Title: The History and Romance of Crime: German and Austrian Prisons - Prisons of Prussia, Bavaria, Saxony and Austria-Hungary; the Fortresses of Magdeburg and Spielberg
Author: Griffiths, Arthur George Frederick
Language: English
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GERMAN AND AUSTRIAN PRISONS***


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THE HISTORY AND ROMANCE OF CRIME FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES
TO THE PRESENT DAY


[Illustration]


The Grolier Society
London


[Illustration: _Heidelberg_]


GERMAN AND AUSTRIAN PRISONS

Prisons of Prussia, Bavaria,
Saxony and Austria-Hungary
The Fortresses Of
Magdeburg And Spielberg

by

MAJOR ARTHUR GRIFFITHS

Late Inspector of Prisons in Great Britain

Author of
“The Mysteries of Police and Crime
“Fifty Years of Public Service,” etc.



[Illustration]

The Grolier Society

Edition Nationale
Limited to one thousand registered and numbered sets.
Number 307



INTRODUCTION


Interest in penal matters in Germany and in Austria-Hungary centres
rather in the nature and number of persons who commit crimes than
the methods pursued in bringing them to justice or the places in
which penalties have been imposed. The character and extent of crimes
committed from time to time, attracts us more generally than the
prisons designed and established for their punishment. This is the
more marked because such prisons have not achieved any remarkable
prominence or notoriety. They have been for the most part the ordinary
institutions used for detention, repression and correction, more noted
for the offenders they have held than their own imposing appearance,
architectural pretensions, or the changes they have introduced in the
administration of justice. Only in more recent years, since so-called
penitentiary science has come to the front and the comparative value
of prison systems has been much discussed, have certain institutions
prominence in Germany and become known as model prisons.
These have been erected in various capitals of the empire, to give
effect to new principles in force in the administration of justice.
Among such places we may specify a few, such as Bruchsal in Baden; the
Moabit prison in Berlin; the prison at Zwickau in Saxony; the prisons
of Munich and Nürnberg in Bavaria and of Heilbronn in Württemberg. To
these may be added the prisons of Stein on the Danube, of Marburg on
the Drave, and of Pankraz Nusle near Prague in Austria-Hungary. Many
others might be mentioned which have played an important part in the
development of penitentiary institutions.

The conflict of opinions as to prison treatment has raged continuously
and as yet no uniform plan has been adopted for the whole German
Empire. Each of the constituent states of the great aggregate body
has maintained its independence in penal matters and the right to
determine for itself the best method of punishing crime. At one time,
after 1846, the theory of complete isolation was accepted in all German
states, although the means to carry it into effect were not universally
adopted. Reports from the United States had deeply impressed the
authorities with the merits of solitary confinement, among others the
well known Professor Mittermaier, one of the most notable judicial
authorities of his time. But reaction came with another no less eminent
expert, Von Holtzendorff, whose works on prison administration are
still held in great esteem. After visiting Ireland, he was won over
to the seeming advantages of the progressive system, the gradual
change from complete isolation to comparative freedom, and he strongly
favoured the policy of cellular imprisonment. His proposals laid hold
of the practical German mind, and to-day the scheme of continuous
isolation finds little support; it left its mark, however, in several
prisons which will be referred to in the following pages.



CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                        PAGE
  INTRODUCTION                                      5

  I. PRINCIPAL PRISONS                             13

  II. FRIEDRICH VON DER TRENCK AT MAGDEBURG        41

  III. NOTORIOUS POISONERS                         81

  IV. THREE CELEBRATED CASES                      106

  V. CLEVER IMPOSTORS AND SWINDLERS               137

  VI. TYPICAL MURDERERS                           173

  VII. THE STORY OF A VAGRANT                     201

  VIII. SOME REMARKABLE PRISONERS                 224

  IX. SILVIO PELLICO AT SPIELBERG                 249

  X. BRIGANDAGE AND CRIME IN AUSTRIA-HUNGARY      273



List of Illustrations


  HEIDELBERG                                _Frontispiece_

  FRIEDRICH VON DER TRENCK, IN HIS CELL IN
      THE STAR FORT                             _Page_ 52

  SILVIO PELLICO AT SPIELBERG                      “  256



GERMAN AND AUSTRIAN PRISONS



CHAPTER I

PRINCIPAL PRISONS

    The Bruchsal in Baden--The Moabit in Berlin, the prison
    Stein--Penal methods in force--Adoption of solitary confinement
    not universally accepted--Bruchsal opened in 1848--Penal
    methods employed--The annex where prisoners are kept in
    association--The Protestant brotherhood and their work in
    the Moabit prison--Munich--The work of Obermaier--Bavarian
    penal code--Capital Punishment--Long Trials--Case of
    Riembauer--Hans Leuss’ account of Celle and his imprisonment
    there--Flogging--The “bed of lathes”--Zwickau in Saxony--Humane
    treatment in force--Heilbronn--Prison reform in Austrian and
    Hungarian prisons--Three new prisons erected in Austria-Hungary.


The cellular prison at Bruchsal in the grand-duchy of Baden was
commenced in 1841 and opened on October 10, 1848. It stands at the
northeast of the town of Bruchsal, on the highway to Heidelberg, in a
pleasant part of the country, enjoying a mild and healthy situation.
Hills rise in the background, while in front stretches the plain of
the Rhine, with its rich fields and wealthy villages. Immediately
adjoining the prison are two larger and two smaller buildings
containing official abodes for the superior and lower officers of the
penitentiary. The main building is a stately edifice, on an elevated
site, and the entire group is surrounded by a wall. This wall, of
considerable thickness and height, is a regular octagon, flanked by
turrets at the angles, which serve above as sentry boxes for the
military posts and below as dark cells. The soldiers who guard the
penitentiary walk about on the wall, which is four hundred feet long
and encloses a plot of ground of more than seven acres.

The discipline imposed at Bruchsal is very severe in character and
it has been found that the rule of isolation cannot be persisted in
for much more than four years. Only nine per cent. of the prisoners
could support so long a term; and the director has reported that after
three years of cellular confinement the muscular fibres become so
weakened that it is almost impossible to expect hard work from those
subjected to it. Bruchsal has an annex or auxiliary establishment
where association is the rule for certain prisoners: First, those who
have undergone six years of cellular confinement, unless they elect
to remain in the cell; second, those who are above seventy years
of age; third, those whose bodily or mental health unfits them for
separation. Industrial and other education go hand in hand at Bruchsal;
the earnings of the inmates at many various trades are substantial and
the prisoners value the teaching of the schoolmaster. The trades are
various, to avoid interference with private labour. The contract system
is not employed, but the prison authorities manufacture goods on their
own account. All needful attention is paid in the Bruchsal prisons,
whether cellular or associated, to hygiene, diet, clothing, bedding and
so forth.

In Prussia, long before the establishment of Bruchsal, the method of
solitary confinement found many advocates, and, beginning in 1846,
several large, separate cell prisons were built. The first, the Moabit,
which was organised by Dr. Wichern, the famous creator of the Hamburg
Raue Haus, is a cellular prison on the “wheel” or radiating plan, with
four wings and 508 cells in all. An interesting feature of the Moabit
is its management by a Protestant brotherhood, that of the Raue Haus,
or Hamburg reformatory, whose members are regularly trained for this
useful work on lines laid down by Dr. Wichern. All the brothers do
not devote themselves to prison management, however, but are sent as
required to various fields of labour.

At Moabit it soon became evident that the separate system was not
suitable, and that secret intercourse among the convicts was not
preventable. The doors of the cells were therefore left open during
working hours, and a number of convicts worked in company. In church,
during exercise, and in school no isolation took place, but silence was
always enforced. On the whole, the Prussian authorities were not in
favour of prolonged isolation. As to the general result, it has been
thought that the cellular system lessened the number of reconvictions,
but that the experience had no lasting effect upon hardened or habitual
criminals. On the other hand, first offenders, or those who had been
tempted by opportunity or carried away by passion, were believed to
have been returned to society changed and reformed after a period of
cellular confinement. Progress continued to be made, although the
introduction of a new system of criminal procedure in 1849 led to such
an increase in the number of sentences that much overcrowding of the
prisons followed. Attention was in consequence directed rather toward
providing further accommodation than to experiments in treatment.
Such reforms as were urgent, including the separation of the sexes
in different buildings, were accomplished, while the building of new
prisons went steadily on and the fine specimens of the Stadtvogtei in
Berlin, the cellular prisons at Ratibor in Silesia and Rendsburg in
Schleswig-Holstein, a cellular police prison at Altona and similar
institutions in other provinces, showed that improvement did not tarry
by the way in Prussia.

Bavaria made the most marked progress, which was worthy of the country
that produced the famous Herr Obermaier, and the great state prison of
Munich is still worked upon the lines he introduced in 1843, although
cellular confinement, which he did not favour, has been to some extent
installed. Obermaier was one of those rare characters, another
Montesinos, who left his mark on prison administration. He was a man
of the same indomitable will and commanding personal influence, who
could work wonders with prisoners and change their natures entirely.
When he assumed charge, the prison of Munich contained some six or
seven hundred prisoners in the worst state of insubordination. They
defied all discipline, although the harshest and most severe had been
tried. They were chained together and to each chain so heavy a weight
was attached that even the strongest found a difficulty in dragging
it along. Soldiers, a hundred of them, were on duty all through the
prison, at the gates, around the walls, in the passages, inside the
work-shops and dormitories; at night, as an additional precaution,
a pack of from twenty to thirty large and savage bloodhounds roamed
at large through the yards. Obermaier called the place “a perfect
pandemonium, comprising within the limits of a few acres, the worst
men, the most slavish vices, and the most heartless tyranny.” By
degrees he relaxed the severity of the discipline, lightened the chains
and sent away the soldiers and the dogs.

The prisoners became humanised and in return for the confidence placed
in them, grew well-behaved. They managed themselves, and public
opinion among them checked flagrant misconduct, all yielding ready
obedience to those of their fellows who were appointed overseers.
If a prisoner was inclined to break a rule, the warning, _es ist
verboten_, was sufficient to deter him. The most satisfactory industry
prevailed, and the prisoners became self-supporting, making their own
clothes, building their own walls, forging their own fetters, and
more especially manufacturing useful articles which found ready sale.
In these employments they earned good wages, part of which was given
to them on discharge. Nor was the conquest thus achieved over these
turbulent spirits merely evanescent, disappearing after release. It was
proved, “on irrefutable evidence,” that about five-sixths of those sent
out from the Munich prison returned to society improved and that the
percentage of relapse was exceedingly small.

Bavaria has four cellular prisons in all; one at Nürnberg and three
others intended to serve the district courts of justice and filled
mostly with prisoners not yet tried. Other prisons are conducted on
the collective system. Many of them are ancient convents and castles,
little suited for the purpose to which they have been converted. Crime
is very prevalent, owing to a generally low standard of morality,
the neglect of education and the rough manners and customs of the
population. The peasants in many parts of the country are in the habit
of carrying long stiletto-like knives at public houses and dancing
places, and murderous conflicts, after nasty quarrels, when grave
injuries are inflicted, are very common.

The penal code of Bavaria, compiled chiefly by Anselm von Feuerbach,
a distinguished criminal jurist, was adopted by the government in
1813, and became the basis of criminal legislation for all the German
states. In Bavaria the peculiar merits and defects of this code
were strongly accentuated. The laws are severe and the punishment
merciless, but blood is never shed until the most minute pains have
been taken to secure proof of guilt. Circumstantial evidence is never
held sufficient to justify the extreme penalty, and sentence of death
cannot be passed unless the culprit has confessed his crime.[1] Two
witnesses are deemed sufficient when they testify to facts seen with
their own eyes, and the statement of one witness is accepted only
as half proof. By far the most important evidence is that given by
the prisoner himself. He is questioned by the examining judge in the
presence of the notary only, who is employed to take down his replies.
The judge seeks to elicit a full statement by suggesting that ample
confession may soften punishment. An attempt is made to entrap the
prisoner into untruthfulness by asking him if he knows the real reason
of his arrest, and if he affects ignorance or gives a false answer he
is gravely admonished and warned that lying will prejudice his case.
All the questions put to him are aimed to mislead him and obtain
unwary admissions inconsistent with innocence. If the prisoner has
replied truthfully, he is closely cross-examined on his own story,
which is twisted and inverted until he is confused into contradicting
and committing himself.

[1] This practice of requiring confession in capital cases doubtless
had its origin in the influence of the Church and the doctrine of the
confession as necessary to absolution.

All this time he is kept in the dark as to the exact nature of the
accusation laid to his charge, and it is illegal for him to seek
enlightenment. He is not furnished with a copy of his own evidence or
of that of the witnesses for or against him. Pitfalls are laid for him
by his unexpected confrontation with an accomplice. If he obstinately
refuses to speak, he is sentenced to bread and water. If it is a murder
charge, he is brought face to face with the bleeding corpse, or it may
be that the decaying remains are exhibited to him. The most curious
feature in the proceedings is their prolixity.

Criminal trials in Bavaria have lasted for years. The reports in one
leading case, that of the priest-murderer Riembauer, filled forty-two
folio volumes. The most minute and searching investigation was made of
the secret motives and inmost feelings of the accused, as well as his
open actions. Feuerbach has written an account of remarkable crimes and
lengthy trials in Germany, and among others tells the story of Francis
Riembauer. He was a parish priest whose first worldly venture was the
purchase of a farm near the village of Lauterbach between Ratisbon
and Landshut, where he lived with the former owners, a widow, Mrs.
Frauenknecht, and her two daughters, Magdalena and Catherine. All were
esteemed by their neighbours. Riembauer passed for a model of apostolic
zeal and charity. Though the son of humble parents, he had a fine
person and was an eloquent preacher. In 1808, after passing with great
distinction the examination for ecclesiastical preferment, he obtained
the benefice of Priel, sold the farm and moved with the Frauenknecht
family to his new parsonage.

Soon after the change, the mother and the elder daughter Magdalena
died. Riembauer then endeavoured to persuade Catherine, the remaining
daughter, to continue to live with him as his housekeeper in her
sister’s place. She refused, however, and left him to take a position
as a domestic in another family. It was noted that for some time
afterward she was subject to periods of great gloom and depression.
Finally she confided to a friend, and then confessed to a priest, that
she was the possessor of a dreadful secret: that Riembauer had murdered
a woman; that she and her mother and sister had witnessed the deed; and
that he had also appropriated the entire fortune of her family. The
priest to whom she confessed counselled silence, but wrote Riembauer
in an attempt to bring about the restoration of the fortune, with no
result.

Catherine was bright and clever and she was not satisfied to let the
matter rest there, but laid the whole story before the tribunal of
Landshut. She was then seventeen years old, but as the Bavarian law
would not allow her to be sworn until she was eighteen, it was not
until the following year, 1814, that her deposition was taken. She
testified that several years before a woman had called at their house
to see Riembauer, who was then absent. A few months later the woman
returned, and at that time the priest took her up to his room. She had
not been there long when the sound of crying reached the family below.
They hastened up-stairs and heard Riembauer say, “My girl; repent your
sins, for you must die.” And on looking through the keyhole, they
were horrified to behold the man bending over the woman in the act of
choking her.

When Riembauer came out, he told them that this woman had borne him a
child and had asked him for money, threatening to denounce him to his
ecclesiastical superiors if he refused, and that he had killed her.
Catherine’s mother and sister threatened to reveal his secret but were
prevailed upon to keep silence out of respect for his office, and soon
after both died very suddenly and under suspicious circumstances.

Riembauer was arrested as a result of Catherine’s accusation, and gave
his own version of the murder, acknowledging that he knew the woman
whom he said he had promised a position as cook, but stating that Mrs.
Frauenknecht and her daughter Magdalena had committed the crime. He
knew nothing, of course, at that time of the deposition against him.

During a period of three years, examination followed examination. He
was confronted with the skull of his victim, and every possible method
was tried to shake his testimony, but it was not until October, 1817,
that Riembauer, broken physically and mentally, confessed to having
murdered Anna Eichstaedter. His confession contained the statement of a
remarkable “code of honour” which he professed to follow. “My honour,
my position,” he said, “my powers of being useful, all that I valued in
the world, was at stake. I often reflected on the principle laid down
by my old tutor, Father Benedict Sattler, in his ‘Ethica Christiana’
... ‘that it is lawful to deprive another of life, if that be the only
means of preserving one’s own honour and reputation. For honour is
more valuable than life; and if it is lawful to protect one’s life by
destroying an assailant, it must obviously be lawful to use similar
means to protect one’s honour.’”

On the 1st of August, 1818, he was declared guilty of murder and
sentenced to indefinite imprisonment in a fortress. The regular
punishment for murder was death, but in this case the learned jurist
Feuerbach admitted that had the court not accepted Riembauer’s
confession, he could not have been convicted, because the evidence,
though strong, was purely circumstantial. It was proved that the woman
had visited him; that an umbrella marked with her initials was in his
possession; that she had been buried under a shed on his farm, and that
the floor of his room was stained with blood and showed the result
of efforts to remove the stains with a plane; yet the court held that
evidence was lacking as to marks on the body for sufficient proof of
the actual manner of death.

The use of physical torture was abandoned in 1806, and then only
with a strong protest from judges of the old school, who parted with
great reluctance with so simple and expeditious a method of obtaining
evidence.

Curiously enough, the accused persons in the Bavarian courts were
generally moved to confess. Many reasons for this are given. Some few
confessed from remorse, others could not beat off the pertinacious
interrogatories of the judge, not a few were anxious to end the long
period of acute anxiety and suspense, and many were exasperated beyond
measure by the strict discipline and compulsory silence enforced in
Bavarian prisons. Rather than be condemned to perpetual silence, the
accused would speak out even to his own undoing.

Capital punishment was legal in Bavaria and was inflicted by
decapitation with a sword, or breaking on the wheel from the feet
upwards. But where conviction rested on circumstantial evidence only,
or assumed guilt was not borne out by actual confession, imprisonment
for life in chains was substituted, and it was a terrible penalty. The
sentence annihilated civil existence; it was moral if not physical
death. The culprit lost all rights as a husband, father or citizen; he
was deprived of property, freedom and honour; nothing remained but
bare life passed in slavery and chains. There was no recovery even
if error were proved. He did not get back what he had lost, and if
his wife married again he could not recover his property. It was not
capital punishment, but it was death in life.

In the progressive national development of Prussia, as wars were waged
and fresh territory acquired, prison reform obtained attention. In
Hesse-Cassel, prisons were in a very backward state and many were
condemned as unfit for habitation. In Hanover alone conditions were
more satisfactory. The journalist Hans Leuss served a term of three
years’ imprisonment in 1894 in one of the chief prisons, that of
Celle-on-the-Aller, which he graphically describes in his autobiography.

