CAN A LIFE HIDE ITSELF?


I had been reading, as is my wont from time to time, one of the
many volumes of "The New Pitaval," that singular record of human
crime and human cunning, and also of the inevitable fatality which,
in every case, leaves a gate open for detection. Were it not for
the latter fact, indeed, one would turn with loathing from such
endless chronicles of wickedness. Yet these may be safely
contemplated, when one has discovered the incredible fatuity of
crime, the certain weak mesh in a network of devilish texture; or
is it rather the agency of a power outside of man, a subtile
protecting principle, which allows the operation of the evil
element only that the latter may finally betray itself? Whatever
explanation we may choose, the fact is there, like a tonic medicine
distilled from poisonous plants, to brace our faith in the
ascendancy of Good in the government of the world.

Laying aside the book, I fell into a speculation concerning the
mixture of the two elements in man's nature. The life of an
individual is usually, it seemed to me, a series of
RESULTS, the processes leading to which are not often visible,
or observed when they are so. Each act is the precipitation of a
number of mixed influences, more or less unconsciously felt; the
qualities of good and evil are so blended therein that they defy
the keenest moral analysis; and how shall we, then, pretend to
judge of any one? Perhaps the surest indication of evil (I further
reflected) is that it always tries to conceal itself, and the
strongest incitement to good is that evil cannot be concealed. The
crime, or the vice, or even the self-acknowledged weakness, becomes
a part of the individual consciousness; it cannot be forgotten or
outgrown. It follows a life through all experiences and to the
uttermost ends of the earth, pressing towards the light with a
terrible, demoniac power. There are noteless lives, of course--
lives that accept obscurity, mechanically run their narrow round of
circumstance, and are lost; but when a life endeavors to lose
itself,--to hide some conscious guilt or failure,--can it succeed?
Is it not thereby lifted above the level of common experience,
compelling attention to itself by the very endeavor to escape it?

I turned these questions over in my mind, without approaching, or
indeed expecting, any solution,--since I knew, from habit, the
labyrinths into which they would certainly lead me,--when a visitor
was announced. It was one of the directors of our county
almshouse, who came on an errand to which he attached no great
importance. I owed the visit, apparently, to the circumstance that
my home lay in his way, and he could at once relieve his
conscience of a very trifling pressure and his pocket of a small
package, by calling upon me. His story was told in a few words;
the package was placed upon my table, and I was again left to my
meditations.

Two or three days before, a man who had the appearance of a "tramp"
had been observed by the people of a small village in the
neighborhood. He stopped and looked at the houses in a vacant way,
walked back and forth once or twice as if uncertain which of the
cross-roads to take, and presently went on without begging or even
speaking to any one. Towards sunset a farmer, on his way to the
village store, found him sitting at the roadside, his head resting
against a fence-post. The man's face was so worn and exhausted
that the farmer kindly stopped and addressed him; but he gave no
other reply than a shake of the head.

The farmer thereupon lifted him into his light country-wagon, the
man offering no resistance, and drove to the tavern, where, his
exhaustion being so evident, a glass of whiskey was administered to
him. He afterwards spoke a few words in German, which no one
understood. At the almshouse, to which he was transported the same
evening, he refused to answer the customary questions, although he
appeared to understand them. The physician was obliged to use a
slight degree of force in administering nourishment and medicine,
but neither was of any avail. The man died within twenty-four
hours after being received. His pockets were empty, but two small
leathern wallets were found under his pillow; and these formed
the package which the director left in my charge. They were full
of papers in a foreign language, he said, and he supposed I might
be able to ascertain the stranger's name and home from them.

I took up the wallets, which were worn and greasy from long
service, opened them, and saw that they were filled with scraps,
fragments, and folded pieces of paper, nearly every one of which
had been carried for a long time loose in the pocket. Some were
written in pen and ink, and some in pencil, but all were equally
brown, worn, and unsavory in appearance. In turning them over,
however, my eye was caught by some slips in the Russian character,
and three or four notes in French; the rest were German. I laid
aside "Pitaval" at once, emptied all the leathern pockets
carefully, and set about examining the pile of material.

I first ran rapidly through the papers to ascertain the dead man's
name, but it was nowhere to be found. There were half a dozen
letters, written on sheets folded and addressed in the fashion
which prevailed before envelopes were invented; but the name was
cut out of the address in every case. There was an official permit
to embark on board a Bremen steamer, mutilated in the same way;
there was a card photograph, from which the face had been scratched
by a penknife. There were Latin sentences; accounts of expenses;
a list of New York addresses, covering eight pages; and a number of
notes, written either in Warsaw or Breslau. A more incongruous
collection I never saw, and I am sure that had it not been for
the train of thought I was pursuing when the director called
upon me, I should have returned the papers to him without troubling
my head with any attempt to unravel the man's story.

