered Veronika—I!
I felt no emotion. I was stunned as yet, like a man who has received a blow between the eyes. My brain had turned to stone. I repeated over to myself all that the captain had said. The words wrought no effect. I did not even experience pain as I thought of her. She is dead? I queried. They were three vapid syllables. My senses I had recovered—I could see and hear plainly now—could remember the events of the morning in detail and in their correct order. But somehow I had lost all capacity for feeling.
AND so it continued throughout the inquest and throughout the trial—for, yes, they tried me for my sweetheart’s murder. I ate, drank, slept, and answered the questions that were put to me, all in a dazed, dull way, but suffered no pain, no surprise, no indignation, had no more sensation than a dead man. That Veronika had been killed, and that I was accused of having killed her, were the facts which I heard told and told again from morning till night each day; yet I had not the least conception of what they signified. I was too stunned and benumbed to realize.
The first day passed by, and the second and the third, every one of them busy with events that meant life or death for me: yet I took no notice. When left to myself, invariably I closed my eyes, and the stupor settled over my senses like a cloud of smoke. When aroused, I did whatever was required as passively as an automaton. I remember those first few days as one remembers a hateful dream. I remember being driven in a dark, noisy vehicle from the station-house to the city prison, and having in the latter place a cell assigned to me which was destined to serve as my home for many weeks. I remember making several trips, handcuffed to my custodian, from the jail to the office where the inquest was held and back: but my only recollection of the inquest itself is a confused one—a crowded, foul-smelling room, a chaos of faces and voices, endless talking, endless questioning of myself by men who were strangers to me. I remember that by and by these journeys came to an end: but what the verdict of the inquest was I do not remember—I do not think I troubled myself to ask at the time. Then I remember that after some days spent alone in my cell one of the keepers said, “You are indicted,” and inquired whether I wished to communicate with my attorney. Indicted? My attorney? I did not comprehend. I do not remember what I answered.
Once the door of my cell opened, and they brought in a trunk and a violin-case and placed them on the floor at the foot of my cot.
I recognized these for my own property. Mechanically I took out my violin and drew forth one long, clear note. That note was like a sudden flash of light. For a single instant the desolation to which my world had been reduced became visible in all its ghastliness. For a single instant I realized my position, realized that Veronika was dead, and the rest. The truth pierced my consciousness like an arrow and made my body quake with pain. But immediately the darkness settled over me again, the stupor returned.
Slowly, however, this stupor was changing its character. By degrees, so far as my mere thinking faculties were involved, it began to be dissipated. By degrees my mind struggled out of it. I began to notice and to understand things, and was able to converse and to appreciate what was said. But over my feelings it retained its sway. Although I was quite competent now to follow the explanations of my lawyer—how Veronika had been murdered and how and why I was suspected as the murderer—still I had no feeling of any sort about the matter. I might have been a log of wood.
My lawyer had presented himself one day and volunteered his services. I had accepted them without even inquiring his name.
“Don’t you remember me?” he asked.
I looked at his face but could not recall having seen it before.
“My name is Epstein,” he said. “We went to school together.”
“Oh, yes; I remember,” I replied.
Regularly each day he came and reported the progress of affairs.
“They are building up a strong case against you,” he said. “Our only hope lies in an alibi.”
“What is that?” I inquired dully.
He explained; and continued, “Of course the prosecution won’t tell me what tack they mean to pursue, but from several little things that have leaked out I infer that they have a pretty strong case. Now, at what hour did you leave Miss Pathzuol that night?”
“At about midnight.”
“And went directly home?”
“Directly home.”
“After entering your house did you meet any of the other occupants? any of your fellow-lodgers?”
“I don’t remember.”
“But you must make an effort to remember. Try.”
“I tell you, I don’t remember,” I repeated. His persistence irritated me.
“You appear to take as little interest in this case as though it were the life of a dog hanging in the scales instead of your own,” he said, and that was the truth.
Next day his face wore a somber expression.
“This is too bad,” he cried. “I have interviewed your landlady and your fellow-lodgers, and not one of them can swear to your alibi. I know you are innocent, but I don t see how I am to prove it.”
At last the trial began.