“It lies on the river bank. The front looks toward the avenue which
in Celle forms the approach to the station. The external aspect of
the terrible house is not unpleasing; neither does the appearance of
the inside give the most distant conception of the conditions under
which the prisoners live, nor of their situation, so that visitors are
rather favourably impressed than otherwise. On arrival we were led into
the vestibule of the building and drawn up in line, while an official
cross-examined us. Until noon, one formality after another had to be
gone through. We were first taken to the bathroom where, after being
plunged into hot water, we had to sit on the edge of the bath while
the barber shaved us. I shook so with cold that he had to let me return
to the water while he finished his operations, and we dressed standing
on a cold floor in our prison gaol. We next went before the governor
and other officials, and then partially stripped again and had to cross
a cold passage to the doctor’s room, who in my case found both lungs
affected. I have always ascribed to the hardships endured on that first
day in Celle the severe chest complaint from which I suffered during my
imprisonment, and the effects of which I still feel.

“These disagreeable preliminaries over, a cell was allotted to me. I
was put under a warder who was the most hated by the prisoners, the
most trusted by the authorities. He had a diminutive body, a large
and powerful hand, a bitter and suspicious countenance. He made my
life a burden and yet I pitied him. The deep lines of care on his face
convinced me he was wretched and made me sorry for him in my heart.
We were twenty-four prisoners in the middle ‘cell passage’ as the
‘station’ was officially called. All conversation was prohibited to
us. I was set to cane chairs. The prison diet was poor and the lack of
fat contained in it reduced me to a state of complete emaciation. I
learned nothing of my surroundings. The first person who spoke a kind
word to me was a humane warder who encouraged me, although this was not
necessary as my courage always triumphed over every hardship; yet it
did me good and I was gratified by the man’s kind intention in assuring
me he had seen several educated men endure long times of punishment
without being broken down.

“One day the door opened and a man entered whose appearance filled
me with surprise. He was a giant of spare build with a long dark
beard, delicately modelled, sympathetic hands and the countenance of
a real saint. He resembled neither a clergyman nor a fanatic, but was
evidently of a nature as gentle as his mind was vigorous. A man whose
outward semblance was unforgettable, how much more his soul, which
stands as clear in my recollection as does his tall stature. This was
the prison chaplain. The advantage of becoming acquainted with this
representative of the noblest form of humanity would alone suffice
to compensate me for the terrible sufferings I endured in the course
of those few years. Parson Haase has lived nearly a century as the
confidant of the sufferers in prison. His powerful but healthy mind
was ever impressed with the infinite misery around him. He became
a friend of the prisoners, gave them his confidence and received
theirs. I owe this man more than I can say. After him, and thanks to
him, the most humanising influence in the gaol was the library, which
became a priceless boon. This chaplain was a liberal-minded man who
did not limit his choice to books of devotion when making the yearly
additions, but he provided the prisoners with works to amuse as
well as improve, selected after careful consideration of the varied
tastes and requirements of their readers. With books of travel and
adventure were scientific manuals and works of still higher pretensions
to suit the better educated, and which helped them to escape from
mental breakdown and served to counteract the deteriorating effects of
cellular incarceration. The chaplain’s assistant-librarian at Celle was
an ex-murderer who had killed an intimate friend, a bookseller, whom he
robbed. It was a senseless crime, the discovery of which was certain,
and its cause was never explained.

“Religious exercises were strictly observed at Celle. The chapel was
constructed on the well-known plan of providing separate boxes like
lairs for each individual. All turned towards the altar which was
adorned with a copy of Guido’s crucifixion. The services were given
well and on a regular date there was a church ‘visitation day’ when
a high dignitary preached a stirring discourse, with no other effect
than that of starting a controversy among his prison congregation as
to whether his cross was of gold or silver. Other subjects formed the
staple conversation. One was always deeply interesting, the news that
corporal punishment had been ordered and that a prisoner was to be
strapped to the block.”

Hans Leuss animadverts strongly upon the discipline at Celle and
quotes several cases from official reports in which much cruelty was
exercised. One was of a man well advanced in years, who suffered from
misdirected acquisitiveness and frequently found himself in gaol, where
he constantly misconducted himself and was punished by long committals
to the dark cell. In the end his health gave way, but the trouble was
not diagnosed and he was very harshly treated. One morning he declared
he was unable to leave his bed, but he was nevertheless dragged up
and into the exercising yard where he was unable to walk and fell to
the ground. The governor, believing the illness was feigned, would
have flogged him but was reluctant to order corporal punishment for so
old a man, and had him put into the straight-jacket. Then the doctor
interposed, being in grave doubt as to his mental condition, and took
him into the hospital for observation, and he died that same afternoon,
of senile decay. It is horrible to think that the coercion of this poor
old creature was carried so far that he was nearly flogged, and that he
was actually confined in a straight-jacket so short a time before his
death.

Another prisoner in Celle was adjudged to be feigning insanity and
subjected to very harsh treatment; to douches and the jacket by the
order of the medical officer. He was suffering really from religious
mania, which took the form of exaggerated reverence for holy things;
he raved of them all night, abused Dr. Martin Luther and perpetually
asked to be flogged until he died for the glory of the faith. He
constantly sought to enter into disputation with the chaplain upon
whom he greatly imposed. No one thought he was mad, and his punishment
continued unceasingly until one night he hanged himself.

A third case of medical shortsightedness is reported from Celle, where
an habitual criminal, with a long record of crimes and punishments,
came under a new sentence for robbery. He was ill and would eat
nothing, and the doctor prescribed a blister. He did not mind, declared
he could not work and went for days without food. The doctor thought it
was catarrh of the stomach and decided that the man was quite fit for
light labour, but the governor only admonished him as he seemed really
weak from want of nourishment. Still the medical reports were against
him, and he was charged again with malingering, which took him for five
days to the dark cell. He did not improve, however, although it was
presently admitted that he was out of health and he was taken at last
into hospital, the doctor having diagnosed the disease as hemorrhage of
the kidneys. He rapidly grew worse, ice and port wine were ordered, but
not very regularly given to him. Within six weeks of his first arrival
he suddenly died. The post mortem examination revealed an advanced
cancer in the liver.

The practice of flogging was long retained in Prussian prisons, and is
still employed as a disciplinary measure. The prisoner was strapped
over a block by his hands and feet and the implement used was a stick,
the buttock piece of an ox, a leather whip or a rod with which the
prescribed number of strokes were laid on. A stalwart flagellator
usually acted as executioner, and the strokes were regulated by the
clock--one a minute. This punishment was in former times administered
in the most terribly cruel manner and permanent injuries to the spine
often resulted. A choice selection of whips of various sizes and
description may be seen in the strong room of Prussian prisons, most
of them of hard cutting leather unevenly plaited. Hans Leuss asserts
that at Celle prisoners detected in the manufacture of false coins were
always flogged severely.

The power of inflicting the lash is vested in the hands of the
governors of prisons and superior authorities. The former can order up
to thirty, the latter up to sixty stripes. The assent of the higher
prison officials to the governor’s decree is required, but is a pure
formality. It is little likely that the sanction of a majority of the
subordinates would ever be refused to the governor. The administration
of a prison is bureaucratic, and the governor is nearly always a
military officer and thoroughly imbued with the importance of his very
responsible position, which gives him power over hundreds of human
beings. The subordinate officials are usually selected from the ranks
of non-commissioned officers. Both the chaplain and the doctor may and
do raise objections to the governor’s orders. The doctor can enforce
his objection on the ground of health if he believes the man to be
punished is not a fit subject, but for this reason only. Any other
excuse he may offer is liable to be disregarded by his colleagues; if
the majority of the superior officials are not with him, the governor
can still have the punishment carried out. As a matter of fact, their
consultation only occupies a few minutes and is a pure formality,
the governor alone deciding. Up to 1902 the infliction of corporal
punishment was not at all rare.

Herr Krohne, a privy councillor and member of the prison board in the
Prussian Home Office, has described the hideous administration of the
punishment of flogging in his hand-book of prison law. Herr Krohne is
an opponent of flogging and of the “bed of lathes,” another form of
punishment practised in German prisons, which he rightly considers a
survival of barbarism. This last named punishment of the bed of lathes,
_lattenarrest_, consists of solitary confinement in a room, of which
the floor is laid with three cornered lathes or boards with pointed
side uppermost--in Saxony the walls also used to be lined with these
lathes--the culprit being stripped to his linen shirt, his underwear
and stockings. After a time he suffers pitifully; he can neither stand
nor lie down, cannot rest night or day and his body becomes gradually
covered with welts in stripes.

In the five years from 1894 to 1898, in all of the prisons of Prussia
taken together, there were 281 inflictions, and during the same period
the bed of lathes was ordered 176 times and in some cases for female
prisoners. The first curtailment was in the reign of King Frederick
William III, and in 1868 it was altogether abolished for women,
although not without violent protest from some prison governors who
were much opposed to the reform. It was further reduced in 1879 and
might only be administered in correction of the most serious offences,
as a rule after a previous offence. It has of late fallen into
disrepute and was rarely employed in the Moabit, the Gross Strehlitz or
Cologne prisons and the bed of lathes has almost disappeared. It was
generally adjudged as the punishment for attempted escape and inflicted
after the recapture of a fugitive.

Among the German States, Saxony has held a rather exceptional
position. A system of classification of prisoners was introduced by a
minister named Lindeman as far back as 1840, and ten years later the
penitentiary of Zwickau was opened, in which reformation was pursued
by individual treatment on humane and careful lines, with education
and industrial employment. The dietaries were ample and must be said
to have erred on the side of over-indulgence, in that Saxon prisoners
had at one time a choice among ninety different dishes for dinner and
twenty-eight for breakfast and supper. The discipline enforced was
generally mild. Corporal punishment was allowed by the rules and also
the bed of lathes, but neither of them has been applied for many years
past. Industry was encouraged by the hope of reward, pleasanter labour,
and remission of a part of the sentence in the form of leave of absence
or conditional release. Many excellent prisons exist similar to Zwickau
above mentioned, such as Waldheim, Hubertusburg and others. All of
them are kept up to a high standard and improvements are constantly in
progress. Separation by night is the general rule while dangerous or
incorrigible convicts are completely isolated.

In the Kingdom of Württemberg the cellular plan of prison construction
was adopted in 1865 and the first building, that of Heilbronn, was
occupied in 1872. Other places of durance are mostly on the collective
system as at Stuttgart, Ludwigsburg and Gotteszell, but means of
isolation and separation by night is practised generally. Discipline
is firm but not harsh, and corporal punishment is excluded from the
penalties for misconduct. Deterrence is held to be the primary object
of imprisonment, but moral reformation is not overlooked.

A few words may be inserted here as to penal institutions in other
German states. Thus in the grand-duchy of Hesse the principle of
herding the prisoners together prevails, although efforts have been
made to introduce the isolated cell system. The chief prisons are
the “Marienschloss” and those in Darmstadt and Mainz. The national
penal institution of Dreibergen serves both of the grand-duchies of
Mecklenburg as their chief prison. Peculiar interest attaches to it in
view of the almost forgotten fact that here a sort of transition stage
was instituted for convicts with long sentences who were during the
latter part of their term removed from the isolation cells and sent out
to such work as was calculated to develop their physical powers.

In the history of prison management, Oldenburg earned an excellent
reputation through the remarkable individuality of Hoyer, for years
the director of the house of correction at Vechta. He advocated
cell isolation until the latter years of his life, when he declared
himself in favour of the Irish system. His plan of forming settlements
for convict labour on waste lands was discontinued, as the results
were unfavourable, and a modified form of solitary confinement was
reinstated. A portion of the Thuringian states was under Prussian and
Saxon jurisdiction with regard to their prison system. The rest formed
a combination among themselves for the building of prisons to be used
by them in common. The principal one was in Ichtershausen.

The improvement of penal institutions was undertaken by Austria in
the early forties and a special commission was appointed to examine
into the merits of various systems recommended, with the result that
solitary confinement was recognised as the most suitable form of
punishment for all prisoners awaiting trial and for those sentenced
for a year or less. But before this could be put into practice in the
new prisons, the political situation changed and the projected reforms
were delayed. The old system was not changed, but efforts were made to
provide further accommodation to meet the great increase in the number
of sentences. Much energy was devoted to the work and considerable
outlay, which produced prisons large enough to contain thirteen
thousand inmates. The entire prison administration was entrusted to
religious orders and even prisons for male offenders were placed
under the superintendence of nuns, a cardinal error resulting in much
mischief. Under the minister of justice, in 1865, reforms were again
instituted; he assumed the supreme control, and prison management was
made to conform to the spirit of the then prevailing liberal views. The
system of imprisonment hitherto in force throughout Austria remained
untouched for the time being. Among other reforms, corporal punishment
and chains were abolished.

In 1868 the penal institutions of Garsten and Karthaus came under
government inspection, the contracts with the religious orders ceased,
and in 1870 all male prisons were put under direct state control. A new
male prison for three hundred inmates was opened at Laibach in Carniola
and another at Wisnicz to accommodate four hundred. In April, 1872,
the system of solitary confinement was partially introduced, but the
progressive principle of prison treatment was kept steadily in view.
After a period of cellular confinement, prisoners lived and laboured
in association, care being taken to separate the worst from the less
hardened offenders. Juveniles were segregated and, of course, the
women, the whole number falling into three principal divisions,--the
first offenders, the possibly curable and the hopeless, habitual
criminals.

A prominent feature in the modern administration of these institutions
has been the employment of prisoners approaching the time of their
release in a state of semi-liberty, at a distance from any permanently
established prison. The first experiment was made in 1886, when a party
was sent to improve the bed of a river in Upper Carinthia. They went
from the Laibach prison and were followed by reinforcements in the
following year. Similar public works were undertaken in 1888-9 in Upper
Carniola, Carinthia, Upper Styria and Galicia, for the construction
of canals and roads and the opening up of rivers. In some cases the
prisoners took with them a portable shed-barrack, in others they built
huts in the neighbourhood of their works. The labour performed was
cheap and effective, the discipline maintained excellent, and the
prisoners are said to have much benefited, morally and physically,
by the trust reposed in them and by the healthfulness of their daily
occupations. The building of the reformatory at Aszod was undertaken
by convicts, a number of whom, to the great alarm of the villagers,
arrived on the newly bought lands, where they lodged in huts without
bolts or bars. Their conduct, however, was exemplary. It has been
claimed, not without reason, that this method of employing prisoners
has been most successful.

A large operation was undertaken in the district of Pest-Pilis-Solt,
where the torrential river Galga does considerable damage at flood
time. Owing to the demands of harvest and agricultural works, free
labour was not to be had in the summer, when alone the river was low
enough to admit of interference, and the local authorities having two
large prisons within easy access sought for a concession of prison
labour. It was granted, and two sets of prisoners commenced at either
end of the river valley. These were specially selected men; they
encamped at the places where they were busy, being supplied with canvas
tents by the military authorities; they ministered to their own needs
and cooked their own food, which was brought in the raw state from the
neighbouring prison. Excellent results followed their employment for
three consecutive years. Not only was a work of great public utility
completed, but the prisoners conducted themselves in the most exemplary
manner. Although they were held under no restraint in the midst of a
free population, there was not a single attempt at escape during the
entire three years; there was no misconduct, and discipline was easily
maintained by the mere threat of relegation to the prison. The prison
administration has in consequence decided that it is now unnecessary
to construct special intermediate prisons; places where men, as in the
old Irish farm of Lusk, might be suffered to go half free while proving
their fitness for complete liberty.

Three new prisons were built in Austria-Hungary during the latter years
of the nineteenth century, all of them imposing edifices. One of these
is at Marburg on the Drave and holds eight hundred prisoners, partly
in cells, partly in association; another is at Stanislau in Galicia
for the same number, which has but few cells, as separate confinement
is not suited to the agricultural classes constituting the inmates of
the prison. The farm land and gardens surrounding are extensive and the
work done is mainly agricultural. A third prison is at Pankraz Nusle
near Prague and stands on a height behind the celebrated Wyschehrad.
The prison can accommodate one thousand inmates and has replaced the
old building at St. Wenzel. A portion of the building at Marburg was
carried out by convicts. Till these new prisons were built, that at
Pilsen was considered the best in Austria. Another at Stein on the
Danube, between Linz and Vienna, holds about one thousand prisoners
sentenced to a year and upwards, and is organised on a very sound and
intelligent basis. The discipline at Stein, according to the reports
of competent visitors, is very creditable. It is claimed for it that
the daily average on the punishment list is only nine and that there
has not been a sign of a mutiny in sixteen years. Corporal punishment
does not exist, but the methods by which order is maintained seem harsh
and afford another proof that the abolition of the lash calls for
other penalties which are physically more injurious and morally quite
as debasing. A writer in the _Times_ in 1886 gives a description of a
prisoner whom he saw who had been sentenced to a month in a punishment
cell for destroying materials entrusted to him for manufacture. He
was to spend twelve days in darkness on bread and water; twelve days
absolutely fasting, with only water to drink; to have no work, to sleep
on a plank bed, and for four whole days was to wear a chain and shot
on his ankles. Finally, for the last eighteen hours of his punishment
he was to be “short-chained”--a torture which consists in “strapping
up one foot at right angles to the knee of the other leg, so that the
prisoner cannot stand but can only sit in a posture which after a few
minutes becomes intolerably fatiguing, and then acutely painful.”

Strait-waistcoats are also used for the refractory, and a very
effective but cruel gag,--an iron hoop with a brass knob like a door
handle. The knob is forced into the mouth and the hoop passed over and
locked behind the head.



CHAPTER II

FRIEDRICH VON DER TRENCK AT MAGDEBURG

    Two barons Von der Trenck--Friedrich a cornet of the Gardes du
    Corps--Favoured by the Princess Amelia--Incurs the displeasure
    of Frederick the Great--Sent to the fortress of Glatz--Escaped
    to Bohemia and passed into Russia--Re-arrested at Danzig and
    sent to Magdeburg--Plans for escape--The grenadier Gefhardt
    a faithful friend--Communication established with friends
    outside--Funds obtained--Plot discovered--Removed to the Star
    Fort and loaded with irons--Terrible suffering--Attempt to
    cut through the doors discovered--His prison is strengthened
    but his courage is unbroken--Fresh plans made--A new tunnel
    begun--Plot discovered--The sympathy of the Empress-Queen of
    Austria aroused--Released on Christmas Eve, 1763--Married and
    settled in Aix-la-Chapelle--His death on the scaffold during
    the French Revolution.