The evidence, however, that he had endeavored to hide his life, had
been revealed by my first superficial examination; and here, I
reflected, was a singular opportunity to test both his degree of
success and my own power of constructing a coherent history out of
the detached fragments. Unpromising as is the matter, said I, let
me see whether he can conceal his secret from even such unpractised
eyes as mine.

I went through the papers again, read each one rapidly, and
arranged them in separate files, according to the character of
their contents. Then I rearranged these latter in the order of
time, so far as it was indicated; and afterwards commenced the work
of picking out and threading together whatever facts might be
noted. The first thing I ascertained, or rather conjectured, was
that the man's life might be divided into three very distinct
phases, the first ending in Breslau, the second in Poland, and the
third and final one in America. Thereupon I once again rearranged
the material, and attacked that which related to the first phase.

It consisted of the following papers: Three letters, in a female
hand, commencing "My dear brother," and terminating with "Thy
loving sister, Elise;" part of a diploma from a gymnasium, or high
school, certifying that [here the name was cut out] had
successfully passed his examination, and was competent to
teach,--and here again, whether by accident or design, the paper
was torn off; a note, apparently to a jeweller, ordering a certain
gold ring to be delivered to "Otto," and signed " B. V. H.;" a
receipt from the package-post for a box forwarded to Warsaw, to the
address of Count Ladislas Kasincsky; and finally a washing-list, at
the bottom of which was written, in pencil, in a trembling hand:
"May God protect thee! But do not stay away so very long."

In the second collection, relating to Poland, I found the
following: Six orders in Russian and three in French, requesting
somebody to send by "Jean" sums of money, varying from two to eight
hundred rubles. These orders were in the same hand, and all signed
"Y." A charming letter in French, addressed "cher ami," and
declining, in the most delicate and tender way, an offer of
marriage made to the sister of the writer, of whose signature only
"Amelie de" remained, the family name having been torn off. A few
memoranda of expenses, one of which was curious: "Dinner with
Jean, 58 rubles;" and immediately after it: "Doctor, 10 rubles."
There were, moreover, a leaf torn out of a journal, and half of a
note which had been torn down the middle, both implicating "Jean"
in some way with the fortunes of the dead man.

The papers belonging to the American phase, so far as they were to
be identified by dates, or by some internal evidence, were fewer,
but even more enigmatical in character. The principal one was a
list of addresses in New York, divided into sections, the street
boundaries of which were given. There were no names, but some
of the addresses were marked +, and others ?, and a few had been
crossed out with a pencil. Then there were some leaves of a
journal of diet and bodily symptoms, of a very singular character;
three fragments of drafts of letters, in pencil, one of them
commencing, "Dog and villain!" and a single note of "Began work,
September 10th, 1865." This was about a year before his death.

The date of the diploma given by the gymnasium at Breslau was June
27, 1855, and the first date in Poland was May 3, 1861. Belonging
to the time between these two periods there were only the order for
the ring (1858), and a little memorandum in pencil, dated "Posen,
Dec., 1859." The last date in Poland was March 18, 1863, and the
permit to embark at Bremen was dated in October of that year.
Here, at least, was a slight chronological framework. The
physician who attended the county almshouse had estimated the man's
age at thirty, which, supposing him to have been nineteen at the
time of receiving the diploma, confirmed the dates to that extent.

I assumed, at the start, that the name which had been so carefully
cut out of all the documents was the man's own. The "Elise" of the
letters was therefore his sister. The first two letters related
merely to "mother's health," and similar details, from which it was
impossible to extract any thing, except that the sister was in some
kind of service. The second letter closed with: "I have enough
work to do, but I keep well. Forget thy disappointment so far
as _I_ am concerned, for I never expected any thing; I don't know
why, but I never did."

Here was a disappointment, at least, to begin with. I made a note
of it opposite the date, on my blank programme, and took up the
next letter. It was written in November, 1861, and contained a
passage which keenly excited my curiosity. It ran thus: "Do,
pray, be more careful of thy money. It may be all as thou sayest,
and inevitable, but I dare not mention the thing to mother, and
five thalers is all I can spare out of my own wages. As for thy
other request, I have granted it, as thou seest, but it makes me a
little anxious. What is the joke? And how can it serve thee?
That is what I do not understand, and I have plagued myself not a
little to guess."