I sat through that trial, the most indifferent person in the court-room. I heard the testimony of the witnesses and the speeches of the lawyers simply because I was close at hand and could not help it. But I was the least interested of the many auditors, the least curious as to the result. Yet, stolid, indifferent, inattentive as I was, every detail of the trial is stamped upon my memory in indelible hues. Here is the story of it.
The first day was used in securing a jury.
The second day commenced with an address—an “opening” they called it—by the counsel for the prosecution. He told quietly who Veronika was, how she had lived alone with her uncle, and how on the morning of the 13th July they had found her, murdered. He said that a remarkable train of circumstantial evidence pointed to one man as the murderer. Then he raised his voice and dwelt upon the blackness of that man’s soul. Then he faced around and bade the prisoner stand up. Shaking his finger at me, “Gentlemen of the jury,” he thundered, “there is the man.”
The first witness was Tikulski. He testified to the discovery of the murder in the manner already known; told how he had been absent all night that night; and explained the nature of the relations that subsisted between Veronika and myself.
“When you got home on the morning of the 13th in what condition was the door of your apartment?” asked the district-attorney.
“In its usual condition.”
“That is to say, locked?”
“Precisely.”
“It had not been broken open or tampered with?”
“Not so far as I could see.”
“That’s all.”
On cross-examination he said that he had never heard a harsh word pass between Veronika and myself, that on the contrary I had given him every reason for considering me a most tender and devoted lover.
“And when made aware of the death of his betrothed,” pursued my lawyer, “how did Mr. Neuman conduct himself?”
“He acted like a crazy man—like one paralyzed by a tremendous blow.”
“You can go, Mr. Tikulski,” said my lawyer. “But I wish to say,” began Tikulski, “that I do not believe——”
“Stop,” cried the prosecutor. “Your honor, I object to any expression of opinion by the witness.”
“No matter about what you don’t believe,” said the Judge to Tikulski.
“But——-”
“But you must hold your tongue,” imperiously. “You can go.”
The old man left the stand and elbowed his way to my side.
“What I wished to say was,” he whispered into my ear, “that I believe you are as innocent as I myself. It is outrageous, this trial. They compelled me to testify. But you must understand that I am sure of your innocence. I don’t know why they hushed me up.”
Meanwhile the captain of police had succeeded him, and sworn to having visited the scene of the crime and to having placed the prisoner under arrest.
“Captain,” said the district-attorney, “here is a key. Have you seen it before?” handing a key to the witness.
“I have,” was the reply.
“Tell us when and where.”
“I took it from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest.”
“What further can you say about it?”
“Subsequently it was identified as a key to the apartments occupied by the deceased.”
“Did you try it yourself?”
“I did. It fitted the lock.”
“How is this?” Epstein asked me. “How did you come by that key?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t remember ever having had it in my possession.”
“But it is an ugly circumstance, and must be accounted for.”
“Oh, what difference does it make?” I retorted petulantly. “Leave me alone.”
“A few little trifles like this may make the difference of your neck,” muttered Epstein, and he looked disturbed.
“Captain,” continued the district-attorney, “just one thing more. Do you recognize this handkerchief?”
“Yes; it was found in the pocket of the prisoner when he was searched at the station-house.”
My lawyer got hold of the handkerchief and exhibited it to me. It was stained dull brown. “This is blood,” he said. “How did it happen?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t an idea,” was the utmost I could respond. Epstein looked more uneasy than before.
“That’s enough, Captain,” said the prosecutor.
“But before you leave the stand,” put in Epstein, “kindly tell us what the prisoner’s conduct was from the time you took charge of the premises down to the time you locked him up.”
“At first he acted as though he was crazy; raved and carried on like a madman. Afterward he became quiet and sort of dull. At the station-house he fainted away.”
“Didn’t act as though he liked it—as though the death of Miss Pathzuol was a thing that pleased him?”
“No, sir; on the contrary. He acted as though it had been a great shock to him.”
“You can go.”
Next came a physician.
He said he was a police-surgeon. At about nine o’clock on the morning of July 13th he had been summoned to the house of the decedent; had examined the body and satisfied himself as to the mode of death. There were three separate knife-wounds. These he proceeded to describe in technical language. Not one of them could have been self-inflicted; any one of them was sufficient to have caused immediate death.