There were two barons Von der Trenck, Franz and Friedrich, in the
middle of the 18th century, both intimately associated with the prisons
of their respective countries, for although cousins, Franz was an
Austrian, and the other, Friedrich, a Prussian. Both were military
officers. Franz was a wild Pandour, a reckless leader of irregular
cavalry, who for his sins was shut up for life in the Spielberg,
the famous prison fortress near Brünn, where he committed suicide.
Friedrich, after enjoying the favour of Frederick the Great and
winning the rank of cadet in the Gardes du Corps, was eventually
disgraced and imprisoned in the fortress of Magdeburg, where he was
detained for ten years and treated with implacable severity. Friedrich
von der Trenck was richly endowed by nature; he was a gallant young
soldier with good mental gifts and a handsome person which enabled him
to shine in court society and achieve many successes. He was fortunate
enough to gain the good graces of the king’s sister, the Princess
Amelia of Prussia, who greatly resembled her celebrated brother both
physically and mentally. She possessed the same sparkling wit, the same
gracious vivacity and, like Friedrich, was a distinguished musician.
She was a warm votary of art, science and literature and was always
surrounded and courted by the most cultured German princes. All her
contemporaries describe her beauty with enthusiasm. So far, she had
declined the many proposals of marriage, which, as a matter of course,
she had received. Her heart belonged to the cornet of the Gardes du
Corps, and a secret understanding existed between them. The lovers were
at first cautious, but soon became bolder, and the king’s suspicions
were aroused. At first he tried fatherly remonstrances, but in vain.
The extraordinary liaison became the talk of the hour. A lieutenant of
the Prussian Foot Guards taunted the favoured lover about his relations
with the princess, they quarrelled, and a duel followed. The king
was furious, and a catastrophe was imminent, but was avoided by the
outbreak of war. Then this gay and reckless courtier allowed himself
to be drawn into a correspondence with his cousin in Vienna, the
notorious colonel of the Pandours, and the measure of the king’s wrath
overflowed. Trenck was cashiered and sent to the fortress of Glatz. The
king wrote with his own hand to the commandant of the fortress on the
28th June, 1745, “Watch this rogue well; he wished to become a Pandour
under his cousin.” Undoubtedly Frederick intended to keep Trenck
imprisoned for a short time only, but he was detained for a whole year,
during which time he made more than one attempt to escape.

The following account is in his own words: “At last, after I had spent
about five months in confinement (at Glatz) peace had been proclaimed,
the king had returned to Berlin and my place in the _gardes_ had been
filled. A certain lieutenant Piaschky of the Fouquet regiment and
the ensign Reitz, who was often on sentinel duty outside my cell,
offered to make preparations to enable me to escape and take them
with me. Everything was settled and agreed upon. At that time there
was in the cell next to mine a certain Captain von Manget, a native
of Switzerland. He had been cashiered, was condemned to ten years’
imprisonment and had only four rix dollars to spend. I had shown this
man much kindness out of pity, and I wished to save him as well as
myself, and this was discussed and proposed to him. We were betrayed
by this rascal on the first opportunity, he in consequence earning
his pardon and liberty. Piaschky had wind that Reitz was already
a prisoner, and saved himself by deserting. I denied everything,
was confronted with Manget, and because I could bribe the judge
with a hundred ducats, Reitz escaped with castigation and a year’s
imprisonment. I, on the contrary, was now considered as a corrupter of
the officers and was locked up in a narrow cell and strictly confined.
Left to myself, I still meditated flight, as the seclusion in a small
cell was too irksome to my fiery temperament. The garrison was always
on my side, therefore it was impossible to deprive me of friends and
assistance. I was known to have money, so that all was possible to me.
The first plan was as follows. My window was above the ramparts, about
ninety feet from the ground, and looked towards the town. I could not
therefore get out of the citadel and must find a place of safety in
the town. This was assured to me through an officer, in the house of
an honest soap-boiler. I then cut with a pen knife that had been made
jagged at the end, right through three iron bars of enormous thickness,
but as this took up too much time, as eight bars must be sawn through
before I could get out of the window, an officer provided me with a
file, with which I had to work very carefully so as not to be heard
by the sentries. As soon as this was accomplished, I cut my leather
knapsack into strips, sewed them together with the thread from an
unravelled stocking, brought my sheet likewise into requisition, and
let myself down from this astounding height in safety. It was raining,
the night was dark and everything went off well. I had, however, to
wade through the public drain and this I had not foreseen. I only sank
into it just above the knees, but was not able to work my way out of
it. I did all I could, but stuck so fast that at last I lost all my
strength and called to the sentry on the rampart, ‘Tell the commandant
that Trenck is sticking in the mire!’

“Now to augment my misfortune, it happened that General Fouquet was at
that time commandant in Glatz. He was a well known misanthrope, had
fought a duel with my father and been wounded by him, and the Austrian
Trenck had taken his baggage from him in 1744. He was therefore a great
enemy to the Trenck name, and consequently made me remain in the filth
for some hours as a public spectacle to the garrison, then had me
pulled out and confined in my cell, allowing no water to be taken to me
for cleaning purposes. No one can imagine how I looked; my long hair
had got into the mud, and my condition was really pitiable until some
prisoners were permitted to wash and cleanse me.”

When he finally escaped from Glatz, he went to Bohemia, to Nürnberg and
to Vienna, whence he passed into Russia and entered the service of
the czar for a time. Then he again travelled through northern Europe
and returned to Vienna, where he was coldly received, and he started
once more for Russia, but was intercepted at Danzig and again arrested
in 1753, after which he suffered a more severe imprisonment for nearly
ten years, characterised with such inhuman treatment that it must
ever tarnish the reputation of the monarch who posed as a poet and a
philosopher, the friend of Voltaire. Frederick the Great would hardly
have earned his ambitious epithet had it depended upon the measure he
meted out to his turbulent subject, Friedrich von der Trenck. He hated
him cordially and persecuted him cruelly, behaving with a pitiless
severity, and exhibiting such a contemptible spirit of revenge that he
has been hopelessly disgraced by the enlightened verdict of history.

Von der Trenck has told his own story in one of the most remarkable
books published in the eighteenth century, as the following excerpts
will show. He was taken into custody at Danzig, despoiled of all his
cash and valuables, and carried in a closed coach under escort to
Lauenberg, and thence via Spandau to Magdeburg, where he was lodged in
the destined prison. “It was a casemate,” according to his own account
of the cell, “the forepart of which was six feet wide and ten feet
long, and divided by a separation wall in which were double doors with
a third at the entrance of the casemate. The outer wall was seven feet
thick, with one window giving upon the top of the magazine, sufficient
for light, but I could see neither the heaven nor the earth. It was
barred inside and outside, and there was a narrow grating in the
middle, through which nothing could be seen. Six feet beyond my wall
stood a row of palisades which prevented the sentry or any one from
coming near enough to pass anything in. I had a bed with a mattress,
the bedstead clamped down to the floor so that I might not drag it to
the window and climb upon it to look out. A small stove and night table
were fixed in like manner near the door.

“I was not ironed, and my daily ration was one pound and a half of
ammunition bread and a jar of water. I had an excellent appetite, but
the bread was mouldy and I could barely touch it. Through the avarice
of the town major, the supplies were almost uneatable and for many
months following I suffered torture from raging hunger.... I begged for
an increase, but prayers and entreaties were of no avail. ‘It is the
king’s order,’ I was told; ‘we dare not give you more.’ The commandant,
General Borck, cruelly reminded me that I had long enough eaten patties
out of the king’s silver service, I must learn now to be satisfied with
ammunition bread.”

Von der Trenck turned his thoughts at once to the possibilities of
escape. He soon found that he was left very much to himself; his food
was brought every day and passed in to him through a slit in the door;
but his cell was actually opened only once a week for the visit and
inspection of the major of the fortress. He might work, therefore, for
seven days without fear of interruption, and he proceeded forthwith to
execute a plan he had formed of breaking through the wall of his cell
into an adjoining casemate, which he learned from a friendly sentry was
unoccupied and unlocked. This sentry and another spoke to him through
the window, despite strict orders to the contrary. They gave him a good
idea of the interior arrangements of the fortress, and told him that
the Elbe was within easy reach. He might cross it by swimming or by a
boat, and so gain the Saxon frontier.

Thus encouraged, he devoted himself with unremitting energy to his
gigantic task of making a practicable hole in the wall. He found bricks
in the first outward layers, and then came upon large quarry stones.
His first difficulty was to dispose of the debris and material produced
by the excavation; after reserving a part to replace and so conceal the
aperture formed, the rest he gradually distributed when ground down
into dust. The quarry stones gave infinite trouble, but he tackled them
with the irons extracted from his bedstead, and he got other tools from
his sentries,--an old ramrod and a soldier’s clasp knife. The labour of
piercing this wall of seven feet in thickness was incredible. It was an
ancient building, the mortar was very hard, and it was necessary to
grind the stones into dust. It lasted over six months, and at length
the outer layer of bricks on the side of the adjoining casemate was
reached.

Fortune now favoured Von der Trenck in the discovery of a veteran
grenadier among his guards, named Gefhardt, who proved to be of
inestimable service then and afterwards, and a devoted ally. Through
the sentries’ good offices, Trenck was enabled to communicate with his
friends outside, and through Gefhardt he made the acquaintance across
the palisades of a Jewish girl of Dessau, Esther Heymannin, whose
father was serving a sentence of ten years’ imprisonment in Magdeburg.
With splinters cut from his bed board, the prisoner manufactured a long
staff which reached from his window beyond the palisades, and by means
of it obtained writing materials, a knife and a file. This was effected
by Esther with the assistance of two friendly sentries. Trenck wrote
to his sister, who resided at Hammer, a village fourteen miles from
Berlin, begging her to hand over a sum in cash to the girl when she
called; he wrote another letter to the Austrian ambassador in Berlin,
enclosing a bill on his agent in Vienna, for Trenck, although in the
Prussian service, was of Austrian extraction and owned estates in that
country. The girl succeeded in her mission to Hammer and took the money
to Berlin, where the Austrian minister’s secretary, Weingarten, assured
her that a larger sum was on its way from Vienna, and that if she
would return to Berlin after carrying her first good news to Magdeburg,
it would be handed over to her. But on approaching the prison, the
wife of one of the sentries met her with the sad news that both men
had been arrested and lay in irons awaiting sentence, and Esther,
rightly judging that all was discovered, hurriedly fled to Dessau.
It may be added that the thousand florins to come from Vienna were
retained by the Austrian secretary, and although Trenck years later,
after his release, made constant applications to both Count Puebla and
Weingarten, he never recovered the money. Weingarten had acted the
traitor throughout and it was on his information, extracted from the
Jewish girl, that the plot to escape became known. The consequences
were far reaching, and entailed cruel reprisals upon Von der Trenck’s
friends. The two sentries, as has been said, were arrested, tried and
condemned, one to be hanged and the other to be flogged up and down
the streets of Magdeburg on three successive days. Trenck’s sister was
cruelly persecuted; she was fined heavily and plundered of her fortune,
a portion of which was ingloriously applied to the construction of an
entirely new prison in the Star Fort of the Magdeburg fortress, for the
special confinement of her brother.

Von der Trenck, as his measures for evasion had become ripe, was on the
point of breaking prison when a more terrible blow fell upon him. The
new prison in the Star Fort had been finished most expeditiously, and
orders were suddenly issued for his removal after nightfall. The major
and a party of officers, carrying lanterns, entered his cell. He was
roused and directed to put on his clothes, and manacles were slipped on
his hands and feet, but not before he had managed to conceal the knife
on his person; he was blindfolded, lifted under the arms and conveyed
to a coach, which drove through the citadel and down toward the Star
Fort, where it had been rumoured he was to be beheaded. He was thrown
into his new place of durance, and forthwith subjected to the pain and
ignominy of being loaded with fetters; his feet were attached to a
ring in the wall about three feet high by a ponderous chain, allowing
movement of about two feet to the right and left; an iron belt as
broad as the palm of a hand was riveted around his naked body, a thick
iron bar was fixed to the belt, and his hands were fastened to the bar
two feet apart. “Here,” says Trenck, “was I left to my own melancholy
reflections, without comfort or aid, and sitting in gloomy darkness
upon the wet floor. My fetters seemed to me insupportable, until I
became accustomed to them; and I thanked God that my knife had not been
discovered, with which I was about to end my sufferings forthwith. This
is a true consolation for the unfortunate man, who is elevated above
the prejudices of the vulgar, and with this a man may bid defiance
to fate and monarchs.... In these thoughts I passed the night; the
day appeared, but not its brightness to me; however, I could, by its
glimmerings, observe my prison. The breadth was eight feet, the length
ten; four bricks were raised from the ground and built in the corner,
upon which I could sit and lean my head against the wall. Opposite
to the ring to which I was chained was a window, in the form of a
semicircle, one foot high and two feet in diameter. This aperture was
built upwards as far as the centre of the wall which was six feet
thick, and at this point there was a narrow grating, secured both
without and within with strong close iron bars from which, outward,
the aperture sloped downward and its extremity was again secured with
strong iron bars. My prison was built in the great ditch, close to the
rampart, which was about eight feet broad on the inside; but the window
reached almost to the second wall, so that I could receive no direct
light from above and had only its reflection through a narrow hole.
However, in the course of time my organs became so accustomed to this
dimness that I could perceive a mouse run, but in winter, when the sun
seldom or never shone in the ditch, it was eternal night with me. On
the inside, before the grating, was a glass window, the middle pane of
which might be opened to let in the air. In the wall my name, ‘Trenck,’
might be read, built with red bricks; and at my feet was a gravestone,
with a death’s head and my name inscribed upon it, beneath which I was
to have been interred. My gaol had double doors made of oak; in
front of them was a sort of antechamber, with a window, and this was
likewise fastened with two doors. As the king had given positive orders
that all connection and opportunities of speaking with sentries should
be debarred me, that I might not have it in my power to seduce them,
my den was built so as not to be penetrated; and the ditch in which
the prison stood was crossed on each side by palisades twelve feet
high, the key being kept by the officer of the guards. I had no other
exercise than leaping up and down on the spot where I was chained, or
shaking the upper part of my body till I grew warm. In time I could
move about four feet from side to side, but my shin bones suffered by
this increase of territory.

[_Baron Friedrich von der Trenck_

_After the painting by Marckl_

A love affair with the Princess Amelia was the cause of the long
imprisonment of Von der Trenck by Frederick the Great, first in Glatz,
from which he escaped, and afterward in the Star Fort of the Fortress
of Magdeburg. He endured almost untold hardships, and his numerous
attempts to escape showed marvellous persistence and almost superhuman
endurance. His life was romantic and stormy. He went to Paris during
the French Revolution and was finally guillotined by Robespierre.

Illustration]

“In this prison I sat for six months, constantly in water, which was
perpetually dropping down upon me from the roof of the arch. I can
assure my reader that my body was never dry during the first three
months and yet I continued in health. As often as I was visited,
which was every day at twelve o’clock after guard mounting, the doors
were obliged to be left open some minutes, or the stifled vapour and
dampness would have extinguished the candles of the lantern. In this
condition I remained, abandoned by friends, without help or comfort;
where reflection was my only employment and where, during the first
days, until my constancy became confirmed and my heart more obdurate,
nothing but the most frightful images of grief and woe were perpetually
presenting themselves to my diseased imagination. The situation could
not have been more calculated for despair, nor can I describe the cause
which restrained my arm from suicide, for I was far above all narrow
prejudices and never felt the least fear for occurrences beyond the
grave. My design was to challenge fortune and obtain my victory in
spite of every impediment. The ambition to accomplish this victory was
perhaps the strongest inducement to my resolve, which at length rose to
such a degree of heroism and perseverance, that Socrates, in his old
days, could not boast of more. He was old, ceased to feel, and drank
the poison with indifference. I, on the contrary, was in the fire of
my youth, and the aim to which I aspired seemed to be on all sides far
distant. The present situation of my body and the tortures of my soul
were of such a nature as gave me but little reason to expect that my
frame could support them for any length of time.

“With these thoughts I struggled till midday, when my cage was for
the first time opened. Sorrow and compassion were painted on the
countenances of my guards; not one spoke a word, not so much as a
good-morrow, and terrible was their arrival, for not being used to
the monstrous bolts and locks, they rattled nearly half an hour at
the doors before the last could be opened. A wooden bedstead with a
mattress and a woollen cover were brought in, likewise an ammunition
loaf of six pounds; upon which the town-major said: ‘That you may no
longer complain of hunger, you shall have as much bread as you can
eat.’ A water jar, containing about two quarts, was placed beside
me, the doors were again shut and I was left to myself. How shall
I describe the luxurious delight I felt in the moment I had an
opportunity, for the first time, of satiating the raging hunger which
had been eleven months gnawing at me! No joy seemed to be more perfect
than this, and no mill could grind the hard corn with more expedition
than my teeth devoured my ammunition loaf; no fiery lover, after a long
and tedious languishing, could fall with more eagerness into the arms
of his yielding bride, nor any tiger be more ravenous on his prey,
than I on my humble repast. I ate, I rested, ate again, shed tears;
took one piece after another, and before night all was devoured. My
first transports did not last long and I soon learned that enjoyment
without moderation creates disgust. My stomach was enfeebled by long
abstinence, and digestion was impeded; my whole body swelled, my water
jar was empty; cramps, colics and at last thirst, with incredible
pains, tortured me continually until the next day. I already cursed
those whom a short time before I had blessed for giving me enough to
eat. Without a bed that night, I should certainly have despaired. I
was not accustomed to my cruel chains, nor had I learned the art of
lying extended in them, which afterward time and habitude taught me;
however, I could sit on my dry mattress. That night was one of the most
severe I ever endured. The following day, when my prison was opened,
I was found in the most wretched condition. The officers were amazed
at my appetite and offered me a loaf. I refused it, believing that I
should have no occasion for more. However, they brought me one, gave me
water, shrugged their shoulders and wished me happiness, for to every
appearance I could not suffer long; and the door was shut again without
my being asked if I wanted any further assistance.... During the first
three days of my melancholy incarceration my condition appeared to me
quite insupportable and deliverance impossible. I found a thousand
reasons which convinced me that it was now time to put an end to my
sufferings.”

Yet we read that this man’s indomitable pluck survived and once more
his thoughts turned to escape. He was encouraged at finding that the
doors of his cell were only of wood, and he conceived the idea that he
might cut out the locks with the knife he had so fortunately brought
with him from the fortress. “I immediately made an attempt to rid
myself of my irons, and luckily forced the fetter from my right hand
though the blood trickled from my nails. I could not for a long time
remove the other; but with some pieces of the brick from my seat I
hammered so fortunately against the rivet, which was but negligently
fastened, that I finally effected this also, and thus freed both my
arms. To the belt round my body there was only one hasp fastened to
the chain or arm bar. I set my foot against the wall and found I could
bend it; there now remained only the principal chain between the wall
and my feet. Nature had given me great strength; I twisted it across,
sprang with force back from the wall, and two links instantly gave way.
Free from chains and fancying myself already happy, I hastened to the
door, groped in the dark for the points of the nails by which the lock
was fastened, and found that I had not a great deal of wood to cut out.
I immediately cut a small hole through the oak door with my knife and
discovered that the boards were only one inch thick, and that there was
a possibility of opening all the four doors in the space of one day.
Full of hope, I returned to put on my irons; but what difficulties had
I here to surmount!