Among the Polish memoranda was this: "Sept. 1 to Dec. 1, 200
rubles," which I assumed to represent a salary. This would give
him eight hundred a year, at least twelve times the amount which
his sister--who must either have been cook or housekeeper, since
she spoke of going to market for the family--could have received.
His application to her for money, and the manner of her reference
to it, indicated some imprudence or irregularity on his part. What
the "other request" was, I could not guess; but as I was turning
and twisting the worn leaf in some perplexity, I made a sudden
discovery. One side of the bottom edge had been very slightly
doubled over in folding, and as I smoothed it out, I noticed some
diminutive letters in the crease. The paper had been worn
nearly through, but I made out the words: "Write very soon,
dear Otto!"

This was the name in the order for the gold ring, signed "B. V.
H."--a link, indeed, but a fresh puzzle. Knowing the stubborn
prejudices of caste in Germany, and above all in Eastern Prussia
and Silesia, I should have been compelled to accept "Otto," whose
sister was in service, as himself the servant of "B. V. H.," but
for the tenderly respectful letter of "Amelie de----," declining
the marriage offer for her sister. I re-read this letter very
carefully, to determine whether it was really intended for "Otto."
It ran thus:


"DEAR FRIEND,--I will not say that your letter was entirely
unexpected, either to Helmine or myself. I should, perhaps, have
less faith in the sincerity of your attachment if you had not
already involuntarily betrayed it. When I say that although I
detected the inclination of your heart some weeks ago, and that I
also saw it was becoming evident to my sister, yet I refrained from
mentioning the subject at all until she came to me last evening
with your letter in her hand,--when I say this, you will understand
that I have acted towards you with the respect and sympathy which
I profoundly feel. Helmine fully shares this feeling, and her poor
heart is too painfully moved to allow her to reply. Do I not say,
in saying this, what her reply must be? But, though her heart
cannot respond to your love, she hopes you will always believe her
a friend to whom your proffered devotion was an honor, and will
be--if you will subdue it to her deserts--a grateful thing to
remember. We shall remain in Warsaw a fortnight longer, as I think
yourself will agree that it is better we should not
immediately return to the castle. Jean, who must carry a fresh
order already, will bring you this, and we hope to have good news
of Henri. I send back the papers, which were unnecessary; we never
doubted you, and we shall of course keep your secret so long as you
choose to wear it.
"AMELIE DE----"


The more light I seemed to obtain, the more inexplicable the
circumstances became. The diploma and the note of salary were
grounds for supposing that "Otto" occupied the position of tutor in
a noble Polish family. There was the receipt for a box addressed
to Count Ladislas Kasincsky, and I temporarily added his family
name to the writer of the French letter, assuming her to be his
wife. "Jean" appeared to be a servant, and "Henri" I set down as
the son whom Otto was instructing in the castle or family seat in
the country, while the parents were in warsaw. Plausible, so far;
but the letter was not such a one as a countess would have written
to her son's tutor, under similar circumstances. It was addressed
to a social equal, apparently to a man younger than herself, and
for whom--supposing him to have been a tutor, secretary, or
something of the kind--she must have felt a special sympathy. Her
mention of "the papers" and "your secret" must refer to
circumstances which would explain the mystery. "So long as you
choose to WEAR it," she had written: then it was certainly a
secret connected with his personal history.

Further, it appeared that "Jean" was sent to him with "an
order." What could this be, but one of the nine orders for money
which lay before my eyes? I examined the dates of the latter, and
lo! there was one written upon the same day as the lady's letter.
The sums drawn by these orders amounted in all to four thousand two
hundred rubles. But how should a tutor or secretary be in
possession of his employer's money? Still, this might be accounted
for; it would imply great trust on the part of the latter, but no
more than one man frequently reposes in another. Yet, if it were
so, one of the memoranda confronted me with a conflicting fact:
"Dinner with Jean, 58 rubles." The unusual amount--nearly fifty
dollars--indicated an act of the most reckless dissipation, and in
company with a servant, if "Jean," as I could scarcely doubt, acted
in that character. I finally decided to assume both these
conjectures as true, and apply them to the remaining testimony.

I first took up the leaf which had been torn out of a small journal
or pocket note-book, as was manifested by the red edge on three
sides. It was scribbled over with brief notes in pencil, written
at different times. Many of them were merely mnemonic signs; but
the recurrence of the letters J and Y seemed to point to
transactions with "Jean," and the drawer of the various sums of
money. The letter Y reminded me that I had been too hasty in
giving the name of Kasincsky to the noble family; indeed, the name
upon the post-office receipt might have no connection with the
matter I was trying to investigate.

Suddenly I noticed a "Ky" among the mnemonic signs, and the
suspicion flashed across my mind that Count Kasincsky had signed
the order with the last letter of his family name! To assume this,
however, suggested a secret reason for doing so; and I began to
think that I had already secrets enough on hand.