“Dr. Merrill,” inquired the prosecutor, “how long—how many hours—prior to your arrival must the crime have been perpetrated?”
“From seven to ten hours.”
“So that—?”
“So that the crime must have been perpetrated between eleven and two o’clock.”
“Good.—Now, Doctor, here is a handkerchief which the captain says he took from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest. Do you recognize it?”
“I do.”
“Go on—what about it?”
“It was submitted to me for chemical analysis—to analyze the substance, with which it is discolored.”
“And you found?”
“I found that it was stained with blood,”
“Human blood?”
“Precisely.”
“About how long had it been shed? Did its condition indicate?”
“From its condition when submitted to me—that is, at about noon on the 13th—I inferred that it had been shed not much less nor much more than twelve hours.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said the lawyer. To Epstein, “Your witness.”
“One moment, Doctor,” said Epstein. Turning to me, “You can give no explanation of this circumstance?” he whispered.—“None,” I answered.—To the witness, “Doctor, blood may be shed in divers ways, may it not? This blood on the handkerchief, for instance—it might have come from—say, a nose-bleed, eh?”
The surgeon smiled, hesitated, then replied, “Possibly, though not probably. Its quality is rather that of blood from a wound than that of blood from congested capillaries. But it is quite possible.”
“You can go, Doctor.”—To me, “Are you sure you didn’t have a nose-bleed on the night in question?”
“I know nothing at all about it.”
The next witness was a woman.
She said she was the janitress of the apartment-house, No.—East Fifty-first street. It was a portion of her duty as such to open the street-door when the bell was rung. On the evening of July 12th, she had opened the door and admitted the prisoner between seven and eight o’clock.
“Can you say at what hour the prisoner left the house?”
“Yes, sir, I can. It was a warm night, and me and my husband were seated out on the stoop for the sake of the breeze till late. Mr. Neuman went out a little before twelve o’clock.”
“He entered between seven and eight. He left at about midnight. Now, meanwhile, whom else did you admit?”
“No one at all. From half past seven until midnight no one went in except Mr. Neuman.”
“Was not that a somewhat unusual circumstance?”
“Most extraordinary. Me and my husband spoke about it at the time.”
“You can swear positively on this score?”
“Yes, because we staid on the stoop the whole evening and not a soul could have passed us without our seeing.”
“Are there any other means of ingress to the house of which you have charge than the street door?”
“Yes, sir; the basement-door and the scuttle-door in the roof.”
“What was their condition on the night of the 12th of July?”
“They were locked and bolted.”
“What was their condition on the morning of the 13th?”
“At six o’clock when I opened the house they were still locked and bolted.”
“Meantime could they have been unlocked?”
“No, because I carried the keys in my pocket.”
“Now, what are the means of ingress to the flat occupied by Mr. Tikulski?”
“The door that opens from his private hall into the outer hall of the house.”
“Any other?”
“No, your honor.”
“Do you recognize this key?” handing to the witness the key that the officer had identified.
“I do, sir.”
“Well?”
“It’s a key to Mr. Tikulski’s door?”
Here befell a pause, during which the jurymen shifted in their seats and the prosecutor consulted with his colleague. In a moment he resumed.
“Now, Mrs. Marshall, you have testified that the prisoner at the bar, Ernest Neuman, left the house, No.—East Fifty-first street, shortly before midnight on the 12th of July. Your memory on this point is entirely trustworthy?”
“It is, sir.”
“Very well. Did you notice his movements after that?”
“I did, sir.”
“Tell us what they were.”
“Well, sir, he crossed over the street and stood on the sidewalk under a lamp-post looking up at the front of the house toward Mr. Tikulski’s windows, and then—”
“For how long?”
“I couldn’t tell exactly, but maybe for the time it would take you to walk around the block.”
“For five minutes?”
“Yes, or more likely for ten.”
“And then—?”
“Well, and then, as I was saying, he marched straight away toward the avenue.”
“Toward what avenue?”
“Toward Second avenue.”
“And disappeared?”
“And disappeared.”
“Did you see any thing more of him that night?”
“I did, sir.”
“When and under what circumstances?”