“The broken link I found, after a long search, and threw into my sink.
Fortunately for me, nobody had examined my cell because they suspected
nothing. With a piece of my hair ribbon I bound the chain together,
but when I tried to put the irons on my hands, they were so swollen
that every attempt was in vain. I worked the whole night to no purpose.
Twelve o’clock, the visiting hour, approached. Necessity and danger
urged me on; fresh attempts were made with incredible torture, and
when my keepers entered everything was in proper order.”

After this Trenck concentrated all his efforts upon cutting out the
locks of his doors. The first yielded within an hour, but the second
was a far more difficult task, as it was also closed by a bar and the
lock was opened on the outside. The work was carried on in darkness and
his self-inflicted wounds bled profusely. But when the second door had
been cut through, he came out into half daylight, which enabled him to
cut out the third lock as readily as the first. The fourth, however,
was placed like the second and involved equal labour. He was attacking
it bravely when his knife broke in his hand and the blade fell to the
ground.

Despair then seized him, and picking up his knife blade he opened the
veins of his left arm and foot, meaning to bleed to death. When almost
insensible, a voice crying, “Baron Trenck!” roused him, and on asking
who called, he learned that it was his staunch friend and ally, the
grenadier Gefhardt, who had come to the rampart to comfort him. He told
Gefhardt that he was lying in his blood and at the point of death, but
the stout old soldier consoled him with the assurance that it would
be much easier to escape here, as there were no sentries over him and
only two in the whole fort. Trenck listened with revived hope and
determined on a new plan of action. The seat in his prison was built of
brickwork, still green, and he quickly tore it down to provide himself
with missiles, which he laid out ready for use against his gaolers at
their next visit. They came at midday and were horrified to find the
three inner doors opened, the last of them barred by a terrific figure,
wounded and bleeding, and in a posture of desperate defiance. In one
hand he held a brick and with the other he brandished his knife blade,
crying fiercely, “Let no one enter; I will kill all who attempt it. You
may shoot me down, but I will not live here in chains. Stand back. I am
armed.”

The commandant had inadvertently stepped forward but retired at these
threats, and ordered his grenadiers to storm the cell. The narrow
opening allowed only one to enter at a time and a combined attack was
impossible. All halted irresolute under the menace of the missiles,
and in the pause the major and chaplain tried to reason with Von der
Trenck. The former implored him to yield and surrender the knife blade,
as the major was responsible for his possession of it and would no
doubt lose his place. These entreaties prevailed, and Trenck gave in,
being promised milder treatment. His condition cried aloud for pity;
he lay there suffering and exhausted. A surgeon was called in to apply
restoratives and dress his wounds, and for four days he was relieved
of his irons and was well fed with meat soup. Meanwhile the cell doors
were repaired and bound with iron bands. The fetters were reimposed,
but that which chained the prisoner to the wall and which he had
broken was strengthened. No amelioration of his state was possible, for
the king was implacable and still ferociously angry. Von der Trenck
remained in extreme discomfort. As his arms were constantly fastened to
the iron cross bar and his feet to the wall, he could put on neither
his shirt nor his breeches; the former, a soldier’s shirt, was tied
together at the seams and renewed every fortnight; the breeches were
opened and buttoned up at the sides; on his body he wore a blue frock
of coarse common blue cloth, and on his feet were rough ammunition
stockings and slippers.

“It is certain,” says Trenck, “that nothing but pride and self-love,
or rather a consciousness of my innocence, together with a special
confidence in my resolutions, kept me afterward alive. The hard
exercise of my body and my mind, always busy in projects to obtain my
freedom, preserved at the same time my health. But who would believe
that a daily exercise could be taken in my chains? I shook the upper
part of my body and leaped up and down till the sweat poured from my
brows, and by this means I grew fatigued and slept soundly.

“By degrees I accustomed myself to my chains. I learned to comb my hair
and at length even to tie it with one hand. My beard, which had not
yet been shaved, gave me a frightful appearance. This I plucked out;
the pain was considerable, more especially about the lips; however,
I became accustomed to this also and performed the operation during
the following years, once every six weeks or two months, for the hairs
being pulled out by the roots required that length of time to grow
again long enough to lay hold of them with my nails. Vermin never
tormented me; the great dampness of the walls was not favourable to
them; neither did my limbs swell, because I took the exercise already
mentioned; the constant darkness alone was the greatest hardship.
However, I had read, learned and already seen and experienced much in
the world; therefore I always found matter to banish melancholy from
my thoughts, and in spite of every obstacle, could connect my ideas as
well as if I had read them, or written them on paper. Habit made me so
perfect in this mental exercise that I composed whole speeches, fables,
poems and satires, and repeated them aloud to myself. At the same time
they were impressed so forcibly on my memory that after I obtained my
freedom I could have written a couple of volumes of such works.

“I employed myself in projecting new plans. That I might be more nearly
observed, a sentry was posted at my door who was always chosen from
what were called the trusty men, or the married men and natives. These,
as will be related in the course of my memoirs, were easier and safer
to bring over to my relief than strangers; for the Pomeranian is honest
and blunt, and consequently easy to move and be persuaded into anything
you please. About three weeks after the last attempt, my honest
Gefhardt was posted sentry over me. As soon as he came upon his post we
had a free opportunity of conversing with each other, for when I stood
with one foot on my bedstead my head reached as high as the air-hole
of the window. He described the situation of my gaol to me, and the
first project we formed was to break under the foundation, which he
had seen built and assured me was only two feet deep. I wanted money
above all things, and this I contrived to get in the following manner:
After Gefhardt was first relieved, he returned with a wire round which
a sheet of paper was rolled, and also a piece of small wax candle which
luckily he could pass through the grating; I got likewise some sulphur,
a piece of burning tinder and a pen; I now had a light, pricked my
finger, and my blood served for ink. I wrote to my worthy friend,
Captain Ruckhardt, at Vienna, described to him my situation in a few
words, gave him a draft for three thousand florins upon my revenues and
settled the affair in the following manner: He was to keep one thousand
florins for the expenses of his journey and to arrive without fail on
the 15th of August in Gummern, a small Saxon town, only two miles from
Magdeburg; there he was to appear at twelve o’clock with a letter in
his hand, which with the two thousand florins he should give to a man
whom he would see there carrying a roll of tobacco. Gefhardt had these
instructions, received my letter through the window in the same manner
as he had given me the paper, sent his wife with it to Gummern and
there put it safely into the post office.

“At length the 15th of August arrived,--but some days passed before
Gefhardt was posted as sentry over me. How did my heart leap with
happiness when he suddenly called out to me:--‘All is well--we have
succeeded.’ In the evening it was agreed in what manner the money was
to be conveyed to me; as my hands were fettered, I could not reach to
the grate of the window, and as the air-hole was too small, we resolved
that he should do the work of cleaning my cell and should convey the
money to me by putting it into my water jar when he filled it. This
was fortunately effected, but judge of my astonishment when I found
the whole sum of two thousand florins, of which I had promised and
desired him to take the half. Only five pistoles were wanting, and
he absolutely refused any more. Generous Pomeranian, how rare is thy
example!

“I now had money to put my designs into execution. The first plan
was to undermine the foundation of my prison, and to do this it was
necessary that I should be free from chains. Gefhardt conveyed to me
a pair of fine files. The cap or staple of the foot-ring was made so
wide that I could draw it forward a quarter of an inch; therefore I
filed the inside of the iron which passed through it. The more I
cut out, the further I could draw the staple, till at last the whole
inside iron through which the chain passed was entirely cut through,
the cap remaining on the outside entire. Thus my feet were free from
the wall and it was impossible, with the most careful examination, to
find the cut, as only the outside could be searched. By squeezing my
hands every day, I made them more pliant and at last got them through
the irons. I then filed round the hinge, made myself a screw-driver
with a twelve-inch nail drawn from the floor, and turned the screws as
I pleased, so that no marks could be seen when I was visited. The belt
round my body did not at all hinder me. I filed a piece out of a link
of the chain which fastened the bar to my arms, and the link next to it
I filed so small as to be able to get it through the opening. I then
rubbed some wet ammunition bread upon the iron to give it the proper
colour, stopped the open link with dough, and let it dry over night
by the heat of my warm body, then put spittle upon it, to give it the
burnish of iron; by this invention, I was sure that without striking
upon each with a hammer it would be impossible to find out that which
was broken.

“It was now in my power to get loose when I chose. The window never
was examined; I took out the hooks with which it was fastened in
the wall, but I put them properly in again every morning and made
all as it should be with some lime. I procured wire from my friend
and endeavoured to make a new grating. This I likewise completed;
therefore I took the old one from the window and fixed mine in its
place; this opened a free communication with the outside, and by this
means I obtained light and fire materials. That my light might not be
seen, I hung my bed cover before the window, and thus I could work as
it was convenient.”

Trenck now proceeded to penetrate the floor, which was of oaken planks
in three layers, altogether nine inches thick. He used the bar which
had fastened his arms and was now removable, and which he had ground on
the gravestone till it formed an excellent chisel to serve in digging
into the boards. These he patiently cut through and pulled up, reaching
the fine sand below the foundation on which the Star Fort was built.
The wood splinters were hidden, the sand run over in long narrow linen
bags provided by Gefhardt, which could be dragged through the window.
By the same friendly help he obtained a number of useful implements; a
knife, a bayonet, a brace of pocket pistols, and even powder and shot,
all of which he concealed under the floor.

He ascertained now that the foundation was four feet thick and that a
very deep hole must be dug to get a passage underneath the outer wall,
a long, wearisome operation demanding time, labour and caution, and
especially difficult of execution, with his figure twisted into an
awkward shape so that his hands might extract the sand. There was no
stove in the cell and it was bitterly cold, but he was warmed by his
joyous anticipations of escape. Gefhardt kept him well supplied with
provisions, sausages and hung beef, brought in paper for writing and
supplies for light, so that the time did not hang heavily.

A sudden catastrophe nearly ruined everything. In replacing the
window sash, it slipped out of his hands and fell, breaking three
panes of glass. Detection was now imminent, as fresh panes must be
inserted before the sash was refixed. Trenck was in despair, and as a
last resource appealed to the sentry of the night, a stranger, whom
he offered thirty pistoles to seek new panes. The man was happily
agreeable, and by good fortune the gate of the palisades in the ditch
had been left unlocked, so he prevailed on a comrade to relieve him for
a short time and ran down into the town, taking with him the dimensions
of the glass, secured the panes, and returned with them in time to
allow Trenck to complete his task as glazier. But for this lucky
ending, Gefhardt’s complicity would have been discovered and he would
certainly have been hanged.

Misfortunes never come singly. Trenck wanted more money and wrote to
his friend in Vienna, enclosing a draft which he was to cash and asking
him to bring the effects to the Saxon village of Gummern, a few miles
from Magdeburg, and there await Trenck’s messenger. This letter was to
be despatched by Gefhardt’s wife from Gummern across the frontier.
The foolish woman told the Saxon postmaster that the letter was of the
utmost importance, affecting a law suit of Gefhardt’s in Vienna, and
she was so anxious for its safe transmission that she handed it over
with a large fee, ten rix dollars. The postmaster’s suspicions were
aroused; he opened the letter, read it, and thinking to curry favour,
brought it to Magdeburg, where it fell into the hands of the governor,
Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick. All the fat was then in the fire.

The first intimation Trenck received was from the prince who came
in person to his cell, followed by a large staff of officials. The
governor called upon the prisoner to confess who had carried his letter
to Gummern. Trenck denied that he had sent any letter, and his cell
was searched forthwith. Smiths, carpenters and masons entered, but
after an hour’s work failed to discover more than the false grating
in the window. The prince upbraided, argued, threatened; but Trenck
obstinately refused to speak. The governor had scarcely been gone an
hour when some one came in saying that one of his accomplices had
already hanged himself, and, fearing that it was his good friend, he
was on the point of betraying Gefhardt, when he heard by accident that
the suicide was some one else. He took fresh courage from the fact
that his diggings had not been exposed, and that he had five hundred
florins in gold safely concealed, with a good supply of candles and all
his implements. After this collapse, there was a change in Trenck’s
condition. The regiment in the garrison went off to the Seven Years’
War which had just broken out, and was relieved by a party of militia,
and a new commandant took charge, General Borck, who was informed
by the king that he must answer for Trenck with his head. Borck was
timorous and mistrustful, a stupid bully, who acted to his prisoner
“as an executioner to a criminal.” He increased Trenck’s irons, and
had a broad neck ring added with a chain that hung down and joined the
anklet; he removed the prisoner’s bedding, did not even give him straw,
and constantly abused him with “a thousand insulting expressions.”
“However,” says Trenck, “I did not remain a single word in his debt and
vexed him almost to madness.”

The object of the governor was to cut Trenck off from all communication
with mankind. To assure complete isolation, the four keys of his
four doors were kept by four different persons; the commandant held
one, the town-major another, the third was kept by the officer of
the day and the fourth by the lieutenant of the guard. The prisoner
had no opportunity for speaking to any of them singly, until the
rule slackened. The commandant rarely appeared; Magdeburg became so
filled with prisoners of war that the town-major gave up his key to
the officer of the day; and the other officers, when they dined with
General Walrabe, who was also confined in the Star Fort, passed their
keys to the lieutenant of the guard. So in this way Trenck sometimes
had a word with each of them alone, and in due course secured the
friendship of two of them.

At this period his situation was truly deplorable. “The enormous iron
round my neck,” he says, “pained me and impeded motion, and I dared not
attempt to disengage myself from the pendent chains till I had for some
months carefully observed the method of examination and learned which
parts they supposed were perfectly secure. The cruelty of depriving
me of my bed was still greater; I was obliged to sit upon the bare
ground and lean with my head against the damp wall. The chains that
descended from the neck collar I was obliged to support, first with one
hand and then with the other, for, if thrown behind, they would have
strangled me, and if hanging forward occasioned excessive headaches.
The bar between my hands held me down, while, leaning on one elbow, I
supported my chains with the other, and this so benumbed the muscles
and prevented circulation that I could perceive my arms sensibly waste
away. The little sleep I could have in such a situation may easily be
supposed, and at length body and mind sank under this accumulation of
miserable suffering, and I fell ill of a burning fever. The tyrant
Borck was inexorable; he wished to expedite my death and rid himself
of his troubles and his terrors. Here did I experience the condition of
a sick prisoner, without bed, refreshment, or aid from a human being.
Reason, fortitude, heroism, all the noble qualities of the mind, decay
when the bodily faculties are diseased, and the remembrance of my
sufferings at this dreadful moment still agitates, still inflames my
blood so as almost to prevent an attempt to describe what they were.
Yet hope did not totally forsake me. Deliverance seemed possible,
especially should peace ensue; and I sustained, perhaps, such suffering
as mortal man never bore, being, as I was, provided with pistols or
any such immediate mode of despatch. I continued ill about two months,
and was so reduced at last that I had scarcely strength to lift the
water jug to my mouth. What must be the sufferings of that man who
sits two months on the bare ground in a dungeon so damp, so dark, so
horrible, without bed or straw, his limbs loaded as mine were, with
no refreshment but dry ammunition bread; without so much as a drop of
broth, without physic, without a consoling friend, and who under all
these afflictions must trust for his recovery to the efforts of nature
alone!”

The officers on guard all commiserated him, and one of them,
Lieutenant Sonntag, often came and sat with him when he could get all
the keys. This officer was poor and in debt and did not refuse the
money liberally offered by Trenck. A fresh plan of escape was soon
conceived. As before, the essential preliminary was to obtain more cash
to be employed in further bribery. The lieutenant, Sonntag, provided
false handcuffs so wide that Trenck could easily draw his hands out,
and he was soon able to disencumber himself at pleasure of all his
other chains except the neck-iron. It was no longer possible to get out
by the hole first constructed, as the sentinels had been doubled, and
Trenck began driving a new subterranean passage thirty-seven feet long
to the gallery in the principal rampart, through which, if gained, a
free exit was assured.

Another superhuman task was begun, which lasted for nearly a year. A
deep hole was sunk, and on reaching the sand below the foundation,
a transverse passage was driven through it, entailing such severe
fatigue that at the end of one day’s work Trenck was obliged to rest
for the three following days. It was necessary to work naked, as the
dirtiness on his shirt would have been observed; at the depth of four
feet the sand became wet and a stratum of gravel was reached. “The
labour toward the conclusion,” Trenck tells us, “became so intolerable
as to incite despondency. I frequently sat contemplating the heaps of
sand during a momentary respite from work, and thinking it impossible
I could have strength or time to replace all things as they were. I
thought sometimes of abandoning my enterprise and leaving everything
in its present disorder. Recollecting, however, the prodigious efforts
and all the progress I had made, hope would again revive and exhausted
strength return; again would I begin my labours to preserve my secret
and my expectations. When my work was within six or seven feet of being
accomplished, a new misfortune happened that at once frustrated all
further attempts. I worked, as I have said, under the foundations of
the rampart near where the sentinels stood. I could disencumber myself
of my fetters, except my neck-collar and its pendent chain. This,
although it had been fastened, got loose as I worked, and the clanking
was heard by one of the sentinels about fifteen feet from my dungeon.
The officer was called; they laid their ears to the ground, and heard
me as I went backward and forward to bring my earth bags. This was
reported the next day, and the major, who was my best friend, with the
town-major, a smith and a mason entered my prison. I was terrified.
The lieutenant, by a sign, gave me to understand I was discovered. An
examination was begun, but the officers would not see, and the smith
and mason found everything, as they thought, safe. Had they examined my
bed they would have seen the ticking and sheets were gone.”

A few days later the same sentinel, who had been called a blockhead
for raising a false alarm, again heard Trenck burrowing, and called
his comrades. The major came also to hear the noise, and it was now
realised that Trenck was working under the foundation toward the
gallery. The officials entered the gallery at the other end with
lanterns, and Trenck as he crawled along saw the light and their
heads. He knew the worst, and hurrying back to his cell, had still the
presence of mind to conceal his pistols, candles, paper and money in
various holes and hiding places, where they were never found. This was
barely accomplished before his guards arrived, headed by the brutal
and stupid major, Bruckhausen by name. The hole in the floor was at
once filled up and the planking reinstated; his foot-chains, instead
of being merely fastened as before, were screwed down and riveted. The
worst trial for the moment was the loss of his bed, which he had cut up
to make into bags for the removal of the sand.

At this time General Borck was ill with an ailment that soon ended
in mental derangement. Another general, Krusemarck, replaced him and
proceeded to visit Trenck. They had been old friends and brother
officers, but the general showed him no compassion; on the contrary,
he abused him roundly, promising him even more severe treatment. It
was then that the inhuman order was issued to the night guards to
waken Trenck every quarter of an hour,--a devilish form of cruelty
unsurpassed in prison punishments. Kindly nature, however, came to the
rescue, and Trenck learned to answer automatically in his sleep; yet
this cruel device was continued for four years and until within a few
months of his final release.