The leaf was much rubbed and worn, and it was not without
considerable trouble that I deciphered the following (omitting the
unintelligible signs):

"Oct. 30 (Nov. 12)--talk with Y; 20--Jean. Consider.

"Nov. 15--with J--H--hope.

"Dec. 1--Told the C. No knowledge of S--therefore safe. Uncertain
of---- C to Warsaw. Met J. as agreed. Further and further.

"Dec. 27--All for naught! All for naught!

"Jan. 19, '63--Sick. What is to be the end? Threats. No tidings
of Y. Walked the streets all day. At night as usual.

"March 1--News. The C. and H. left yesterday. No more to hope.
Let it come, then!"


These broken words warmed my imagination powerfully. Looking at
them in the light of my conjecture, I was satisfied that "Otto" was
involved in some crime, or dangerous secret, of which "Jean" was
either the instigator or the accomplice. "Y.," or Count
Kasincsky,--and I was more than ever inclined to connect the two,--
-also had his mystery, which might, or might not, be identical with
the first. By comparing dates, I found that the entry made
December 27 was three days later than the date of the letter of
"Amelie de----"; and the exclamation "All for naught!"
certainly referred to the disappointment it contained. I now
guessed the "H." in the second entry to mean "Helmine." The two
last suggested a removal to Warsaw from the country. Here was a
little more ground to stand on; but how should I ever get at the
secret?

I took up the torn half of a note, which, after the first
inspection, I had laid aside as a hopeless puzzle. A closer
examination revealed several things which failed to impress me at
the outset. It was written in a strong and rather awkward
masculine hand; several words were underscored, two misspelled, and
I felt--I scarcely knew why--that it was written in a spirit of
mingled contempt and defiance. Let me give the fragment just as it
lay before me:


"ARON!

It is quite time
be done. Who knows
is not his home by this
CONCERN FOR THE
that they are well off,
sian officers are
cide at once, my
risau, or I must
t TEN DAYS DELAY
money can be divi-
tier, and you may
ever you please.
untess goes, and she
will know who you
time, unless you carry
friend or not
decide,
ann Helm."


Here, I felt sure, was the clue to much of the mystery. The first
thing that struck me was the appearance of a new name. I looked at
it again, ran through in my mind all possible German names, and
found that it could only be "Johann,"--and in the same instant I
recalled the frequent habit of the Prussian and Polish nobility of
calling their German valets by French names. This, then, was
"Jean!" The address was certainly "Baron," and why thrice
underscored, unless in contemptuous satire? Light began to break
upon the matter at last. "Otto" had been playing the part, perhaps
assuming the name, of a nobleman, seduced to the deception by his
passion for the Countess' sister, Helmine. This explained the
reference to "the papers," and "the secret," and would account for
the respectful and sympathetic tone of the Countess' letter. But
behind this there was certainly another secret, in which "Y."
(whoever he might be) was concerned, and which related to money.
The close of the note, which I filled out to read, "Your friend or
not, as you may decide," conveyed a threat, and, to judge from the
halves of lines immediately preceding it, the threat referred to
the money, as well as to the betrayal of an assumed character.

Here, just as the story began to appear in faint outline, my
discoveries stopped for a while. I ascertained the breadth of
the original note by a part of the middle-crease which remained,
filled out the torn part with blank paper, completed the divided
words in the same character of manuscript) and endeavored to guess
the remainder, but no clairvoyant power of divination came to my
aid. I turned over the letters again, remarking the neatness with
which the addresses had been cut off, and wondering why the man had
not destroyed the letters and other memoranda entirely, if he
wished to hide a possible crime. The fact that they were not
destroyed showed the hold which his past life had had upon him even
to his dying hour. Weak and vain, as I had already suspected him
to be,--wanting in all manly fibre, and of the very material which
a keen, energetic villain would mould to his needs,--I felt that
his love for his sister and for "Helmine," and other associations
connected with his life in Germany and Poland, had made him cling
to these worn records.

I know not what gave me the suspicion that he had not even found
the heart to destroy the exscinded names; perhaps the care with
which they had been removed; perhaps, in two instances, the
circumstance of their taking words out of the body of the letters
with them. But the suspicion came, and led to a re-examination of
the leathern wallets. I could scarcely believe my eyes, when
feeling something rustle faintly as I pressed the thin lining of an
inner pocket, I drew forth three or four small pellets of paper,
and unrolling them, found the lost addresses! I fitted them to the
vacant places, and found that the first letters of the sister in
Breslau had been forwarded to "Otto Lindenschmidt," while the
letter to Poland was addressed "Otto von Herisau."

