He put his stick in a corner, and drawing his flowered dressing-gown close about his loins, paced up and down the room.
Boleslav cast about for words. He felt like a criminal in the presence of this man, whose speech was like molten bra.s.s. Of a truth it was no easy matter, this taking the guilt of another on to one"s own guiltless shoulders.
"_Herr Pastor_," he began, stammering, "can"t you forget for a moment that I bear the name of Schranden?"
The old man laughed bitterly. "That"s asking a little too much," he murmured; "a little too much."
"Regard me simply in the light of a son who wishes to bury his father, and who is prevented from fulfilling that most sacred duty by the wickedness and malice of the _canaille_."
For answer the old parson contracted his s.h.a.ggy brows without speaking.
"I appeal to you as a priest of the Christian Church. Will you suffer such a scandal in your parish?"
"Such a thing cannot happen in my parish," the old man declared.
"Wherever it is my duty to lead souls to G.o.d, every one must be granted a decent burial."
"And yet they dare----"
"Stop! Whose burial is in question!"
"My father"s."
"The Freiherr Eberhard von Schranden?"
"Yes."
"That man has been dead for seven years."
"_Herr Pastor_!"
"For seven years he lived ostracised from the society of his fellow-creatures. Seven years he practically rotted in the earth.
Therefore, don"t trouble me about him further."
"_Herr Pastor_, I was once your pupil. From your lips I first learnt the name of G.o.d. I always thought you a brave, upright man. I retract that opinion now; for what you have just been saying are lying, cowardly quibbles."
The old man drew himself up. His beard worked; his nostrils expanded.
With lurid eyes he came nearer to Boleslav.
"My son," he said, "do I look like a man who would countenance a lie?"
Boleslav maintained his defiant att.i.tude. But, much as he struggled against it, he felt the old, long-forgotten sentiment of respect for the schoolmaster awaking in him once more.
"My son," went on the old man, "a word from me, and the rabble that waits for you on the other side of that hedge would lynch you, but, as I said before, for the sake of the cap you wear, I will be merciful. If you like, I can prove that what I said just now is no lie."
He went to a cupboard, where stood a long line of ragged folios, containing church and parish doc.u.ments, took out a volume, and, opening it, pointed to a page dated 1807.
"Here, my son, read this."
And Boleslav read--
"On March 5th, died Hans Eberhard von Schranden. _Ex memoria hominum exstinguatur_."
Beneath were three crosses.
"That is a forgery!" exclaimed Boleslav.
"Yes, my son," the old man answered solemnly, "that is a palpable, shameless forgery; a stain on my office; and if you choose to report it to the magistrates, I shall be suspended and end my days in prison. Do exactly as you think fit. My fate lies in your hands."
A shudder of mingled horror and reverence pa.s.sed through Boleslav. He had himself experienced too often the wild _elan_ and reckless delight of making sacrifices for the love of his country, not to understand what impulse had driven the old clergyman to this insane confession.
"With those crosses," he continued, "I buried the man seven years ago--the man who, in spite of his cruelty and ungovernable pa.s.sions, had till then been my friend. From that day, whoever dared to breathe so much as his name in my house was sent out of it. Then came that night of arson, when these walls were illumined by the reflection of the burning Castle. I jumped out of my bed, and, throwing myself on my knees, prayed G.o.d to forgive the incendiaries, for it began to burn at all four corners at once, a sure proof that the fire was not an accident. Now, I thought, not only the deed, but the scene of it, will be erased from men"s minds. I didn"t concern myself in the least about the spectre that was doomed to haunt the ruins of Castle Schranden. And now you come, my son, and tell me that that spectre was no spectre, but a living creature, who only a few days ago gave up the ghost, and now awaits interment. Well, I forbid it Christian burial, on the strength of this register. I never bury any one twice. Report me, and--and I shall be tried for my offence. But you know I am prepared. Do as you like. Bury the corpse with all the honours you consider due to it; have a procession grander and more imposing than an emperor"s, but kindly leave me out of the show."
He settled himself in his green-cushioned armchair, supported his face with his wrinkled, muscular hands, and stared vacantly at the open register. There was nothing to hope from this iron-willed man of G.o.d.