The precautions taken effectually debarred the prisoner from any fresh
attempt at evasion. A new governor had replaced the madman Borck,
Lieutenant-Colonel Reichmann, a humane and mild-mannered officer. About
this time, several members Of the royal family, including Princess
Amelia, came to reside at Magdeburg and showed a kindly interest in
Trenck’s grievous lot; his cell doors were presently opened each day
to admit daylight and fresh air. He found employment, too, for his
restless energies and was permitted to carve verses and figures upon
the pewter cup provided as part of his cell furniture. The first
rude attempt was much admired, the cup was impounded, and a new one
served out; several, indeed, were provided in succession, so that
Trenck became quite expert in this artistic employment and laboured
at it continuously until the day of his release. By means of these
cups he opened up communication with the outside world. Hitherto all
correspondence had been forbidden; no one under pain of death might
converse with him or supply him with pen, ink or paper. Strange to
say, he was allowed to engrave what he pleased upon the pewter, and
the cups were in great demand and passed into many hands. One reached
the empress-queen of Austria and stimulated her to plead for Trenck’s
pardon through her minister accredited to the court of Frederick. The
engraving that touched her feelings was that of a bird in a cage held
by a Turk, with the inscription, “The bird sings even in the storm:
open his cage and break his fetters, ye friends of virtue, and his
songs shall be the delight of your abodes.” The demand for these cups
was so keen that Trenck worked at them by candle light for eighteen
hours a day, and the reflected lustre from the pewter seriously injured
his eyesight. It is a pathetic picture,--that of the active-minded,
undefeated captive, labouring incessantly although weighed down by
chains and the terrible encumbrance of a huge collar which pressed
on the arteries at the back of his neck and occasioned intolerable
headache.

Although repeatedly foiled in his assiduous attempts to break prison,
the indomitable Trenck never abated his unshaken desire to compass
freedom. At length opportunity offered for a larger and more dangerous
project: the seizure of the Star Fort and the capture of Magdeburg. At
that time the war was in full progress and the garrison of the fortress
consisted of only nine hundred discontented men of the militia. Trenck
had already won over two majors and two lieutenants to his interest.
The guard of the Star Fort was limited to one hundred and fifteen men.
The town gate immediately opposite was held by no more than twelve
men under a sergeant; just within it was a barrack filled with seven
thousand Croat prisoners of war, several of whose officers were
willing to join in an uprising. It was arranged that a whole company of
Prussians should turn out at a moment’s notice with muskets loaded and
bayonets fixed, to head the attack as soon as Trenck had overpowered
the two sentinels who stood over him, secured them and locked them into
his cell. It was an ambitious plan and was well worth the attempt.
Magdeburg was the great national storehouse, holding all the sinews
of war, treasure and munitions, and Trenck in possession, backed with
sixteen thousand Croats, might have dictated his own terms. The plot
failed through the treachery of an agent despatched to Vienna with a
letter, seeking cooperation; it was given into the wrong hands and
was sent back to Magdeburg, where the governor, then the landgrave
of Hesse-Cassel, read it and took prompt precautions to secure the
fortress. An investigation was ordered, and Trenck was formally
arraigned as a traitor to his country, but he sturdily denied the
authorship of the incriminating letter, and the charge was not brought
home to him. The landgrave was more merciful than former governors and
showed great kindness to Trenck, relieved him of his intolerable iron
collar, sent his own private physician to attend him in his illness and
revoked the cruel order that prescribed his incessant awakening during
the night.

A fresh attempt to undermine the wall was soon undertaken by the
captive, but he was presently discovered at work and the hole in the
floor walled up. The humane landgrave did not punish him further, and
in the period of calm that followed, Trenck’s hopes were revived with
the prospect of approaching peace, for he was now at liberty to read
the newspapers. But when the landgrave succeeded to his throne and
left Magdeburg, Trenck in despair turned his thoughts once more to a
means of escape, and decided on the same method of driving a tunnel
underground. A dreadful accident befell him in this particular attempt.
While mining under the foundation, he struck his foot against a loose
stone which dropped into the passage and completely closed the opening.
Death by suffocation stared him in the face and paralyzed his powers.
For eight full hours he could not stir a finger to release himself, but
at last he managed to turn his body into a ball and excavate a hole
under the stone till it sank and left him sufficient space to crawl
over it and get out.

All was in a fair way to final evasion when Trenck had another narrow
escape from discovery. It occurred through a pet mouse he had tamed
and trained to come at his call, to play round him and eat from his
hand. One night Trenck had encouraged it to dance and caper on a
plate, and the noise made attracted the attention of the sentries,
who gave the alarm. An anxious visitation was made at daybreak;
smiths and masons closely scrutinised walls and floors and minutely
searched the prisoner. Trenck was asked to explain the disturbance,
and whistled to his mouse which came out and jumped upon his shoulder.
The alarm forthwith subsided, and yet he found what the searchers had
missed,--that his mouse had nibbled away the chewed bread with which he
had filled the interstices between the planks of the floor which he had
cut to penetrate below.

Trenck’s efforts did not flag till the very last hour of his
imprisonment, nor did his gaolers relax their determination to hold
him. One of their last devices was to reconstruct and strengthen his
prison cell by paving the floor with huge flagstones. His courage was
beginning to fail, but the darkest hour was before the dawn. Quite
unexpectedly on Christmas Eve, 1763, the governor appeared at his cell
door, accompanied by the blacksmith. “Rejoice,” he cried, “the king has
been graciously pleased to relieve you of your irons;” and again,--“The
king wills that you shall have a better apartment;” and last of
all,--“The king wills that you shall go free.”

It has been said that the empress-queen of Austria had been moved to
compassion for Trenck by the engraving on the pewter cup that came into
her hands. His beloved Princess Amelia had also been active in trying
to obtain his release. She employed a clever business man in Vienna,
who at her bidding and for a sum of two thousand ducats won over a
confidential servant of Maria Theresa, and caused him to intercede
for the wretched prisoner at Magdeburg, who after all was still an
Austrian officer. The kind-hearted Hapsburg sovereign wrote a personal
letter to Frederick, her great antagonist, and the king of Prussia at
last pardoned the miserable man who had dwelt for ten years in a living
tomb. Like all political prisoners, he was obliged to bind himself by
oath to the following conditions, which were not exactly performed by
him:--that he would take no revenge on anyone; that he would not cross
the Saxon or the Prussian frontiers to re-enter those states; that he
would neither speak nor write of what had happened to him; that he
would not, so long as the king lived, serve in any army either in a
civil or military capacity.

After his liberation, he first lived in Vienna, where he came into
personal contact with Maria Theresa and the emperors Francis and Joseph
II. Later he settled at Aix-la-Chapelle, where he married the daughter
of Burgomaster de Broe, and conducted a flourishing wine business. He
undertook long journeys, and published his poems and autobiography,
which had an immense success and were translated into almost every
European language; he was also the editor of a newspaper and another
periodical entitled _The Friend of Men_, and he amassed a handsome
fortune.

After the death of Frederick, Trenck was allowed to return to Berlin
and his confiscated goods were restored to him. His first visit was
to his liberator and earliest love, the Princess Amelia; the interview
was most affecting and heartrending. They were both greatly changed in
appearance and more like the ghosts of their former brilliant selves.
She inquired for his numerous children, for whom she assured him she
would do all in her power, and he parted from her full of gratitude
and greatly moved. It is a creditable trait in Trenck’s character that
in spite of all his sufferings he did not hate the Prussian king,
Frederick the Great.

One would think this aged adventurer would now seek rest, but far from
it. He was attracted to Paris by the outbreak of the French Revolution,
and he felt the necessity for playing an active part. He finally fell
into the hands of Robespierre, and was tried and guillotined at the
age of sixty-nine. On the scaffold his great stature, for he was much
above the average height, towered over his fellow-sufferers. He looked
quietly at the crowd and said, “Why do you stare? This is but a comedy
à la Robespierre!”

The day before his tragic death he gave to a fellow-prisoner, Count
B----, the last memento he possessed of the lady who had been the
first innocent cause of his sufferings, a tortoise-shell box with the
portrait of the Princess Amelia. The 9th Thermidor saved the count, and
the box was long preserved in his family.



CHAPTER III

NOTORIOUS POISONERS

    Famous female poisoners--This crime not so prevalent in
    Germany as in southern countries--Frau Ursinus--Her early
    history--Mysterious deaths of her husband and aunt--Attempted
    murder of her man-servant--Arrested and sentenced to
    imprisonment for life in the fortress of Glatz--Anna Schönleben
    or Zwanziger--Deaths followed her advent into different
    families--Arrested at Bayreuth, confessed her guilt and was
    condemned to death.


In the early decades of the nineteenth century, when the Napoleonic
wars caused constant conflict and change, crime flourished with rank
growth in most European countries and nowhere more than in the German
states,--both those that remained more or less independent and those
brought into subjection to the French Empire. Whole provinces were
ravaged by organised bands of brigands, such as that which obeyed
the notorious Schinderhannes; travelling was unsafe by all ordinary
roads and communications; thieves and depredators abounded; murderers
stalked rampant through the land; the most atrocious homicides, open
and secret, were constantly planned and perpetrated; swindling and
imposture on a large scale were frequently practised, and crimes of
every kind were committed by all kinds of people in all classes of
society.

Poisoning was not unknown as a means of removal, although it never
prevailed to the same extent as among people of warmer blood. It
never grew into an epidemic affecting whole groups and associations,
but it occurred in individual cases, exhibiting the same features as
elsewhere. This form of feloniously doing to death has ever commended
itself to the female sex. Women are so circumstanced as wives, nurses
and in domestic service that they possess peculiar facilities for
the administration of poison, and so the most prominent poisoners in
criminal history have been women.

A curious instance is to be found in the German records, and the story
may be told in this place as belonging to this period. The murderess
was a certain Frau Ursinus, widow of a privy counsellor who was also
president of a government board. Ursinus was a highly esteemed member
of the upper classes of Berlin. Deep interest attached to this case of
Frau Ursinus from the prominent position occupied by her late husband,
her considerable fortune, her prepossessing person and spotless
reputation, as well as her cultured mind which made her conspicuous in
the society of the Prussian capital. The news, therefore, of her sudden
and unexpected arrest on a criminal charge, caused great consternation
and surprise.

Early in May, Frau Ursinus was at a party, playing whist, when a
footman, evidently greatly perturbed, came in and said that several
police officials were in the anteroom and wished to speak to her.
She rose without manifesting any emotion, put down her cards, excused
herself to her fellow-players for this slight interruption, doubtless
caused by a mistake which would soon be accounted for, and adding
that she hoped soon to return, left the room. She did not, however,
come back to resume her game, and after a few moments of strained
expectation it became known that she had been arrested and taken to
prison on a criminal charge.

Her servant, Benjamin Klein, had complained of not feeling well one day
toward the end of the previous February. His mistress had accordingly
given him a cup of broth and a few days later some currants. These
remedies were of no avail, and he became worse. When, on February 28th,
Frau Ursinus offered him some rice, he refused it, whereupon she threw
it away, a singular proceeding on her part, as he thought, and his
suspicions were aroused that the food she had previously administered
to him had contained something deleterious. He made a strict search in
consequence through his mistress’s apartments, and presently discovered
a powder labelled arsenic in one of the cupboards. This happened on
March 21st. On the following day, Frau Ursinus offered him some plums,
which he accepted but prudently did not taste. Then he confided the
result of his search and his fears to his mistress’s maid, Schley,
who took the plums to her brother, an apprentice in a chemist’s shop,
where they were analysed. The plums were found to contain arsenic and
the master of the establishment immediately laid the information before
the authorities; an inquiry was set on foot, the principal witnesses
were examined, and in the end Frau Ursinus was taken into custody.
These facts came out after the arrest and a good deal more was assumed.
It was rumoured that she had not only poisoned her deceased husband
three years previously, but also her aunt, a spinster called Witte
as well, and a Dutch officer of the name of Rogay. These deaths had
occurred in sequence after that of the privy counsellor.

Frau Ursinus persistently denied all the earlier charges of
administering poison, but admitted the attempts upon her servant,
Klein. A thorough investigation followed, and a number of damning facts
in her past and present life were brought to light.

Sophie Charlotte Elizabeth, the widow Ursinus, was born on May 5,
1760, and was the daughter of the secretary of the Austrian legation,
Weingarten, afterward called Von Weiss. Contemporary historians call
him Baron von Weingarten. He was supposed to have turned traitor to the
Austrian government, and this led to his settling in Prussia and to
his change of name. According to common belief, he had really refused
a tempting offer made to him by the Prussian government to hand over
some important papers, very much wanted. But he was in love, and the
mother of his betrothed, an enthusiastic partisan of Frederick the
Great, managed to abstract the papers from a cupboard. He had to bear
the brunt of this misdeed and voluntarily accepted exile. Charlotte
lived with her parents until her twelfth year, and was then committed
to the care of a married sister in Spandau to be educated. Her parents
were Catholics but she declared herself a Lutheran. Later, the father
and mother being unwilling to countenance a love affair into which
their daughter had been drawn, took up their residence in Stendal.
Here Charlotte became acquainted with her future husband, at that time
counsellor of the Supreme Court, who after a year’s acquaintance,
sought her hand. She did not precisely love this grave, sickly, elderly
man, but she confessed to a sincere liking and was willing to marry
him on account of his many excellent qualities, his position and
his prospects. She was then in her nineteenth year. The pair, after
moving to and fro a great deal, finally settled in Berlin, where Privy
Counsellor Ursinus died on September 11, 1800.

The match had not been happy; husband and wife lived separately; they
were childless and Frau Ursinus was inclined to flirtation, having
taken a strong fancy to a Dutch officer named Rogay. The aged husband
did not seem to disapprove of the attachment, which his wife always
maintained was perfectly platonic, and it was generally believed that
the phlegmatic Dutchman was incapable of the “grand passion.” After
leaving Berlin, probably to escape her influence, Rogay returned and
died there three years before the privy counsellor. When the propensity
of Frau Ursinus to secret poisoning was discovered, the making away
with this Dutch officer was laid to her charge, but she was acquitted
of the crime, and it was indeed sworn by two competent physicians that
Rogay had died of consumption.

Privy Counsellor Ursinus died very suddenly and mysteriously, his
death being in no wise attributed at the time to his chronic ailments.
But when, three years later, the widow came under suspicion, serious
doubts were entertained as to whether she had not poisoned her husband.
Her own account as to the manner of his death only strengthened the
presumption of her guilt. According to her statement, she had given a
small party on September 10th, her husband’s birthday. He was in fairly
good spirits, but had remarked more than once that he feared he was not
long for this life. On retiring to rest, his wife saw nothing wrong
with him, but in the middle of the night his moans and groans awakened
her. An emetic stood handy by the bedside, kept thus in readiness by
the doctor’s order (which the doctor subsequently denied), and Frau
Ursinus wished him to take it, but gave him an elixir instead. As he
did not improve, she tried the emetic and rang up the servants, but
none came; then she sought the porter, desiring him to call them, but
still no one appeared. So she remained alone with her suffering husband
through the entire night. The following morning he was in a very weak
and feeble condition and he died on the afternoon of the same day.

Grave suspicion of foul play was now aroused and Frau Ursinus was
arrested. It was urged against her that she had shown no real desire to
summon the servants; that she made no attempt to call in the doctor;
that the family physician had never prescribed the emetic; why, then,
was it there? A worse charge against the wife was her volunteering the
statement that she kept arsenic to kill rats, a conventional excuse
often made in such cases. And in this case it was put forward quite
unnecessarily, for there were no rats in the house.

Yet there was no definite charge against Frau Ursinus. No motive for
murder could be ascertained. They were by no means bad friends, this
wedded pair. Frau Ursinus might in her secret heart desire to be freed
from the bond that tied her to an infirm old man, and marry another
husband, but she had always appeared grateful to the privy counsellor
and treated him kindly. On the other hand, it was proved that she had
purchased a quantity of arsenic for the purpose of destroying the
fictitious rats. Sufficient doubt existed to justify the exhumation
of the body and proceed to a postmortem examination. No definitely
incriminating evidence was, however, forthcoming. The autopsy was
conducted by two eminent doctors, who could find no positive traces
of arsenic, but there was a presumption from the general condition of
the vital organs and convulsive contraction of the limbs that it had
been used. Three physicians who had attended Herr Ursinus in his last
illness testified that his death resulted from a natural cause, that
of apoplexy of the nerves, and repudiated all idea of arsenic. At this
stage there was a foregone conclusion that Frau Ursinus would be quite
exonerated from the felonious charge.

Suddenly the situation entered upon a new phase. Frau Ursinus was
accused of another and entirely new murder, that of her aunt, a maiden
lady named Witte, who had died at Charlottenburg on the 23d January,
1801, after a short illness. No suspicious circumstances were noted
at the time of her death, but after the arrest of Frau Ursinus, the
possibility of her complicity in this deed took definite shape. A
careful inquiry ensued and the inculpation, amounting to little less
than certainty, was soon established. Again the process of exhumation
was set afoot and there was not the smallest doubt that the deceased
had died from arsenical poisoning. It was equally certain that Frau
Ursinus had administered it.

On her own confession she admitted her arrival at her aunt’s house on
January the 16th. Fräulein Witte was sick and complaining, and her
niece, who professed great affection for her, decided to spend some
little time with her. On the day following the arrival of her niece,
Fräulein Witte’s disorder increased, and she had other disquieting
symptoms. Frau Ursinus now summoned a doctor, stating that she herself
felt so low and depressed that she contemplated suicide and had made
up her mind to take poison. In the meantime, her aunt became more and
more seriously ill. On the 23d of January Frau Ursinus persuaded her to
let another physician be called in, who pronounced the illness to be
unimportant, but when he left it increased. Frau Ursinus watched by her
aunt all night, during the course of which the poor woman died. She was
quite alone with her expiring victim and must have been a witness of
her terrible convulsions. It came out at the trial that on the occasion
of a previous visit to Charlottenburg, Frau Ursinus had written to a
chemist in Berlin for a good dose of poison to destroy the rats in her
aunt’s house. Here again the rats were non-existent.

This pretence was as false as was her insistence on the fact that she
had been in a great state of depression since her husband’s death. This
mental condition and her consequent desire to commit suicide came up
prominently at her trial. She had always affected great sensibility,
wishing to pose as a fragile, delicate person, as she considered robust
health to be vulgar. Yet she was naturally strong and well. No proof
could ever be found that she meant to take her own life. When really
she had most ground for depression, being burdened with a terrible
accusation, and the scaffold loomed threateningly before her, the
undaunted spirit of the woman rose to the occasion and her real and
powerful nature asserted itself. She did not exhibit the smallest sign
of low spirits, but fought on with desperate courage and self-reliance,
disputing every point, lying freely and recklessly in her unshaken
resolve to save life and honour. Her adroitness in defence was greatly
aided by her extraordinary knowledge of the Prussian criminal code.
Very rarely her fortitude deserted her, and she was betrayed into a
strange admission, that if she had really handed poison to her aunt she
must have been out of her mind. The object of this particular murder
was plainly indicated in the fact that she expected a considerable
inheritance from Fräulein Witte. Conviction in this case followed
almost as a matter of course.