“In about a quarter of an hour, your honor, Mr. Neuman he comes back and stands leaning up against the railing across the way; and pretty soon crosses over and goes past us without speaking a word and enters the house, the door being open, and goes up the stairs.” My lawyer turned sharply to me. “Is this true?” he whispered. “No, it is entirely false,” I answered. But I did not care.
“This,” resumed the district-attorney, “was at about what hour?”
“Sure, you can reckon it for yourself, sir. It was a little after twelve.”
“Very good. Now, at what hour did you shut up the house?”
“It was after one o’clock.”
“Had the prisoner meantime gone out?”
“He had not.”
“So that consecutively from the moment of his reëntrance to the hour of your closing up, he was in the house?”
“He was, sir.”
“Meanwhile, who else had entered?”
“Two of the tenants, Mr. and Mrs.————, the tenants of the first flat.”
“Any one else?”
“No one else.”
“That will do, Mrs. Marshall.”
My lawyer cross-questioned her for an hour. His utmost art was powerless to shake her. She reiterated absolutely and word for word what she had already sworn to.
“John Marshall!” called the prosecutor.
It was the husband of the janitress. He confirmed her story, and like her, was impregnable to Epstein’s assaults.
“That’s our case, your honor,” said the district-attorney to the judge.
“Then we will adjourn until to-morrow,” replied the latter.
I was handcuffed and led back to the Tombs, a crowd following. Epstein joined me in my cell.
“How about that key?” he demanded.
“I know nothing about it.”
“How about the blood on your handkerchief?”
“I don’t remember. Perhaps, as you suggested, I had a nose-bleed.”
“You are sure you did not reenter the house?”
“Yes, I am sure of that. I went straight home and to bed.”
“Then the Marshalls have lied out and out?”
“They have.”
“Will you take the stand?”
“What for?”
“Why, to defend, to exonerate yourself.”
“No.”
“I feared as much. My friend, your life depends upon it.”
“What do I care for my life?”
“But your good name—you cherish your good name, do you not?’
“No,” I replied, stubbornly.
He attempted to plead, to reason with me. “No, no, no,” I insisted. He went his way.
“Your honor,” he said next day in court, “I ask that the jury be directed to render a verdict of not guilty, on the ground that the prosecution has failed to show any motive on the part of my client for the crime of which he is accused. Where the evidence is wholly circumstantial, as in the present case, a failure to show motive is fatal.”
“I shall not hamper the jury,” said the judge. “They must decide the case on its merits.” Epstein called, “Mrs. Burrows.” My landlady took the witness-chair and testified to my excellent character. He called a handful more to testify to the same thing; then said, “I am ready to sum up, your honor.”
“Do so,” replied the Court.
Epstein spoke shortly and quietly. I remember his argument word for word; yet I was not conscious of attending to it at the time.
He said, “We are not prepared to contest the matters of fact alleged by the prosecution, nor to deny that their bearing is against my client. That Mr. Neuman was in Miss Pathzuol’s company on the night of July 12th, and that the next morning a blood-stained handkerchief and a key to Mr. Tikulski’s door were taken from his pocket, we admit. We will even admit that these circumstances are of a sort to cast suspicion upon him: all that we claim is that they are not sufficient to confirm that suspicion and make it certainty. It is the liberty, perhaps the life, of a human being which you have at your disposal. No matter how dark the shadow over him may be, if you can entertain a reasonable doubt of his guilt, you must acquit. And, putting it to you in all simplicity and sincerity, I ask: Does not the evidence offered by the prosecution leave room for a reasonable doubt? Is it not possible that some other hand than Neuman’s dealt the blows by which Veronika Pathzuol met her death? If such a possibility exists, you must give Neuman the benefit of it; you must acquit. Consider his good character; consider that he was the betrothed of the lady whose murderer they would make him out to be; consider that absolutely no trace of motive has been brought home to him; consider that on the contrary he was the one man who above all others most desired that she might live; consider these matters, and then decide whether in reasonableness his guilt is not in doubt. Remember that it is not sufficient that there should be a presumption against him. Remember that there must be proof. Remember also what a grave duty yours is, and how grave the consequences, should you send an innocent man to the gallows.