It would be madness to keep up any illusion on the subject, and that other illusion, that the loved one might still be won on earth after long waiting and renunciation, must be abandoned too. All the shy dreams and hopes that he had yet dared to cherish in his embittered heart now seemed finally wrecked.
"So this is the divine grace, the forgiveness of sins, you preach!" he cried, tears of wrath filling his eyes.
The old man rose slowly and let his hand fall heavily on Boleslav"s shoulder.
"Because of your cap, my son, I will reason with you, although the sight of you is hateful to me. Listen! It is a year and a half now since there came here from Russia a rabble of ragged French beggars, starving and frost-bitten. The Schrandeners would have felled them to the earth with their scythes and pitchforks, and perhaps would have had right on their side, for they were mere carrion-serfs in the pay of Napoleon. But I opened the church door to them that they might take refuge in the shelter of G.o.d"s altar. I kindled a fire for them on the flagstones, and had a hot supper cooked for them and gave them straw to lie on. I told the Schrandeners that, though they were enemies, they were human beings like themselves, bearing the cross of human suffering as the Saviour once bore it on His shoulders. I told them to go home and pray that G.o.d might spare them as they had spared those miserable Frenchmen. So you see I can be pitiful and show mercy.... To return to the subject of the funeral. I have never refused any sinner his lawful resting-place. If I could have my will, even suicides should not be excluded from the churchyard. That those who have been unhappy in their lifetime should be comfortable in death has always been my principle.
And if the body of a man who had murdered his mother was brought here from the scaffold, I would go to his graveside in full canonicals and pray the King of kings "to forgive him, for he knew not what he did."
Yes, I"ll extend mercy to all, only not to your father. For he who sins against his country outrages every law human and divine; he disgraces the mother who bore him and the children he propagates. Such a one is a social outcast. He is like the leper who brings death and corruption with him wherever he goes, or a mad dog who spurts poison from his jaw on every living thing that comes in his way. And do you realise the extent of your father"s guilt, the mischief it has worked? It is not so much the lives of those two or three hundred Pomeranian youths whose bones lie buried there on the common that are to be reckoned against him. They would probably have met death somewhere, later. The gra.s.s grows high on their graves; even their parents have long since become reconciled to their loss. No, it is not on their account that I bear the grudge. But----come here, my son----"
He clutched Boleslav"s hand and led him to the window.
"Look out--what do you see on the other side of the garden hedge? A gang of turbulent wild animals thirsting for the blood of their prey, and yet too craven-hearted to spring on it, even when they have it within their reach. And look at me, my son. I am here, appointed by G.o.d as His minister to preach the gospel of love, and I preach hate. Words sweet as honey should flow from my lips, and instead, scorpions spring out of my mouth directly I open it, for I too am become a wild animal.
And this is what your father"s crime has made us. There is no goodness left in Schranden; the venom of your father"s hate ferments in us, is inoculated into our children and children"s children. So will it ever be till the Lord not only wipes the scene of infamy, but your accursed name with it, from off the face of His blessed earth. Amen!"
He stood with raised hands like some anathematising prophet of the Old Testament, and foam rested in the corners of his mouth.
Boleslav, half-dazed and horror-stricken, turned in silence to the door. The old man did not call him back. As he crossed the hall he started violently, for he was sure he heard the rustle of a woman"s dress behind a half-opened door. But not for the world would he meet her now. Not in this dark hour, when he was completely overpowered by a sense of having had the remnants of all that was good and n.o.ble in him shattered and laid in the dust.
"If _they_ are become wild beasts, I can become one too," he thought, as he thrust his hand in the breast-pocket that held his pistols, and walked towards the Schrandeners. The old pastor was right. Though they danced, whooped, and jostled around him with the l.u.s.t of murder gleaming in their savage eyes, they dared not lay a finger on him.
When he reached the drawbridge, behind the palings of which a girl"s figure crouched, awaiting his return, he was full of a desperate resolve. His father should be carried to his last resting-place by an armed force.
"Are you ready to earn another large sum of money?" he asked the girl, who flushed and stood up quickly at his approach.
She looked at him for a moment in reflective surprise, and then, as his meaning dawned on her, she shook her head violently.
"Why not?" he demanded.
She began to tremble. "What"s the good of money to me, _Herr_?" she asked, in subdued, bitter tones. "They would only take it away from me."
"Who?"