I warmed with this success, which exactly tallied with the previous
discoveries, and returned again to the Polish memoranda The words
"[Rus]sian officers" in "Jean's" note led me to notice that it had
been written towards the close of the last insurrection in Poland--
a circumstance which I immediately coupled with some things in the
note and on the leaf of the journal. "No tidings of Y" might
indicate that Count Kasincsky had been concerned in the rebellion,
and had fled, or been taken prisoner. Had he left a large amount
of funds in the hands of the supposed Otto von Herisau, which were
drawn from time to time by orders, the form of which had been
previously agreed upon? Then, when he had disappeared, might it
not have been the remaining funds which Jean urged Otto to divide
with him, while the latter, misled and entangled in deception
rather than naturally dishonest, held back from such a step? I
could hardly doubt so much, and it now required but a slight effort
of the imagination to complete the torn note.

The next letter of the sister was addressed to Bremen. After
having established so many particulars, I found it easily
intelligible. "I have done what I can," she wrote. "I put it in
this letter; it is all I have. But do not ask me for money again;
mother is ailing most of the time, and I have not yet dared to tell
her all. I shall suffer great anxiety until I hear that the vessel
has sailed. My mistress is very good; she has given me an advance
on my wages, or I could not have sent thee any thing. Mother
thinks thou art still in Leipzig: why didst thou stay there so
long? but no difference; thy money would have gone anyhow."

It was nevertheless singular that Otto should be without money, so
soon after the appropriation of Count Kasincsky's funds. If the
"20" in the first memorandum on the leaf meant "twenty thousand
rubles," as I conjectured, and but four thousand two hundred were
drawn by the Count previous to his flight or imprisonment, Otto's
half of the remainder would amount to nearly eight thousand rubles;
and it was, therefore, not easy to account for his delay in
Leipzig, and his destitute condition.

Before examining the fragments relating to the American phase of
his life,--which illustrated his previous history only by
occasional revelations of his moods and feelings,--I made one more
effort to guess the cause of his having assumed the name of "Von
Herisau." The initials signed to the order for the ring ("B. V.
H.") certainly stood for the same family name; and the possession
of papers belonging to one of the family was an additional evidence
that Otto had either been in the service of, or was related to,
some Von Herisau. Perhaps a sentence in one of the sister's
letters--"Forget thy disappointment so far as _I_ am concerned, for
I never expected any thing"--referred to something of the kind. On
the whole, service seemed more likely than kinship; but in that
case the papers must have been stolen.

I had endeavored, from the start, to keep my sympathies out of
the investigation, lest they should lead me to misinterpret the
broken evidence, and thus defeat my object. It must have been the
Countess' letter, and the brief, almost stenographic, signs of
anxiety and unhappiness on the leaf of the journal, that first
beguiled me into a commiseration, which the simple devotion and
self-sacrifice of the poor, toiling sister failed to neutralize.
However, I detected the feeling at this stage of the examination,
and turned to the American records, in order to get rid of it.

The principal paper was the list of addresses of which I have
spoken. I looked over it in vain, to find some indication of its
purpose; yet it had been carefully made out and much used. There
was no name of a person upon it,--only numbers and streets, one
hundred and thirty-eight in all. Finally, I took these, one by
one, to ascertain if any of the houses were known to me, and found
three, out of the whole number, to be the residences of persons
whom I knew. One was a German gentleman, and the other two were
Americans who had visited Germany. The riddle was read! During a
former residence in New York, I had for a time been quite overrun
by destitute Germans,--men, apparently, of some culture, who
represented themselves as theological students, political refugees,
or unfortunate clerks and secretaries,--soliciting assistance. I
found that, when I gave to one, a dozen others came within the next
fortnight; when I refused, the persecution ceased for about the
same length of time. I became convinced, at last, that these
persons were members of an organized society of beggars, and
the result proved it; for when I made it an inviolable rule to give
to no one who could not bring me an indorsement of his need by some
person whom I knew, the annoyance ceased altogether.

The meaning of the list of addresses was now plain. My nascent
commiseration for the man was not only checked, but I was in danger
of changing my role from that of culprit's counsel to that of
prosecuting attorney.

When I took up again the fragment of the first draught of a letter
commencing, "Dog and villain!" and applied it to the words "Jean"
or "Johann Helm," the few lines which could be deciphered became
full of meaning. "Don't think," it began, "that I have forgotten
you, or the trick you played me! If I was drunk or drugged the
last night, I know how it happened, for all that. I left, but I
shall go back. And if you make use of "(here some words were
entirely obliterated) . . . . "is true. He gave me the ring, and
meant" . . . . This was all I could make out. The other papers
showed only scattered memoranda, of money, or appointments, or
addresses, with the exception of the diary in pencil.