“Only one word more. I had naturally intended to place my client upon the stand, and let him justify himself by his own word of mouth. But, unfortunately, I am not able to do so, because morally and physically he is prostrated and unfitted for sustaining the strain of an examination. But after all, if you will for a moment imagine yourselves in Mr. Neuman’s position, you can conceive that his defense must necessarily be of a passive, not of an active, kind. In his position what could you say? Why, only that you were ignorant of the whole transaction, and innocent despite appearances, and as much at loss for a solution of the mystery involving it as his honor himself. This is what Neuman would say were he able to go upon the stand. But one thing more he would say. He would impugn the veracity of the Marshalls. He would maintain that they liedin totowhen they swore to his second entrance. He would tell you that when he left the house in Fifty-first street at midnight, he went directly home and to his bed, and that he returned no more until the next morning. And he would leave you to choose between his story and that of Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. My opponent will ask, ‘Why not prove an alibi, then?’ Because, when Mr. Neuman returned to his lodging-house late that night, every body, as might have been expected, was asleep. He encountered no one in the hall or on the stairs. He mounted straight to his own bed-chamber and went to bed.
“I trust the matter to your discretion. I am sure that you will weigh it carefully and conscientiously. You will realize that the life of a fellow man hangs upon your verdict, and you will deliberate well, if there be not, on the whole, a reasonable doubt in his favor. You will, I am confident, in no uncertain mind consign Ernest Neuman to the grave of a felon.” The district-attorney’s address was florid and rhetorical. It lasted about two hours. He resumed the evidence. He said that an ordinary process of elimination would suffice to fasten the guilt upon the prisoner at the bar. The gist of his argument was that as Neuman had been the only person in the victim’s company at the time of the commission of the crime, he was consequently the only person who by a physical possibility could be guilty. He warned the jury against allowing their sympathies to interfere with their judgment, and read at length from a law book respecting the value of circumstantial proof. He ridiculed Epstein’s impeachment of the Marshalls, and added that even without their testimony the doctor’s story and the police-captain’s story, coupled with my own “eloquent silence,” were conclusive. It was the obvious duty of the jury to convict.
The judge delivered his charge, dealing with the legal aspect of the case.
Epstein rose again. “I request your honor,” he said, “to charge that in the event of the jurymen finding that there is a reasonable doubt in Neuman’s favor, they must acquit.”
“I so charge,” assented the judge.
“I request your honor,” Epstein continued, “to charge that if the jurymen consider the fact of no motive having been shown, sufficient to establish a reasonable doubt of the defendant’s guilt, they must acquit.”
“I so charge you, gentlemen,” said the judge.
The jurymen filed out of the room. The judge left the bench. It was now about four in the afternoon. Half an hour passed. The court-room began to empty. Another half hour passed. Only the court attendants, Epstein, the district-attorney’s colleague, and the prisoner remained. One of the attendants held a whispered conference with Epstein: then said to me, “There is no prospect of a speedy agreement. Come.” I rose, followed him to the rear of the room, and was locked up in the prisoner’s pen.
It got dark. I sat still in the dark and waited. The stupor bound my faculties like a frost.
It had been dark many hours when the door of the pen swung open. The same attendant again said, “Come.”
The court-room was lighted by a few feeble gas jets. The judge sat on the bench. The district-attorney was laughing and chatting with him. Epstein said, “For God’s sake, summon all your strength. They have agreed.”
The jurymen entered in single file, took their places, settled themselves in their chairs. The judge and the prosecutor suspended their pleasantries. The clerk cleared his throat. There was a second of dead silence. Then, “Prisoner, stand up,” called the clerk.
I stood up.
“Prisoner, look you upon the jury. Jury, look you upon the prisoner,” the clerk cried, machine-like.
In the murky light of the gas I could have gathered nothing from the faces of the jurymen, even had I been concerned to do so.
“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?” the metallic voice of the clerk rang out.
The foreman rose. “We have,” he answered.
“How say you, do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of the offense for which he stands indicted?”
“Not guilty,” said the foreman.
Epstein grasped my hand and crunched it hard. His own was clammy. He did not speak.
“Gentlemen of the jury, you say you find the prisoner at the bar not guilty of homicide in the first degree, and so your verdict stands recorded. Neuman, you are discharged.” It was the clerk’s last word.
I quitted the court-room, a free man. I was as indifferent to my freedom as I had been to my peril. There was no consciousness of relief in my breast.