Her guilt in attempting the life of the man-servant Klein was never in
doubt, but the motive remained obscure to the very end. One explanation
was offered by Frau Ursinus herself. She denied all wish to kill him
but admitted that she was making an experiment in the operation of
lethal drugs with the idea of ascertaining their effect on herself.
A more plausible reason was that she had at one time made him her
confidant and wished to use him as a go-between in negotiating a
second marriage. They had quarrelled, and Klein was about to leave
her service, which she dreaded, lest he might tell tales and make her
appear ridiculous before the world. She owed him a deep grudge also for
having presumed upon the favour she had shown him. To get rid of so
presumptuous and dangerous a person was enough to move this truculent
poisoner to seek to compass his death. Klein eventually recovered his
health and survived for twenty-three years, living comfortably on a
pension forcibly extracted from Frau Ursinus.

The verdict pronounced upon her was one of “not guilty” as regards
her husband and the Dutch officer Rogay. But she was fully convicted
of having murdered her aunt, Christina Regina Witte, and of several
felonious attempts to poison her servant, Benjamin Klein. Her sentence
was imprisonment for life in a fortress and she endured it in Glatz,
on the frontier of Silesia and Bohemia. From the first she was treated
with excessive leniency and in a way to prove that prison discipline
was then a mere farce in Prussia. She was permitted to furnish and
arrange the quarters allotted to her according to her own taste, and
she spent much time at a comfortable writing table under a well lighted
window. She engaged a lady companion to be with her constantly, and
passing travellers curious to make the acquaintance of a murderess were
allowed to call on her and to listen to her unending protestations of
innocence. She did not always evoke sympathy, and the government was
much abused for its favouritism. A cutting comparison was drawn between
this aristocratic criminal parading the ramparts of Glatz in silks and
satins, and humble offenders who had been condemned for succumbing
weakly to ungovernable rage and who were driven to toilsome labour in
deep ditches, heavily chained and grossly ill-used. Here she acted
the lady of quality, and being possessed of a considerable income,
was able to give parties which were largely attended. At one of these
receptions, it is said that a lady guest on noticing some grains of
sugar sparkling in a salad involuntarily started back. Frau Ursinus
remarking this, said, smiling sarcastically, “Don’t be afraid, it is
not arsenic!”

Her companion who was with her until her death on April 4, 1836, and
never left her, bore witness to her religious resignation in bearing
her physical suffering caused chiefly by a chest complaint. She
remained more or less unconscious for some months, but on the night
before her end her mental faculties returned and she passed away
peacefully. She was the first person to be buried in the Protestant
cemetery which King Frederick William III had given to the evangelical
congregation at Glatz.

A year before her death she had ordered a costly oak coffin. Clad in a
white petticoat, a cap trimmed with pale blue ribbon on her head, her
hands encased in white gloves, on one finger a ring which had belonged
to her late husband and with his portrait on her breast, she lay as
if asleep, an expression of peace upon her unchanged face. Several
carriages, filled with her friends and acquaintances, followed the body
to the grave, which was decorated with moss and flowers, and when the
clergyman had finished his discourse, six poor boys and the same number
of girls, to whom she had shown great kindness, sang a hymn in her
honour. Instead of the sexton, the hands of friends and poor recipients
of the dead woman’s charity filled in the grave and shaped the mound
above it. It was a bitterly cold morning, and yet the cemetery could
hardly contain the people who thronged it.

Thus Frau “Geheimräthin” Ursinus died in the odour of sanctity. Her
many relatives, who greatly needed money, only received one-half of
her fortune; the other half she parcelled out into various bequests
and several pious institutions benefited; and we may thus fairly
conclude that she desired to rehabilitate her accursed name by
ostentatious deeds of charity. She left her gaoler, who had treated her
considerately, five hundred thalers and his daughter a piano. Doctor
Friedham, who had procured the royal favour through which she was
liberated from the fortress, received a substantial legacy.

Another female poisoner in a lower sphere of life, whose lethal
propensities were more strongly developed and more widespread, belongs
to this period and the neighbouring kingdom of Bavaria. The woman, Anna
Schönleben or Zwanziger--her married name--known in criminal history
as the German Brinvilliers, was as noxious as a pestilence, and death
followed everywhere in her footsteps. Never did any human being hunger
more to kill, and revel more wantonly in the reckless and unscrupulous
employment of the means that secret poisoning put at her disposal. Her
extravagant fondness for it was “based upon the proud consciousness of
possessing a power which enabled her to break through every restraint,
to attain every object, to gratify every inclination and to determine
the very existence of others. Poison was the magic wand with which
she ruled those whom she outwardly obeyed, and which opened the way
to her fondest hopes. Poison enabled her to deal out death, sickness
and torture to all who offended her or stood in her way; it punished
every slight; it prevented the return of unwelcome guests; it disturbed
those social pleasures which it galled her not to share; it afforded
her amusement by the contortions of the victims, and an opportunity
of ingratiating herself by affected sympathy with their sufferings;
it was the means of throwing suspicion upon innocent persons and of
getting fellow servants into trouble. Mixing and giving poison became
her constant occupation; she practised it in jest and in earnest,
and at last with real passion for poison itself, without reference
to the object for which it was given. She grew to love it from long
habit, and from gratitude for its faithful services; she looked upon
it as her truest friend and made it her constant companion. Upon
her apprehension, arsenic was found in her pocket, and when it was
laid before her at Culmbach to be identified, she seemed to tremble
with pleasure and gazed upon the white powder with eyes beaming with
rapture.”

We will take up her story when she was a widow of about fifty years
old, resident at Pegnitz and bearing the name of Anna Schönleben. In
1808 she was received as housekeeper into the family of Justice Glaser,
who had for some time previous been living apart from his wife. Shortly
after the beginning of her service, however, a partial reconciliation
took place, in a great measure effected through the exertions of
Schönleben, and the wife returned to her husband’s house. But their
reunion was of short duration, for in the course of four weeks after
her return, she was seized with a sudden and violent illness, of which,
in a day or two, she expired.

After this event, Schönleben quitted the service of Glaser and was
received in the same capacity into the household of Justice Grohmann,
who was then unmarried. Although only thirty-eight years of age, he
was in delicate health and had suffered severely from gout, so that
Schönleben soon gained his favour by the kindly attentions she bestowed
upon his health. Her cares, however, were unavailing; her master
fell sick in the spring of 1809, his disease being accompanied with
violent internal pains of the stomach, dryness of the skin, vomiting,
etc., and he died on the 8th of May after an illness of eleven days.
Schönleben, who had nursed him with unremitting anxiety and solicitude
during his illness and administered all his medicines with her own
hand, appeared inconsolable for his loss and that of her situation.
The high character, however, which she had acquired for her unflagging
devotion and tenderness as a sick nurse, immediately procured her
another post in the family of Herr Gebhard, whose wife was at that time
on the point of being confined. This event took place on the 13th of
May, shortly after the arrival of the new housekeeper, who made herself
particularly useful. Mother and child were thought to be progressing
extremely well when, on the third day after the birth, the lady was
seized with spasms, high temperature, violent thirst, vomiting, etc.
In the extremity of her agony, she frequently exclaimed that they had
given her poison. Seven days after her confinement she expired.

Gebhard, the widower, bereaved and helpless in managing household
affairs, thought it would be prudent to retain the housekeeper in
his service who had been so zealous and assiduous during his wife’s
illness. Some of his friends sought to dissuade him from keeping a
servant who seemed by some fatality to bring death into every family
with which she became connected. The objection arose from mere
superstitious dread, for as yet no accusation had been hinted at, and
Gebhard, a very matter of fact person, laughed at their apprehensions.
Schönleben, who was very obliging, with a great air of honesty,
humility and kindliness, remained in his house and was invested with
almost unlimited authority.

During her residence in the Gebhard household, there were many
circumstances which, although they excited little attention at the
time, were subsequently remembered against her. They will be mentioned
hereafter; for the present, let us follow the course of events and the
gradual growth of suspicion. Gebhard had at last, by the importunity
of his friends, been persuaded to part with his housekeeper and did
so with many regrets. Schönleben received her dismissal without any
remark beyond an expression of surprise at the suddenness of his
decision. Her departure for Bayreuth was fixed for the next day, and
she busied herself with arranging the rooms, and filled the salt box
in the kitchen, remarking that it was the custom for one who went
away to do this for her successor. On the next morning, as a token
of her good-will, she made coffee for the maids, supplying them with
sugar from a paper of her own. The coach which her master had been
good-natured enough to procure for her was already at the door. She
took his child, now twenty weeks old, in her arms, gave it a biscuit
soaked in milk, caressed it and took her leave. Scarcely had she been
gone half an hour when both the child and servants were seized with
violent retching, which lasted some hours and left them extremely weak
and ill. Suspicion being now at last fairly awakened, Gebhard had the
salt box examined, which Schönleben had so officiously filled. The salt
was found strongly impregnated with arsenic; in the salt barrel also,
from which it had been taken, thirty grains of arsenic were found mixed
with about three pounds of salt.

It was now clear to every one that the series of sudden deaths which
had occurred in the families in which Schönleben had resided, had
been due to arsenical poison, and it seemed extraordinary that this
circumstance had been so long overlooked. It came to light now that
while she was with Gebhard two friends who had dined with her master
in August, 1809, were seized after dinner with the same symptoms of
vomiting, convulsions, spasms and so forth, which had attacked the
servants on the day of Schönleben’s departure, and again, had shown
themselves in the condition of the unfortunate mistress when she died.
Also Schönleben had on one occasion given a glass of white wine to
a servant who had called with a message, which had produced similar
effects; the attack was indeed so violent as to oblige him to remain
in bed for several days. On another occasion she had taken a lad of
nineteen, Johann Kraus, into the cellar, where she had offered him a
glass of brandy which he tasted, but perceiving a white sediment in it,
declined to swallow. And again, one of her fellow servants, Barbara
Waldmann, with whom Schönleben had had frequent quarrels, after
drinking a cup of coffee was seized with exactly the same symptoms as
the others. Last of all, it was remembered that at a party which Judge
Grohmann gave, he sent her to the cellar for some jugs of beer, and
after partaking of it, he and all his guests--five in number--were
almost immediately seized with the usual spasms.

The long interval which had elapsed since the death of most of these
individuals rendered it improbable that an examination of the bodies
would throw any light upon these dark transactions. It was resolved,
however, to put the matter to the test, and the result of this tardy
inspection was more decisive than might have been expected; all the
bodies exhibited in a greater or less degree traces of arsenic. On the
whole, the medical authorities felt themselves justified in stating
that the deaths of at least two of the three individuals had been
occasioned by poison.

Meantime Schönleben had been living quietly at Bayreuth, quite
unconscious of the storm gathering round her. Her finished hypocrisy
even led her, while on the way there, to write a letter to her late
master reproaching him with his ingratitude at dismissing one who had
been a protecting angel to his child; and in passing through Nürnberg,
she dared to take up her residence with the mother of her victim,
Gebhard’s wife. On reaching Bayreuth, she again wrote to Gebhard vainly
hoping he would take her back into his service, and she made a similar
unsuccessful attempt on her former master Glaser. While thus engaged,
the warrant for her arrest arrived and she was taken into custody on
October 19th. When searched, three packets were found in her pocket,
two of them containing fly powder and the third arsenic.

For a long time she would confess nothing; it was not till April 16,
1810, that her courage gave way, when she learned the result of the
examination of the body of Frau Glaser. Then, weeping and wringing
her hands, she confessed she had on two occasions administered poison
to her. No sooner had she admitted this than she fell to the ground
in convulsions “as if struck by lightning,” and was removed from the
court. Strange to say, although she knew that by her confession she had
more than justified her condemnation to death, she laboured to the very
last to gloss over and explain the worst features of her chief crimes,
and in spite of ample evidence, denied all her lesser offences. It was
impossible for her false and distorted nature to be quite sincere, and
when she told a truth she at once associated with it a lie.

When Anna Schönleben fell into the hands of justice, she had already
reached her fiftieth year; she was of small stature, thin and deformed;
her sallow and meagre face was deeply furrowed by passion as well as
by age, and bore no trace of former beauty. Her eyes were expressive
of envy and malice and her brow was perpetually clouded, even when
her lips moved to smile. Her manner, however, was cringing, servile
and affected, and age and ugliness had not diminished her craving for
admiration. Even in prison and under sentence of death, her imagination
was still occupied with the pleasing recollections of her youth. One
day when her judge visited her in prison, she begged him not to infer
what she had been from what she was; that she was “once beautiful,
exceedingly beautiful.”

Her life history antecedent to the events just recorded has been
constructed from trustworthy sources and her own autobiography which
fills eighteen closely written folio sheets. Born in Nürnberg in
1760, she had lost her parents before she reached her fifth year.
Her father had possessed some property and until her nineteenth
year she remained under the charge of her guardian, who was warmly
attached to her and bestowed much care upon her education. At the age
of nineteen she married, rather against her inclination, the notary
Zwanziger, for that was her real name. The loneliness and dulness of
her matrimonial life contrasted very disagreeably with the gaieties
of her guardian’s house, and in the many absences of her husband,
who divided his time between business and the bottle, she passed her
time in reading sentimental novels such as the “Sorrows of Werther,”
“Pamela” and “Emilia Galeotti.” Her husband, with her help, soon ran
through her small fortune, which was wasted in extravagant entertaining
and in keeping up an establishment beyond their means. They sank into
wretched impecuniosity, with a family to support and without even
the consolation of common esteem. She took to vicious methods and
presently her husband died, leaving his widow to follow the career of
an adventuress.

During the years that intervened between the death of her husband and
the date on which she first entered Glaser’s service, her life had
been one long course of unbridled misconduct. Absolutely devoid of
principle, she associated with others as vicious as herself; she became
a wanderer on the face of the earth and for twenty years never found
a permanent resting place or a sincere friend. Fiercely resenting the
evil fortune that had constantly befallen her, she chafed with bitter
hatred against all mankind; her heart hardened; all that was good
in her nature died out and she became a prey to the worst passions,
consumed always with uncontrollable yearning to better her condition
by defying all divine and human laws. When and how the idea of poison
first dawned on her, her confessions did not explain, but there is
every reason to believe that it was before she entered Glaser’s
service. Determined as she was to advance her own interests, poison
seemed to furnish her at once with the talisman she was in search
of; it would punish her enemies and remove those who stood in her
way. From the moment she met Glaser, she resolved to secure him as
her husband. That he was already married was immaterial, for poison
would be a speedy form of divorce. To bring her victim within range of
her power, she schemed to effect the reconciliation so successfully
accomplished, and directly after Frau Glaser returned home, Zwanziger
began her operations. Two successful doses were administered, of which
the last was effectual. While she was mixing it, she confessed, she
encouraged herself with the notion that she was preparing for herself
a comfortable establishment in her old age. This prospect having been
defeated by her dismissal from Glaser’s service, she entered that of
Grohmann. Here she sought to revenge herself upon such of her fellow
servants as she happened to dislike by mixing fly powder with the
beer,--enough to cause illness but not death. While at Grohmann’s home
she had also indulged in matrimonial hopes; but all at once these were
defeated by his intended marriage with another. She tried to break
this engagement off, but ineffectually, and Grohmann, provoked by her
pertinacity, decided to send her away. The wedding day was fixed;
nothing now remained for Zwanziger but revenge, and Grohmann fell a
victim to poison.

From his service Zwanziger passed into that of Gebhard, whose wife
shared the fate of Grohmann, for no other reason, according to her
own account, than because that lady had treated her harshly. Even
this wretched apology was proved false by the testimony of the other
inmates of the house. The true motive, as in the preceding cases, was
that she had formed designs upon Gebhard similar to those which had
failed in the case of Glaser, and that the unfortunate lady stood in
the way. Her death was accomplished by poisoning two jugs of beer from
which Zwanziger from time to time supplied her with drink. Even while
confessing that she had poisoned the beer, she persisted in maintaining
that she had no intention of destroying her mistress; if she could have
foreseen that such a consequence would follow, she would rather have
died herself.

During the remaining period from the death of Gebhard’s wife to that of
her quitting his service, she admitted having frequently administered
poisoned wine, beer, coffee and other liquors to such guests as she
disliked or to her fellow servants when any of them had the bad luck
to fall under her displeasure. The poisoning of the salt box she also
admitted; but with the strange and inveterate hypocrisy which ran
through all her confessions, she maintained that the arsenic in the
salt barrel must have been put in by some other person.

The fate of such a wretch could not, of course, be doubtful. She was
condemned to be beheaded, and listened to the sentence apparently
without emotion. She told the judge that her death was a fortunate
thing for others, for she felt that she could not have discontinued
poisoning had she lived. On the scaffold, she bowed courteously to the
judge and assistants, walked calmly up to the block and received the
blow without shrinking.



CHAPTER IV

THREE CELEBRATED CASES

    Karl Grosjean alias Grandisson--His residence in
    Heidelberg--Occupation unknown--Suspicion aroused--Letters
    seized by the postal authorities--Grosjean arrested in
    Berlin and imprisoned--Found dead in his cell--His wife
    cross-examined--Proved that he had perpetrated daring post-cart
    robberies--Brigandage--Formation of bands of robbers--Carefully
    planned attacks made on villages--Schinderhannes, the famous
    brigand chief--Arrested and brought to trial with his
    assistants, twenty of whom were guillotined--The horrible
    murder of Dorothea-Blankenfeld by her fellow travellers
    Antonini and his wife--Their sentence and its execution.


The chronic disorder which reigned in central Europe during the nearly
incessant warfare of the Napoleonic period stimulated the activity
of daring and ingenious thieves. A successful depredator on a larger
scale who long escaped detection was a certain Karl Grosjean, alias
Grandisson, whose story may be told as a remarkable instance of the
immunity enjoyed by his class.

He first comes upon the scenes in the spring of 1804, when a superb
travelling carriage arrived at a small country town in the vicinity
of Heidelberg. Two strangers alighted from it to spend the night at
the inn. They were apparently worthy representatives of the class
that would possess so magnificent an equipage, one being a man of
aristocratic appearance, and the other his young and beautiful wife.
They were from Denmark, where the stranger was said to be a merchant
and reputed enormously wealthy. He owned many shops somewhere, and
carried on an immense trade in iron, flax and other articles. He had
come to this little town to buy vinegar, which was manufactured there
on a large scale by a chemist of the place. Eventually the couple took
up their residence in the neighbouring city of Heidelberg, where they
lived in a charming house on the slope of the hill crowned by the
ruined castle and overlooking the beautiful valley of the Neckar. Their
residence at Heidelberg was checkered by some unpleasant occurrences,
among others the theft of a large sum of money, which was in due course
recovered after a long trial, but M. Grandisson was so much vexed
by all that had happened that he left the city and moved first to
Strasburg, then to Dijon and to Nancy. They returned to Heidelberg in
1810. They lived in a luxurious style, but Madame Grandisson devoted
herself principally to the education of her children. She did not go
out much, although she paid and received visits. She was intimate with
no one and forbore to talk much of her husband’s private affairs,
except to allude at times to the many interesting journeys he made.