I read the letter attentively, and at first with very little idea
of its meaning. Many of the words were abbreviated, and there were
some arbitrary signs. It ran over a period of about four months,
terminating six weeks before the man's death. He had been
wandering about the country during this period, sleeping in woods
and barns, and living principally upon milk. The condition of his
pulse and other physical functions was scrupulously set down,
with an occasional remark of "good" or "bad." The conclusion was
at last forced upon me that he had been endeavoring to commit
suicide by a slow course of starvation and exposure. Either as the
cause or the result of this attempt, I read, in the final notes,
signs of an aberration of mind. This also explained the singular
demeanor of the man when found, and his refusal to take medicine or
nourishment. He had selected a long way to accomplish his purpose,
but had reached the end at last.

The confused material had now taken shape; the dead man, despite
his will, had confessed to me his name and the chief events of his
life. It now remained--looking at each event as the result of a
long chain of causes--to deduce from them the elements of his
individual character, and then fill up the inevitable gaps in the
story from the probabilities of the operation of those elements.
This was not so much a mere venture as the reader may suppose,
because the two actions of the mind test each other. If they
cannot, thus working towards a point and back again, actually
discover what WAS, they may at least fix upon a very probable
MIGHT HAVE BEEN.

A person accustomed to detective work would have obtained my little
stock of facts with much less trouble, and would, almost
instinctively, have filled the blanks as he went along. Being an
apprentice in such matters, I had handled the materials awkwardly.
I will not here retrace my own mental zigzags between character and
act, but simply repeat the story as I finally settled and accepted
it.

Otto Lindenschmidt was the child of poor parents in or near
Breslau. His father died when he was young; his mother earned a
scanty subsistence as a washerwoman; his sister went into service.
Being a bright, handsome boy, he attracted the attention of a Baron
von Herisau, an old, childless, eccentric gentleman, who took him
first as page or attendant, intending to make him a superior valet
de chambre. Gradually, however, the Baron fancied that he
detected in the boy a capacity for better things; his condescending
feeling of protection had grown into an attachment for the
handsome, amiable, grateful young fellow, and he placed him in the
gymnasium at Breslau, perhaps with the idea, now, of educating him
to be an intelligent companion.

The boy and his humble relatives, dazzled by this opportunity,
began secretly to consider the favor as almost equivalent to his
adoption as a son. (The Baron had once been married, but his wife
and only child had long been dead.) The old man, of course, came
to look upon the growing intelligence of the youth as his own work:
vanity and affection became inextricably blended in his heart, and
when the cursus was over, he took him home as the companion of
his lonely life. After two or three years, during which the young
man was acquiring habits of idleness and indulgence, supposing his
future secure, the Baron died,--perhaps too suddenly to make full
provision for him, perhaps after having kept up the appearance of
wealth on a life-annuity, but, in any case, leaving very little, if
any, property to Otto. In his disappointment, the latter
retained certain family papers which the Baron had intrusted to his
keeping. The ring was a gift, and he wore it in remembrance of his
benefactor.

Wandering about, Micawber-like, in hopes that something might turn
up, he reached Posen, and there either met or heard of the Polish
Count, Ladislas Kasincsky, who was seeking a tutor for his only
son. His accomplishments, and perhaps, also, a certain
aristocratic grace of manner unconsciously caught from the Baron
von Herisau, speedily won for him the favor of the Count and
Countess Kasincsky, and emboldened him to hope for the hand of the
Countess' sister, Helmine ----, to whom he was no doubt sincerely
attached. Here Johann Helm, or "Jean," a confidential servant of
the Count, who looked upon the new tutor as a rival, yet adroitly
flattered his vanity for the purpose of misleading and displacing
him, appears upon the stage. "Jean" first detected Otto's passion;
"Jean," at an epicurean dinner, wormed out of Otto the secret of
the Herisau documents, and perhaps suggested the part which the
latter afterwards played.

This "Jean" seemed to me to have been the evil agency in the
miserable history which followed. After Helmine's rejection of
Otto's suit, and the flight or captivity of Count Kasincsky,
leaving a large sum of money in Otto's hands, it would be easy for
"Jean," by mingled persuasions and threats, to move the latter to
flight, after dividing the money still remaining in his hands.
After the theft, and the partition, which took place beyond the
Polish frontier, "Jean" in turn, stole his accomplice's share,
together with the Von Herisau documents.

Exile and a year's experience of organized mendicancy did the rest.