Epstein stood at my elbow. “You must be weak and faint,” he said. “Come with me.”
He led me through the silent streets and into a restaurant.
“This is an all-night place,” he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, “and much frequented by journalists. What will you have?”
“I am not hungry,” I answered.
“Oh, but you must take something,” he urged with a touch of ruefulness, “just a bite to celebrate our victory.”
I drank a cup of coffee. When we were again out-doors, Epstein cried, “Why, see; it is beginning to get light. Morning already.” A fresh wind blew in our faces, and the blackness of the sky was giving place to gray. “I must leave you now,” said Epstein, “and hurry home. Where will you go?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ll stroll about for a while. Good-by.”
“Good-by.”
IWALKED along aimlessly, recounting all the happenings of the last few weeks. I was astonished at my own blank insensibility. “Why, Veronika, the Veronika you loved, is dead, murdered,” I said to myself, “and you, you who loved her, have been in prison and on trial for the crime. They have outraged you. They have sworn falsely against you. And the very core of your life has been torn out. Yet you—what has come over you? Are you heartless, have you no capacity for grief or indignation? Oris it that you are still half stunned? And that presently you will come to and begin to feel?” I strode on and on. It was broad day now. By and by I looked around.
I was in Second avenue, near its southern extremity. I was standing in front of a large red brick house. A white placard nailed to the door caught my eye. “Room to let,” it said in big black letters.
“Room to let?” I repeated. “Why, I am in need of a room.” And I entered the house and engaged the room. The landlady asked my name. I told her it was Lexow, that having been the maiden-name of my mother. Neuman had acquired too unpleasant a notoriety through the published accounts of the trial. As Lexow I have been known ever since.
I employed an express agent to go to the Tombs and bring back my luggage.
Then I sat at my window and watched the people pass in the street. I sat there stockstill all day. I was aware of a vague feeling of wretchedness, of a vague craving for a relief which I could not name. As dusk gathered, a lump grew bigger and bigger in my throat. “I am beginning to be unhappy,” I thought. “It is high time.” My insensibility had frightened as well as puzzled me. Instinctively, I knew it could not last forever, knew it for the calm that precedes the storm. I was anxious that the storm should break while I was still strong enough to cope with its fury. Waiting weakened me. Besides, I was ashamed of myself, hated myself as one shallow and disloyal. That I could be indifferent to Veronika’s death! I, who had called myself her lover!
But now, as the lump grew in my throat, now, I thought, perhaps the hour has come. I sat still in my chair, fanning this forlorn spark of hope.
In the end, by imperceptible degrees, sleep stole upon me. It was natural. I had been up for more than six-and-thirty hours.
When I awoke a singular thing happened. Memory played me a singular trick.
I awoke, conscious of a great luminous joy in my heart. It was full morning. “Ah,” I thought, “how bright the sunshine is! how sweet the air! To-day I will go to Veronika to-day, after my lessons—and spend the lest of the afternoon and the evening at her side!” My heart leaped at this prospect of happiness in store: and I commenced to plan the afternoon and evening in detail. At last I jumped up, eager to begin the delicious day.
The trick that memory played me was a simple one, after all. The recent past had simply for the moment been obliterated, and I transported back for a moment into the old time. As I stood now in the middle of the floor, my eye was struck by the strangeness of my surroundings.
“Why, how is this?” I questioned. “Where am I?”
For a trice I was bewildered, but only for a trice. The truth reasserted itself all at once—rose up and faced me with its grim, deathly visage, as if cleared by a stroke of lightning. All at once I remembered; and what is more, all at once the stupor that had hung like a cloud between me and the facts, rolled away. I looked at my world. It was dust and ashes, a waste space, peopled by ghosts. My heart recoiled, sickened, horrified; then began to throb with the pain that had been ripening in its womb ever since the morning when Tikulski pointed to her, stretched murdered upon the bed.
Well, at last the storm had broken; at last I realized. At last I could no longer reproach myself for a want of sensibility. At last I had my desire. I yielded myself to the enjoyment of it for the remainder of the day.
For weeks afterward I lay at the point of death. The slow convalescence that ensued afforded me plenty of time to examine my position from every point of view, and to get accustomed to understanding that the light had gone out of my sky. Of course I hated the fate that condemned me to regain my health. The thought that I should have to drag out years and years of blank, aimless, joyless life, appalled me. The future was a night through which I should be compelled to toil with no hope of morning. Strangely enough, the idea of suicide never once suggested itself.