M. Grandisson was more sociable and accessible. He did not absent
himself from public places, and not only liked to converse with other
people, but was addicted to boasting of his wealth and possessions.
This little weakness was not resented in so amiable and obliging a man,
for he was civility itself to every one. One thing only seemed odd.
Grandisson was a merchant, but never spoke of his business with other
merchants; still less did he make any mention of his real domicile or
his origin. When closely pressed in conversation, however, he vaguely
hinted that he was concerned in vast smuggling transactions. This
was not to his discredit in those days of the Continental blockade
introduced by Napoleon against English trade. Again, it was passing
strange that a business man, engaged ostensibly in extensive operations
in all parts of Europe, carried on no business correspondence.
Moreover, he did not obtain his funds by drawing bills of exchange or
receiving cash remittances; yet he was perpetually travelling and must
have spent much money on the road. There seemed also to be something
peculiar connected with these journeys. He talked a great deal about
them beforehand, mentioning his intention of going to Brussels, Paris
or Copenhagen, as the case might be, but he would disappear silently
to reappear as suddenly as he had gone, and seldom let fall a word as
to where he had been. The local police at Heidelberg heard nothing of
these journeys, nor was it necessary, as Grandisson had his passports
from the government authorities and they were usually good for six
months at a time.

For more than three years the Grandisson family lived quietly in
Heidelberg, respected and apparently happy and contented. Contraband
trade was generally supposed to supply their chief wealth and to be
sufficient explanation for the secrecy observed in regard to it.
Another theory was held on this subject, which it was thought well
not to insist upon in those days: Grandisson seemed to time his
journeys to conform to the constant movements of troops in the many
campaigns afoot; he occasionally started and returned in company with
French officers, and it might well be thought that he was one of the
emissaries who swarmed in Germany just then.

Grandisson was actually on the move and absent from Heidelberg when
letters arrived from Frankfurt-on-the-Main dated April 7th; one was
addressed to the governor of the town, the other to the criminal judge,
and their contents threw a new and lurid light upon the mysterious
stranger. The Thurn and Taxis post-wagon had been robbed twice within
two years, between Eisenach and Frankfurt, and so effectually that well
secured cash boxes packed away inside the vehicle had disappeared.
The first occasion was on October 13, 1812, when all packets of money
destined for Frankfurt were purloined from the post-cart; and the
second on February 14, 1814, when a packet containing more than
4,947 florins was stolen. Suspicion fell upon a certain passenger
remembered by the conductor and others, and who, as it turned out on
investigation, had always travelled and been registered under different
names. It was subsequently discovered that this man, so generously
endowed with aliases, had on February 18th put up at the inn, the Sign
of the Anchor, in Eisenach, under the name of Grandisson and there
posted a packet of fifty gulden addressed to himself at Heidelberg,
which had there been safely handed to Madame Grandisson. The
description of the suspicious passenger tallied exactly with that of M.
Grandisson so well known in Heidelberg. Besides this, the conductor of
the post-cart from which the last theft had been made, insisted that
he had seen him in that town. The governor of Heidelberg was so much
impressed with these reports that he would have proceeded to arrest
Grandisson at once, but the man was absent at the time. The question
was then mooted as to the apprehension of Madame Grandisson, who was
generally respected as a modest, reputable lady who lived exclusively
for her children. She seemed somewhat embarrassed when questioned
by the police and asked to explain her husband’s prolonged absence,
but evinced no desire to leave the town, and no further steps were
taken beyond keeping her under observation. Unhappily for her, fresh
revelations were soon forthcoming in which she was implicated. A letter
from Madame Grandisson to her husband, directed to what was then his
real address, “poste restante Würzburg,” was presently intercepted in
the chief post-office. In this letter she enclosed another which had
arrived for M. Grandisson and had been opened by her. Her own letter
contained little more than references to the other which was signed
with the name “Louis Fischer,” and had evidently occasioned her great
uneasiness. It was dated from Bornheim near Frankfurt, March 10, 1814,
and contained a quantity of obscure and suspicious matter.

It began by reminding its recipient that he was passing under an
assumed name, that he was really Grosjean, not Grandisson; then
referred to the “working off” of certain Dutch ducats; proceeded to
complain that he had been robbed of his fourteen thousand gulden by
having soldiers quartered upon him; and finished as follows: “All are
consumed but a few hundred gulden. I do not make demands upon you
as a beggar but on the current value of what you know.... I sign an
assumed name.... Write to me poste restante.... If you do not write,
be assured, as certainly as that God will yet judge my soul, I shall
be compelled to make public what I know.... This you would surely
avoid because of the dishonour and the loss of the consideration you
enjoy.... You are perfectly well aware that I have kept silence for
years ... but yet I hold the damning proofs and shall use them unless
you accept my terms. Nevertheless, if you act fairly by me the proofs
shall be destroyed and the guilty deed with them.”

This letter threw very serious aspersions on Grandisson’s character.
It hinted that his real name was Grosjean and that he had at some
time or other committed a crime or a dishonourable action, either in
conjunction with the writer or with his knowledge, the publication of
which must ruin him, and that he was consequently being blackmailed
by his correspondent. There was nothing in the letter, however, to
inculpate Madame Grandisson. On the contrary, the anonymous writer
mentioned her with great respect, and the agitation of mind she
displayed in her appeal to her husband testified to her innocence and
showed that there was less reason than ever to proceed against her.
Efforts were still made to tamper with her correspondence, but in
vain, for she was very wary and used the utmost caution in posting
her letters. At last, however, one was intercepted and was thought
compromising. “Since you left thirteen days ago, I have no news of
you,” it ran. “Write me the number of the house where I am to address
my letters. Now attend to me. How would it be were I to pack most of
my belongings and give them into the charge of Herr Klein, and only
take with me exactly what I require, until I am certain where I am
to live? I do not think I could have anything in common with your
relations; I have too vivid a recollection of their vulgarity and
rapaciousness. It would be best for you to hire a lodging for me with
decent, respectable people, so that when I arrive I can be with you;
even for yourself it is not advisable that you should lodge with your
relatives. I will not stop with them even for one night. Farewell.”
This letter certainly gave the impression that Madame Grandisson was
initiated partially, at least, into her husband’s secrets, and as she
was evidently now making preparations for escaping from Heidelberg, she
was more closely watched than ever. Her behaviour was unaltered as she
was not aware that her letter had been intercepted. The address on the
outside cover, moreover, to “Herr Prinz im Königstrasse, Berlin,” gave
a clue which facilitated proceedings against Grandisson. This, however,
was only on the outside, for on the real letter itself the direction
was as follows: “Mlle. Caroline is requested to deliver this letter to
her brother Karl.” Thus it appeared that Grandisson was now in Berlin
and that he had a sister there. He must now be sought for in that
capital, and a demand for his arrest was despatched by the chief post
office in Frankfurt to the head of the police in Berlin.

In the house of a merchant of the name of Prinz, situated in the
Königstrasse in Berlin, there lived an unmarried woman called Caroline
Grosjean, who was in the service of the family and undoubtedly the
intended recipient of the above letter. She was in truth the sister
of the suspected criminal, and the name of Grosjean corresponded with
that mentioned in the Fischer letter. A detective was sent to question
her as to her brother’s whereabouts, and she admitted that he was in
Berlin but would say nothing further until shown the letter, whereupon
recognising her sister-in-law’s handwriting, she offered to conduct
the evidently trustworthy messenger to her brother. The detective,
however, intimated that when on his travels he had to stay within doors
to receive people on business, and requested her to send her brother
to his inn that same afternoon, which she did. The man so accurately
described by the Frankfurt and Heidelberg authorities accordingly
appeared at the “Sign of the Crown.” He acted the unconcerned gentleman
even when the detective said he had just come from Heidelberg charged
with greetings from his wife and assurances that all was well. But when
the officer of the law handed him her letter, he seized it with evident
uneasiness, crumpled it up and thrust it into his pocket. The detective
then proposed to conduct him to some private place where he might be
inclined perhaps to give a more satisfactory account of himself. On
reaching the door of the inn, Grosjean tried to escape, but two police
officials at once barred his way. From that moment he became quite
passive and followed the police quietly to the office and thence to the
prison. When searched, two razors he had secreted were found and taken
from him. Suicide was obviously his intention, and he was resolved to
carry it through. When visited in his cell next morning, it was found
that he had made away with himself. He lay in a cramped position,
sitting rather than hanging, strangled and dead, his handkerchief
having been tightly fastened round his neck and secured in the jamb
of the door. The method he had employed testified to an extraordinary
exercise of will power.

The chief criminal having thus disposed of himself, to proceed to the
discovery and arrest of his accomplices became the next object of the
authorities. But those of Heidelberg were still loth to arrest Madame
Grandisson, and the judge himself paid her a visit to inquire for her
husband. She had heard nothing yet of the suicide, and replied that
she was growing uneasy at his protracted absence. She was next invited
to visit the law courts to make a formal deposition, and when further
questioned there, it was seen that her pretended ignorance of her
husband’s real character was assumed. This led to her committal to the
criminal prison. Close examination into her own antecedents followed.
She stated that she came from Breslau, where her family resided, and
that after her marriage with Grosjean, she had travelled with him
in distant countries, where he was engaged in extensive commercial
enterprises. For a long time she little realised their true nature,
but had learned it by accident and had taxed him with his criminal
life. Gradually the facts came out and she made open confession of all
she knew. Yes, her husband was indeed a villain, although she knew
nothing of it till long after her marriage, when to her horror she
found that all the money on which they lived so luxuriously was stolen,
acquired by systematic thefts from the post-wagons. Grosjean, when
she first made his acquaintance, had been a butler in the service of
a general officer, Von Dolfs by name. After their marriage she spent
a brief period of happiness, which was shattered by Grosjean’s arrest
for having robbed his master of a large sum. At that time she herself
was brought up for examination, and was asked if she was aware that
he had already served a term of imprisonment in a house of correction
on account of robberies. Then the general sent for her and advised
her to seek a separation, but it seemed too cruel to desert him and
she was easily persuaded to join him in prison. On their release,
they decided to go to his parents in Berlin, where he undertook to
carry on his father’s business, in which he continued to work honestly
for five or six years. Afterward they moved to Hamburg and then to
Copenhagen, where they suffered many vicissitudes. Next they went to
St. Petersburg, and thence to Bayreuth; last of all they settled in
the neighbourhood of Heidelberg, and the events followed as already
described.

At the judicial examination more incriminating evidence came out. Upon
being closely interrogated, Madame Grosjean admitted having gone from
St. Petersburg, first to Emden, then to the Hague and to Amsterdam.
At the last named places, Grosjean seems to have begun his systematic
business journeys in connection with the post-carts, but she denied all
participation or knowledge of their aim and results. Only at Bayreuth,
when he bought the costly carriage, her conscience seemed to have
awakened. When she reproached him for purchasing it he replied that it
was none of her business; that it was enough for her if he provided for
her; and that if she were not pleased she might leave him and go where
she chose. This partly pacified, partly terrified her. She forbore to
ask him about the post-cart robberies, but suffered him to follow his
own road, without remark or complaint. She had made a great mistake in
her marriage, she admitted, yet she was undoubtedly much affected when
the news of his death by suicide was communicated to her.

Meanwhile a series of laborious investigations and far-reaching
correspondence had been set on foot to build up the criminal history of
Grosjean. It was fully established that his evil tendencies were inborn
and strongly developed; he had a passion for stealing that amounted to
mania. He had acted for the most part alone and unaided, exhibiting
rare skill and meeting generally with extraordinary good luck. He had
carried out his robberies over a large area, in various countries and
at many times, greedy to lay his hands on everything he came across.
To utilise his plunder in playing the great personage with much
ostentation and display, was another trait in him not uncommon with
others of his class. He was ambitious also to appear a refined and well
educated man in the cultured social surroundings of the university
town of Heidelberg. He loved to forget that he was a common thief, and
to assume the superior airs of a well-bred gentleman. It was the same
in France, where he gained a reputation for good breeding and perfect
manners, inspiring confidence and appreciation in all with whom he was
thrown.

Little was known to a certainty of his early life. He was born at
Weilburg, where his father owned a cloth factory, but the family
moved subsequently to Berlin. Karl accompanied his parents and was
apprenticed to the hairdresser’s craft. He soon left the capital,
and rarely returned to it after he had assumed the part of a wealthy
merchant. On the third visit, he was arrested and it was then shown
that not only had he robbed General Dolfs, as already described, but
that when only 16 years of age he had been sentenced to four years’
penal servitude for theft. While a hairdresser in Berlin, he carried
out a large robbery in the house of the English envoy; and at Hamburg,
where he was afterward in service, he stole three thousand marks from
his master, but he was not apprehended for either offence. From that
time very little information came to hand concerning his larger and
more audacious undertakings, which he perpetrated chiefly in foreign
countries. The chief post-office authorities at Frankfurt-on-the-Main
had on their register a long list of post-cart robberies, covering the
years from 1800-1811, all of which might no doubt be laid to Grosjean’s
charge. It was certainly proved that a man answering to his description
travelled under eight or nine different aliases at various times. One
curious and unusual trait in a man accustomed to carry out thefts
on a very large scale, was his stooping to steal groceries from his
landlord, and also heavy goods, articles of no value, but difficult to
move and likely to lead to his detection. His wife, annoyed at these
useless thefts and overburdened with groceries and spices she could not
use, would ask him how she should get rid of them, upon which he would
tell her to sell them to the landlord. This ironical suggestion to
sell stolen goods to the victim of the thefts was in its way amusing.
Grosjean also purloined tobacco, and once when travelling stole his
landlord’s gold repeater watch, which he wore boldly and unconcernedly
until his arrest in 1814. He likewise abstracted the silver spoons
at the inns where he lodged, and stole stockings for his family from
shops, whether they wanted them or not. Sixty-five pairs were found
when his lodging was searched, and they were claimed by a tradesman in
Frankfurt who was the author of the mysterious letter signed, “Louis
Fischer,” which had given the Heidelberg legal authorities the first
clue for Grosjean’s prosecution. This man, after having dealings with
Grosjean, who was a good customer and paid ready money, suddenly began
to suspect him of pilfering in the shop and at last caught him in the
act. His bump of acquisitiveness was no doubt abnormally developed.

Insecurity of life and property was universal at this time. The country
was terrorised and laid waste by brigandage. Bands were organised
under the most redoubtable chiefs, whose skill and boldness in the
prosecution of their evil business were quite on a par with the most
famous feats of great bandits in other lands. Foremost among them were
such men as Pickard, who long devastated the Low Countries, and not
less noted was Schinderhannes, otherwise John Buckler the younger.
He had followed the craft of his father, a flayer of dead animals,
and hence his sobriquet, _Schinderhannes_ or “Hans the skinner.” His
operations covered a wide area, extending from both banks of the upper
Rhine to the lower Meuse; from Mayence on the one side as far as
Dunkirk on the other; and again to the eastward beyond the Weser to
the Elbe. He “worked” this country from 1793 to 1801, and when at last
justice overtook him and he was committed to the prison of Mayence,
sixty-seven associates, who had followed him with unflagging devotion,
were arrested and brought to trial with him.

The growth of brigandage was stimulated by the prevailing distress of
the territories so constantly ravaged by war. Peaceable inhabitants
were harried and harassed by the excesses of the troops. Contributions
in money and in kind were repeatedly levied upon them; they lost their
cattle and their crops by military requisitions, and were heavily taxed
in money. Where the farmers and other employers were nearly ruined,
large numbers of labourers were thrown out of work and were driven
into evil practices. Many took to thieving, and stole everything they
came across,--horses from their stables and cattle from the fields.
They cut off and robbed stragglers from the armies on the march, and
pillaged the baggage wagons that went astray. As guardians of the
law became more active in pursuit, offenders were driven to combine
forces and form associations for greater strength and more concerted
action. Receivers of the stolen goods were established with secure
hiding places and lines of safe retreat. Leaders were also appointed
to direct operations, to ascertain the most likely victims and plan
attacks without incurring suspicion or subsequent detection. In this
way, outrages multiplied and developed on a large scale far beyond mere
highway robbery.

Great prudence and circumspection were employed in the formation
of a band. The members were chosen with an eye to fitness for the
work; every effort was made to preserve their incognito; they were
forbidden to assemble in any considerable number; not more than two
or three men were suffered to live in the same village. Each man’s
address or change of address was known only to the receivers of the
district, through whom orders were circulated from the supreme chief
of the entire association, the individual members of which lived
singly, dispersed through the villages and small towns of an extensive
territory. The brigands themselves were strictly enjoined not to
attract attention; to keep disguises close at hand, to change their
abode frequently, and to be prepared to assume quickly a different
character. The aristocratic German baron or the respectable Dutch
merchant drinking the waters at Aix-la-Chapelle or Spa one week was
transformed the next into the leader of a band of miscreants lurking
in a wood, waiting to embark upon a bloodthirsty attack and wholesale
massacre.

No important movement was undertaken unless it had been recommended as
feasible by one of the numerous indicators or spies spread over the
country. These were mostly Jews and, strange to say, they were not
members of the band. They were ever on the alert, and by insinuating
themselves into people’s homes, learned who were well-off and where
money and valuables were treasured. They gained all necessary
information as to the possible opposition that would be offered by the
residents, and when all was prepared, the informer contracted to help
the brigand chief to make the coup on a promise of receiving part,
and a large part, of the booty. The rôle played by these spies was
the more detestable because of the certainty that the robbery would
be accompanied with brutal violence and much cruelty. If the treasure
was well concealed or obstinately withheld by the owners, the most
barbarous tortures were inflicted on them, such as those practised by
the “chauffeurs” of central France about this same time, who “warmed”
or toasted the feet of their victims before a blazing fire until they
confessed where their goods lay hidden. These informers were generally
receivers also, ready to take over and dispose of the plunder.

As soon as a stroke had been decided upon, word was passed around to
gather the band together. A letter was addressed to each member, in
which he was summoned to meet the others at a particular place and
discuss “a matter of business.” Sometimes the chief went in person and
called upon every member. When assembled, the project was considered
from every point of view; the difficulties and dangers were formally
examined; and a decision was taken by vote as to whether it was
practicable or unsafe. If accepted in spite of serious obstacles,
several sub-chiefs were appointed to deal with the different parts of
the plan, such as the line of approach, the actual execution and the
means of retreat. As a rule, the spring or autumn season was preferred
for an attempt, because of the long nights. Winter was tabooed on
account of the bad travelling over dark and nearly impracticable roads,
and the summer nights were too light. Moonlight nights were carefully
avoided, and also any time when snow lay upon the ground. When the
matter eventually came into court, it was found that the week-end was
the time almost invariably chosen for the operations of the band.