Otto Lindenschmidt was one of those natures which possess no moral
elasticity--which have neither the power nor the comprehension of
atonement. The first real, unmitigated guilt--whether great or
small--breaks them down hopelessly. He expected no chance of self-
redemption, and he found none. His life in America was so utterly
dark and hopeless that the brightest moment in it must have been
that which showed him the approach of death.

My task was done. I had tracked this weak, vain, erring, hunted
soul to its last refuge, and the knowledge bequeathed to me but a
single duty. His sins were balanced by his temptations; his vanity
and weakness had revenged themselves; and there only remained to
tell the simple, faithful sister that her sacrifices were no longer
required. I burned the evidences of guilt, despair and suicide,
and sent the other papers, with a letter relating the time and
circumstances of Otto Lindenschmidt's death, to the civil
authorities of Breslau, requesting that they might be placed in the
hands of his sister Elise.

This, I supposed, was the end of the history, so far as my
connection with it was concerned. But one cannot track a secret
with impunity; the fatality connected with the act and the actor
clings even to the knowledge of the act. I had opened my door a
little, in order to look out upon the life of another, but in doing
so a ghost had entered in, and was not to be dislodged until
I had done its service.

In the summer of 1867 I was in Germany, and during a brief journey
of idlesse and enjoyment came to the lovely little watering-place
of Liebenstein, on the southern slope of the Thuringian Forest. I
had no expectation or even desire of making new acquaintances among
the gay company who took their afternoon coffee under the noble
linden trees on the terrace; but, within the first hour of my
after-dinner leisure, I was greeted by an old friend, an author,
from Coburg, and carried away, in my own despite, to a group of his
associates. My friend and his friends had already been at the
place a fortnight, and knew the very tint and texture of its
gossip. While I sipped my coffee, I listened to them with one ear,
and to Wagner's overture to "Lohengrin" with the other; and I
should soon have been wholly occupied with the fine orchestra had
I not been caught and startled by an unexpected name.

"Have you noticed," some one asked, "how much attention the Baron
von Herisau is paying her?"

I whirled round and exclaimed, in a breath, "The Baron von
Herisau!"

"Yes," said my friend; "do you know him?"

I was glad that three crashing, tremendous chords came from the
orchestra just then, giving me time to collect myself before I
replied: "I am not sure whether it is the same person: I knew a
Baron von Herisau long ago: how old is the gentleman here?"

"About thirty-five, I should think," my friend answered.

"Ah, then it can't be the same person," said I: "still, if he
should happen to pass near us, will you point him out to me?"

It was an hour later, and we were all hotly discussing the question
of Lessing's obligations to English literature, when one of the
gentlemen at the table said: "There goes the Baron von Herisau: is
it perhaps your friend, sir?"

I turned and saw a tall man, with prominent nose, opaque black
eyes, and black mustache, walking beside a pretty, insipid girl.
Behind the pair went an elderly couple, overdressed and snobbish in
appearance. A carriage, with servants in livery, waited in the
open space below the terrace, and having received the two couples,
whirled swiftly away towards Altenstein.

Had I been more of a philosopher I should have wasted no second
thought on the Baron von Herisau. But the Nemesis of the knowledge
which I had throttled poor Otto Lindenschmidt's ghost to obtain had
come upon me at last, and there was no rest for me until I had
discovered who and what was the Baron. The list of guests which
the landlord gave me whetted my curiosity to a painful degree; for
on it I found the entry: "Aug. 15.--Otto V. Herisau, Rentier,
East Prussia."

It was quite dark when the carriage returned. I watched the
company into the supper-room, and then, whisking in behind them,
secured a place at the nearest table. I had an hour of quiet,
stealthy observation before my Coburg friend discovered me, and by
that time I was glad of his company and had need of his confidence.
But, before making use of him in the second capacity, I desired to
make the acquaintance of the adjoining partie carree. He had
bowed to them familiarly in passing, and when the old gentleman
said, "Will you not join us, Herr ----?" I answered my friend's
interrogative glance with a decided affirmative, and we moved to
the other table.

My seat was beside the Baron von Herisau, with whom I exchanged the
usual commonplaces after an introduction. His manner was cold and
taciturn, I thought, and there was something forced in the smile
which accompanied his replies to the remarks of the coarse old
lady, who continually referred to the "Herr Baron" as authority
upon every possible subject. I noticed, however, that he cast a
sudden, sharp glance at me, when I was presented to the company as
an American.