When I was able to go out, I repaired to Epstein’s office. Several little matters remained to be settled with him. As I was about to leave, he said, “Neuman, do you propose to take any steps toward finding the murderer?”
“Toward finding the murderer? Why, no; I had not thought of doing so.”
“But of course you will. You won’t allow the affair to rest instatu quo?”
“Why not?”
“Why, considering your relations to Miss Pathzuol, I should think your motive would be plain. Don’t you want to see her murderer punished, her death atoned for?”
“Her death atoned for! Her death can never be atoned for. And the punishment of her murderer—would that restore her to me? Would that undo the fact that she is dead? Else, why should I bestir myself about it?”
“Common human nature ought to be enough; the natural wish to square accounts with him.”
“Do you fancy, Epstein, that such an account as this can be squared? Suppose we had him here now at our mercy, what could we do by way of squaring accounts? Put him to death? Would that square the account? To say so would be to compare his miserable life to hers.—But besides, he is not at our mercy. We have no clew to him.”
“Yes, on the contrary, we have.”
“Indeed? What is it?”
“Why, the most apparent one. You are sure the Marshalls lied?”
“Oh yes; I am sure of that.”
“Well, what earthly inducement could they have had for lying—for perjuring themselves, mind you, and running the risk of being caught and sent to prison—what earthly inducement, unless thereby they hoped to cover up their own guilt by throwing suspicion upon another man?”
“Yes; that is so. I had not thought of that.”
“Well, now, if you and I are sure that the Marshalls participated in that crime, there is a solid starting-point. Now, will you not join me and help to fasten the guilt upon them?”
“What good would it do? I say again, would that give her back to me?”
“But, my dear fellow, even if you have no desire to see the murderer punished, you must at least wish to retaliate upon the wretches who jeopardized your life by their false swearing, who sought to thrust upon your innocent shoulders the brunt of their own offending.”
“No; I confess, I have no such wish.”
“But—but you amaze me. Have you not the ordinary instincts of a man?
“It is the business of the police, any how. Let them move in the matter. You ought to understand that I am sick and tired, that all I wish for is to be left alone. No, no; if the Marshalls should ever be brought to justice it will not be by my efforts. The police can manage it for themselves.”
“But there is just the point.” Epstein hesitated; at length went on, “There is just the point I wanted to bring to your notice. It will be hard for you to hear, but you ought to understand—it is only right that I should tell you—that—that—why, hang it, the police will remain idle because they suppose they have already finished the business, already put their finger on the—the man.”
“Well, why should they remain idle on that account? Why don’t they arrest him and try him, as they did me, before a jury?”
“You don’t comprehend, Neuman. The fact of the matter is—you must pardon me for saying so—the fact is, they still suspect you.”
“Suspect me? What, after the very jury has acquitted me? I thought the verdict of the jury was conclusive.”
“So it is, in one sense. They can’t put you in jeopardy again. But this is the way they stand. They say, ‘We haven’t sufficient legal evidence to warrant a conviction, but we feel morally certain, all the same, and so there’s no use prying further.’ That is my reason for broaching the subject and for urging you so strongly. You ought to clear your character, vindicate your innocence, by proving to the police that they are wrong, that the guilt rests with their own witnesses, the Marshalls.
“I thank you, Epstein, for telling me this. I am glad to realize just what my status is. But let me cherish no misconception. Is this theory of the police—is it held by others?”
“To be frank, I am afraid it is. The newspapers took it up and—and I’m afraid it s the opinion of the public generally.”
“Then the verdict did not signify?”
“Well, at least not so far as public opinion is concerned.”
“So that I am to rest under this stigma all my life?”
“Why, no—not if you choose to exonerate yourself, as I have indicated.”
“Oh, I don’t care about that. I don’t care to exonerate myself. What difference would it make? Would it make the fact that she is lost to me forever one shade less true? Only, it is well that I should have a clear understanding of my position, and I thank you for giving it to me.”
“You don’t mean to say that you are going to drop the case there?” Epstein demanded. “I assure you, I never should have opened my mouth about it, had I foreseen this.”