The man's neighborhood disturbed me. I was obliged to let the
conversation run in the channels already selected, and stupid
enough I found them. I was considering whether I should not give
a signal to my friend and withdraw, when the Baron stretched his
hand across the table for a bottle of Affenthaler, and I caught
sight of a massive gold ring on his middle finger. Instantly I
remembered the ring which "B. V. H." had given to Otto
Lindenschmidt, and I said to myself, "That is it!" The inference
followed like lightning that it was "Johann Helm" who sat beside
me, and not a Baron von Herisau!


That evening my friend and I had a long, absorbing conversation in
my room. I told him the whole story, which came back vividly to
memory, and learned, in return, that the reputed Baron was supposed
to be wealthy, that the old gentleman was a Bremen merchant or
banker, known to be rich, that neither was considered by those who
had met them to be particularly intelligent or refined, and that
the wooing of the daughter had already become so marked as to be a
general subject of gossip. My friend was inclined to think my
conjecture correct, and willingly co-operated with me in a plan to
test the matter. We had no considerable sympathy with the snobbish
parents, whose servility to a title was so apparent; but the
daughter seemed to be an innocent and amiable creature, however
silly, and we determined to spare her the shame of an open scandal.

If our scheme should seem a little melodramatic, it must not be
forgotten that my friend was an author. The next morning, as the
Baron came up the terrace after his visit to the spring, I stepped
forward and greeted him politely, after which I said: "I see by
the strangers' list that you are from East Prussia, Baron; have you
ever been in Poland?" At that moment, a voice behind him called
out rather sharply, "Jean!" The Baron started, turned round and
then back to me, and all his art could not prevent the blood from
rushing to his face. I made, as if by accident, a gesture with my
hand, indicating success, and went a step further.

"Because," said I, "I am thinking of making a visit to Cracow
and Warsaw, and should be glad of any information--"

"Certainly!" he interrupted me, "and I should be very glad to give
it, if I had ever visited Poland."

"At least," I continued, "you can advise me upon one point; but
excuse me, shall we not sit down a moment yonder? As my question
relates to money, I should not wish to be overheard."

I pointed out a retired spot, just before reaching which we were
joined by my friend, who suddenly stepped out from behind a clump
of lilacs. The Baron and he saluted each other.

"Now," said I to the former, "I can ask your advice, Mr. Johann
Helm!"

He was not an adept, after all. His astonishment and confusion
were brief, to be sure, but they betrayed him so completely that
his after-impulse to assume a haughty, offensive air only made us
smile.

"If I had a message to you from Otto Lindenschmidt, what then?" I
asked.

He turned pale, and presently stammered out, "He--he is dead!"

"Now," said my friend, "it is quite time to drop the mask before
us. You see we know you, and we know your history. Not from Otto
Lindenschmidt alone; Count Ladislas Kasincsky--"

"What! Has he come back from Siberia?" exclaimed Johann Helm. His
face expressed abject terror; I think he would have fallen upon his
knees before us if he had not somehow felt, by a rascal's
instinct, that we had no personal wrongs to redress in unmasking
him.

Our object, however, was to ascertain through him the complete
facts of Otto Lindenschmidt's history, and then to banish him from
Liebenstein. We allowed him to suppose for awhile that we were
acting under the authority of persons concerned, in order to make
the best possible use of his demoralized mood, for we knew it would
not last long.

My guesses were very nearly correct. Otto Lindenschmidt had been
educated by an old Baron, Bernhard von Herisau, on account of his
resemblance in person to a dead son, whose name had also been Otto.

He could not have adopted the plebeian youth, at least to the
extent of giving him an old and haughty name, but this the latter
nevertheless expected, up to the time of the Baron's death. He had
inherited a little property from his benefactor, but soon ran
through it. "He was a light-headed fellow," said Johann Helm, "but
he knew how to get the confidence of the old Junkers. If he
hadn't been so cowardly and fidgety, he might have made himself a
career."

The Polish episode differed so little from my interpretation that
I need not repeat Helm's version. He denied having stolen Otto's
share of the money, but could not help admitting his possession of
the Von Herisau papers, among which were the certificates of birth
and baptism of the old Baron's son, Otto. It seems that he
had been fearful of Lindenschmidt's return from America, for
he managed to communicate with his sister in Breslau, and in this
way learned the former's death. Not until then had he dared to
assume his present disguise.

We let him go, after exacting a solemn pledge that he would betake
himself at once to Hamburg, and there ship for Australia. (I
judged that America was already amply supplied with individuals of
his class.) The sudden departure of the Baron von Herisau was a
two days' wonder at Liebenstein; but besides ourselves, only the
Bremen banker knew the secret. He also left, two days afterwards,
with his wife and daughter--their cases, it was reported, requiring
Kissingen.

Otto Lindenschmidt's life, therefore, could not hide itself. Can
any life?

****

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