“Don’t reproach yourself. You have simply done your duty. It was my right to hear this from you.—Yes, of course I shall drop the case. Good-by.”
“You will think better of it; you will reconsider it; you will come back to-morrow in a wiser frame of mind. Good-by.”
As I reentered my lodging-house the landlady met me; thrust an envelope into my hand; and vanished.
I was surprised to see that the envelope was addressed to “E. Neuman, Esquire.” It will be remembered that I had introduced myself as Mr. Lexow. I tore it open. It inclosed a memorandum of my arrears of rent and a notice to quit, the latter couched thus: “Mr. Neuman’s real name having been learned during his sickness, please move out as soon as you have paid up.”
I caught sight of myself in the glass. “So,” I said, “you are the person whom people suspect as a murderer! and it is thus that you are to be regarded all the rest of your life as one touched with the plague.”
I counted my ready money and paid the landlady her due.
“I am very sorry,” she began, “but the reputation of my house—but the other lodgers—but—”
“You needn’t apologize,” I interposed, and left the house.
It occurred to me that it would be necessary to find work whereby to earn my livelihood. I had quite forgotten that I was poor. What should I do?
The notion of giving music lessons again I could not entertain. Music had become hateful to me. I could not touch my violin. I could not even unlock the case and look at the instrument. It was too closely associated with the cause of my sorrow. The mere memory of a strain of music, drifting through my mind, was enough to cut my heart like a knife. Music was out of the question.
I had had a little money in the Savings Bank. With this sum I had intended to furnish the rooms which she and I were to have occupied! Now it was all spent; three-quarters swallowed up by the expenses of my trial, the residue by the expenses of my illness and the landlady’s score for rent. I opened my purse. I had less than a dollar left. So it behooved me to lose no time. I must find a means of support at once.
But music apart, what remained?—My wits were sluggish. Revolving the problem over and over as I walked along, they could arrive at no solution.
We were in December. The day was bitter cold. I had not proceeded a great distance before the cold began to tell upon me. “I must step in somewhere and warm myself,” I said. I was still feeble. I could not endure the stress of the weather as I might have done formerly. I made for the first shop I saw.
It was a wine-shop, kept by a German, as the name above the door denoted. I took a table near the stove and asked for a glass of wine. As my senses thawed, I became aware that a quarrel was going on in the room—angry voices penetrated my hearing.
The proprietor, a fat man in his shirt-sleeves, stood behind the bar. His face was very red! In his native tongue loudly and volubly he was berating one of his assistants—a waiter with a scared face.
“Go, go at once. You are a rascal, a good-for-naught,” he was saying; “here is your money. Clear out, before I hurt you.”
The culprit was nervously untying his apron strings. “Yes, sir, at once, at once,” he stammered. In the end he put on his hat and accomplished a frightened exit. Hisconfrereswatched his decapitation with repressed sympathy.
After he had gone, the proprietor’s wrath began perceptibly to mitigate. He settled down in his chair. The tint of his skin gradually cooled. He lighted a cigar. He picked up a newspaper.
I had taken in these various proceedings mechanically, without bestowing upon them any special attention. But now an idea, prompted by them, began to fructify. By and by I approached the counter and ventured a timid, “I beg your pardon.”
The proprietor glanced up.
“I beg your pardon,” I continued in German, “but you have discharged a waiter!”
“Well?” he responded.
“Well, you will probably need somebody to take his place?”
“Well? What of it?”
“I—I—that is, if you think I would do, I should like the employment.”
The proprietor looked thoughtful. He scratched his chin, puffed vigorously at his cigar, and asked my name. He shook his head when I confessed that I had had no experience of the business; but seemed impressed by my remark that on that account I would be willing to serve for smaller wages. He mentioned a stipend. It was ridiculously slender; but what cared I? It would keep body and soul together. I desired nothing more.
“What references can you give?” he inquired.
I mentioned Epstein.
“All right,” he said. “You can go to work at once. To-morrow I will look up your reference. If it be satisfactory, I will keep you.”
TheOberkellnerprovided me with an apron and a short alpaca jacket; and in this garb Ernest Neuman, musician, merged his identity, as he supposed for good and all, into that of Ernest Lexow, waiter.