To avoid the alarm that might be caused by the united march of thirty
or forty robbers in company, they were ordered to repair to the
rendezvous, only two or three travelling together. Those who could
afford it rode or drove in vehicles, intended for use afterward in
removing part of the stolen goods. Great pains were taken to prevent
the men from going astray in the dark when passing through the dense
forests. Guides went ahead and marked the path by nailing scraps of
white paper on tree or post; at cross-roads the direction was shown
by a chalked line, or a great branch was broken off from a tree and
laid on the ground with the leafage pointing out the road. Signals
were also passed on from one to another by imitating the hoot of an
owl; whistling was not permitted because it was a low class practice
certain to attract observation. A halt was called at the rendezvous
near the point of attack, where the robbers rested; pistols were
examined, a pass word was chosen and a number of candles and torches
were distributed to be lighted when the march was resumed, as it
was, in perfect silence; and all had their faces blackened to escape
recognition. Any one whom they met was seized, tied, gagged and
muzzled, and left to lie by the roadside, so that he might give no
alarm.

The chief or captain now took the lead, followed by a party carrying
the _belier_ or battering ram, a solid beam ten or twelve feet long,
and one foot thick, which was sometimes a signpost and sometimes
a wooden cross from a churchyard. On entering a village, some one
who knew the road was sent to barricade the church door and prevent
access to the belfry from which the tocsin might be sounded. The night
watchmen were captured and put out of the way. Next, the doomed house
was surrounded and a sharp fire opened to keep every one in-doors and
give the idea that the assailants were in great numbers. If the French
had passed recently through the country, loud shouts and oaths were
uttered in that language to convey a false impression. After this,
the principal door was beaten in, and the captain entered boldly at
the head of his men, reserving the right to shoot down instantly any
who hesitated or hung back. The whole house was then illuminated from
roof-tree to cellar, and the place was thoroughly ransacked. All the
inmates were bound and gagged, and rolled up in blankets with bedding
and mattresses piled on top of them, until called upon to surrender
their valuables or give information as to where they were concealed.
This, as has been said, was generally extorted after horrible tortures
had been inflicted.

When the pillage ended, the party hurried away to divide the booty. Any
robber wounded and unable to move off was despatched on the spot; the
greatest pains were taken to leave no one behind who might, if caught,
be made to confess. At the sharing of the spoil, the captain received
a double or triple portion, in addition to anything precious he had
annexed at the first search. At the same time, if an ordinary robber
withheld any valuables, his share was reduced one-half on detection. If
the informer who had started the whole affair did not contrive to be
present at the distribution, he was likely to get little or nothing.
The robbers had a profound contempt for the creatures who followed the
despised trade of spy.

A leading character among the many who became famous as brigand
chiefs, such as Finck, Black Peter, Seibert and Zughetto, was the more
notorious Schinderhannes, the youngest, boldest and most active robber
of them all, who moved with great rapidity over a wide country and
spread terror everywhere. He did not attempt to conceal himself, but
showed openly at fairs and gatherings, risking capture recklessly; yet
if ill-luck befell, no prison could hold him. He was an adept in the
use of tools to aid escape, and unrivalled in his skill in breaking
chains, forcing locks and cutting through solid walls.

This notorious criminal was born in the village of Muklen on the right
bank of the Rhine. At an early age he was taught to steal sheep
which he sold to a butcher. Later he became servant to the hangman of
Barenbach, but being taken in the act of robbery, he was thrown into
the gaol at Kirn and flogged. He subsequently escaped, however, and
joined the band of Red Finck, which committed many highway robberies,
chiefly upon Jews. He was again captured and locked up in the prison of
Sarrebruck, from which he easily freed himself. After these beginnings,
Schinderhannes embarked in the business on a larger scale, and having
recruited several desperate companions, committed numberless crimes. He
was a generous brigand who succoured the poor while he made war upon
the rich, and he was credited with a strong desire to abandon his evil
ways if pardoned and permitted to join a regiment in the field; but
this was against the law.

He was finally arrested by the counsellor Fuchs, grand-bailiff of the
electorate of Treves, who caught him on the high road near Wolfenhausen
as he stole out, alone, from a field of corn. He was dressed as a
sportsman, carried a gun and a long whip, but could not produce a
passport and was forthwith arrested. After passing from place to place,
closely guarded and watched, he was lodged at length in the prison of
Mayence, where he was in due course put upon his trial, was eventually
convicted and suffered the extreme penalty.

The earlier operations of this formidable ruffian were limited to
highway robbery, but Schinderhannes soon adopted the practice of
extortion by letter, demanding large sums for immunity from attack,
and he issued safe conducts to all who paid blackmail. He dominated
the whole country. Travellers did not dare to take the road. The news
of the forcible entry and pillage of houses and farms spread like
wildfire. For the most part, the robberies were effected upon rich Jews
and others who possessed great stores of cash and valuables, and the
plunder was enormous. The brigands lived royally and with ostentatious
extravagance, appearing at all village fêtes and giving rein to the
wildest self-indulgence.

When captured at length, this successful miscreant was subjected to
a lengthy trial of eighteen months, the records of which filled five
volumes. In the course of the trial it was proved that he had been
guilty of fifty-three serious crimes, with or without the assistance
of his sixty-seven associates, who were arraigned at the same time,
and were headed by his father, the first John Buckler. Among these
associates were many women. The sentences after conviction were
various. Twenty-one were to be guillotined, including Schinderhannes,
who asked with some apprehension whether he would be broken on
the wheel, but was told to his great relief that this penalty had
disappeared from the code. The capital convicts were to be taken to the
scaffold clothed in red shirts, presumably to increase the ignominy.
For the rest, various terms of imprisonment were imposed, ranging from
six to twenty-four years in chains. Schinderhannes, having heard his
own fate unmoved, expressed his gratitude to his judges for having
spared the lives of his father and wife. He was quite at ease, telling
the bystanders to stare as much as they pleased, for he would be on
view for only two more days. The chaplain gave him the sacrament, and
he accepted the consolation of the Church with very proper feeling.
The convicts were taken to the place of execution in five carts,
Schinderhannes beguiling the way with a full account of his misdeeds.
He mounted the scaffold with a brisk step and closely examined the
guillotine, asking whether it worked as easily and promptly as had
been asserted. In his farewell speech, he admitted the justice of his
sentence, but protested that ten of his companions were dying innocent
men.

The sharp vindication of the law in the case of these brigands had a
marked result in restoring tranquillity and effectually checked the
operations of organised bands on a large scale. But the records of the
times show many isolated instances of atrocious murders perpetrated on
defenceless travellers. A peculiarly horrible case was the doing to
death of the beautiful girl, Dorothea Blankenfeld, at the post-house
of Maitingen near Augsburg by her travelling companions, who had
accompanied her for many stages, ever thirsting for her blood, but
constantly foiled for want of opportunity until the last night before
arriving at their destination.

The victim was a native of Friedland, who started from Danzig in
November, 1809, on her way to Vienna, where she was to join her
intended husband, a war commissary in the French service. She had
reached Dresden, but halted there until her friends could find a
suitable escort for the rest of the journey. She was young, barely
twenty-four years old, remarkably good looking, of gentle disposition
and spotless character. The opportunity for which she awaited presented
itself when two French military postilions arrived in Dresden
and sought passports for Vienna. It was easy to add the Fräulein
Blankenfeld’s name in the route paper, and she left Dresden with her
escort, who had already doomed her to destruction.

The two postilions were really man and wife, for one was a woman in
disguise. They gave their names as Antoine and Schulz, but they were
really the two Antoninis. The man was a native of southern Italy, who
as a boy had been captured by Barbary pirates and released by a French
warship. He had been a drummer in a Corsican battalion, a _laquais
de place_, a sutler and lastly a French army postilion. His criminal
propensities were developed early; he had been frequently imprisoned,
twice in Berlin and once in Mayence with his wife,--for he had married
a woman named Marschall of Berlin,--and he had been constantly
denounced as a thief and incendiary. At Erfurt he had broken prison
and effected the escape of his fellow-prisoners. Theresa Antonini had
been a wild, obstinate and vicious girl, who after marriage became a
partner also in her husband’s evil deeds and shared his imprisonment.
The pair were on their way south to Antonini’s native place in Messina,
very short of money, and they took with them Carl Marschall, the
woman’s brother, a boy barely fifteen years of age.

Dorothea Blankenfeld was a tempting bait to their cupidity. She was
fashionably dressed, her trunk was full of linen and fine clothes, and
she really carried about two thousand thalers sewed in her stays, a
fact then unknown to her would-be murderers.

A scheme was soon broached by Antonini to his wife to make away with
the girl, and young Carl Marschall was prevailed upon to join in the
plot. They waited only for a favourable opportunity to effect their
purpose, devising many plans to murder her and conceal their crime. The
whole journey was occupied with abortive attempts. They selected their
quarters for the night with this idea, but some accident interposed
to save the threatened victim, who was altogether unconscious of her
impending fate.

At Hof a plan was devised of stifling her with smoke in her bed,
but the results seemed uncertain, and it was not tried. At Berneck,
between Hof and Bayreuth, they lodged in a lonely inn at the foot of a
mountain covered with wood, and here the corpse might be buried during
the night. But Theresa Antonini had discarded her postilion’s disguise,
and as two women had arrived, the departure of only one the next
morning must surely arouse suspicion. The following night the notion of
choking the girl with the fumes of smoke was revived, but was dismissed
for the same reason, the doubtful result. Death must be dealt in some
other way if it was to be risked at all. So they drugged her, took her
keys from under her pillow, and opened and examined her trunks, finding
more than enough to seal her doom.

They arrived next at Nürnberg, a likely place, where many streams of
water flowing through the city might help to get rid of the body. But
a sentry happened to have his post just in front of the inn, and this
afforded protection to the threatened girl. At this time Carl Marschall
proposed to mix pounded glass in her soup, but the scheme was rejected
by Antonini, who declared that he had often swallowed broken glass for
sport without ill effects. At Roth, a suitable weapon was found in a
loft, a mattock with three iron prongs,--and a pool of water for the
concealment of the body was discovered in a neighbouring field, so the
deed was to be perpetrated here, after administering another sleeping
draught. The mischance that a number of carriers put up that night at
the inn again shielded the Fräulein. Insurmountable objections arose
also at Weissenberg and Donauwörth, and as they had now reached the
last stage but one, it seemed as if the murder might never be committed.

The last station was Maitingen near Augsburg, where the girl was to
leave the party, and here fresh incitement was given to guilty greed by
her incautious admission that she carried a quantity of valuables on
her person. Somehow she must be disposed of that night. The boy Carl
was to be the principal agent in the crime; it was thought that his
youth would save him from capital punishment, an inevitable sentence
for the others if convicted. The lad showed no reluctance to the act,
and only hesitated lest he should not be strong enough to complete
it, but his sister said that Antonini would help as soon as the first
blow was struck, and she further tempted him with the promise of a
substantial gift.

Carl had discovered in the post-house a heavy roller which he hid in
Antonini’s bed-room. Then he dug a hole in the yard, intended for the
disposal of the body. Antonini bought some candles, and on the pretence
of using a foot bath, much warm water was prepared to cleanse the blood
stains. At supper Dorothea drank some brandy and water mixed with
laudanum, and was taken off to bed half stupefied. About midnight the
murderers viewed their intended victim and found her asleep, but in a
position unfavourable for attack, as her face was turned to the wall.
Now a change of plan was proposed,--to pour molten lead into her ears
and eyes,--but on heating the fragments of a spoon over the candle, it
was seen that a drop which fell on the sheet merely scorched it, which
indicated that the metal cooled too quickly to destroy life.

Another visit was paid to the victim at four o’clock, and now Carl was
ordered to strike the first blow, which fell with murderous effect; but
the poor girl was able to raise herself in bed and to plead piteously
for her life. A fierce struggle ensued; repeated blows were rained upon
her and she sank upon the floor in the agony of death, while Antonini
tore at the money she still carried on her person. As the wretched
woman still breathed and groaned audibly, Antonini savagely trampled
and jumped on her body until life was quite extinct. When afterward
examined, the body was found to be grievously bruised and swollen, the
collar bone was broken, and there were nine wounds made by a blunt
instrument on the brow and other parts of the head.

The house was disturbed at first by the piercing shrieks of the
victim, and the postmaster listened at her door but heard nothing
more. It was noticed the following morning that although the party
was to have started at five o’clock, they were not ready to leave
until nine. The attention of the postmaster, who was looking out of
the window, was attracted by a curiously shaped bundle which the men
dragged out of the house and flung into the carriage, something like
the carcass of a dog, or it might be of a human being. Then the party
entered the carriage and drove away, but it was observed that there
was only one woman in the carriage instead of the two who had arrived
on the previous evening. The rooms upstairs were now visited and the
terrible catastrophe was forthwith discovered. Walls, floor and bed
were drenched with blood and it was plain that an atrocious murder
had been committed. Information was at once given to the authorities,
and the carriage was promptly pursued. It was overtaken at the gates
of Augsburg, and the culprits were seized and lodged in gaol. The
suspicious looking bundle, wrapped up in a long blue cloak, had been
tied up behind the carriage, and when examined it was found to contain
the wounded and much battered corpse of a young woman.

In the course of the protracted criminal proceedings which followed,
the boy Carl Marschall was the first to confess his guilt. The
Antoninis were obstinately reticent, but at last, after nineteen
long examinations, Theresa, when confronted with her brother, also
acknowledged her share in the deed. Antonini was persistent in his
denial and sought continually to deceive the judge by a variety of
lying statements, but even he yielded at last and made a disjointed
but still self-incriminating confession. Husband and wife were both
convicted and sentenced by the court at Nürnberg to death by the
sword. Their boy accomplice, Carl Marschall, in consideration of
his youth, was condemned to ten years’ imprisonment at hard labour.
Antonini escaped the punishment he so well deserved by dying in prison;
but his wife was not so fortunate and suffered the penalty of death
upon the scaffold, hardened and unrepentant to the last.

Perhaps no more brutal murder than this committed by the Antoninis has
ever been recorded, though at that time, when the activities of the
brigand and highway robber were not entirely suppressed, doubtless many
atrocities were perpetrated, the true stories of which have remained
forever in obscurity.



CHAPTER V

CLEVER IMPOSTORS AND SWINDLERS

    James Thalreuter or the “False Prince”--A notorious
    swindler--His early life and education--Adopted by the
    Stromwalters--Pledges their credit and robs their safe--Forges
    letter from a grand-duke--Squanders money thus obtained in wild
    dissipation--Makes full confession of his frauds--Sentenced to
    eight years’ imprisonment--“The Golden Princess,” Henrietta
    Wilke--Her luxurious mode of living and generosity to the
    poor--Curiosity as to her origin--Loans borrowed on false
    pretences--She is arrested--Startling revelations brought
    to light at her trial--Sentenced to twelve years’ penal
    servitude--“Prince Lahovary” or George Manolescu--Arrested
    in Paris at the age of nineteen charged with thirty-seven
    thefts--His criminal career--Campaign in America under the
    assumed title of “Prince Lahovary”--Imprisoned for personating
    the Russian general Kuropatkin--Leonhard Bollert, nicknamed the
    “attorney general”--A notorious criminal-adventurer who served
    many terms in different prisons.


The criminal records of Germany contain some rather remarkable
instances of swindling and imposture. One of the most curious was
that of James Thalreuter, commonly called the “False Prince.” He was
the illegitimate son of Lieutenant-Colonel von Rescher and Barbara
Thalreuter, the daughter of an exciseman. He was born at Landshut in
1809 and was acknowledged by his father. His mother died the same year
and he was taken charge of by Baron von Stromwalter, an intimate friend
of his father. The boy James was accepted in the house as a son of the
family on equal terms with the Stromwalter children, and the baroness
grew extravagantly fond of him. He was a clever, lively lad, full of
mischievous ways, and very early he exhibited a fertile and promising
genius for lying. The baroness exercised absolute sway in the house,
for the family fortune and property was entirely hers. The baron was a
mere cypher, a weak and foolish old man, who had no other means than
his pension from a civil post.

The lad had been sent to school and was supposed to have gained a good
education, but, as a matter of fact, he had learned very little. He
wrote poorly and spelled abominably, but he had made good progress at
arithmetic, and before he was sixteen possessed a surprising knowledge
of financial and commercial affairs. A strongly marked trait was
his power of inventing the most varied, ingenious and complicated
lies, perfect in their smallest details and worked up with masterly
skill. This seemingly inexhaustible talent was aided by a singularly
comprehensive and accurate memory. Whenever he returned home from
school, he quickly established an extraordinary influence over his
fond foster-mother; he felt neither affection nor respect for her,
but only esteemed her as the person able to minister to his selfish
desires. The baroness, on her part, did everything she could to
please him, lavished money upon him freely, and kept nothing secret
from him, not even the safe containing her jewels and valuables to
which he had always free access. It was testified afterward that he
did what he liked with the baroness, sometimes by fair, but more often
by foul means. As for the poor old baron, he was treated with supreme
contempt, was often addressed in insulting terms before others, and
once Thalreuter actually struck him.

The young villain made the most of his situation and took advantage of
the old lady’s excessive fondness to pledge her credit and run heavily
into debt. He plundered her right and left, carried away many valuable
things from the house, and from time to time stole large sums from
her bureau, the keys of which he could always obtain. The baroness
caught him at last and proceeded to reprimand her foster-son severely,
but he easily persuaded her to forgive him, and she went no further
than to take better care of her keys. The success which he had so far
achieved now inspired him with an ingenious plan for defrauding his
foster-parents on a large scale.

In the early part of the year 1825 he began to let fall mysterious
hints that it was altogether a mistake to suppose that he had been born
in a humble station; that, on the contrary, he was really the son of a
royal personage, the Duke of B., who, having lost one son by poison,
had secretly entrusted this second son to Colonel von Reseller,--a
special favourite,--who was to pass for his father and bring him up,
preserving the most inviolable secrecy. Incredible as it may appear,
the Stromwalters were gulled by this manifestly fraudulent story.
They had known the young Thalreuter from his youth, had seen and
possessed the certificate of his birth, and were fully aware of all
the circumstances attending it. Yet they were easily imposed upon and
dazzled by the grandeur of this tremendous fiction, backed up by the
production of letters from the grand-duke, which in themselves were
plain evidence of the fraud. Possibly Thalreuter had inherited his
indifferent calligraphy from his illustrious parent, for the twenty
letters purporting to come from his royal highness were illegible
scrawls, poor in composition and wretched in style; but this very
circumstance supplied the impostor with an excuse for retaining them
and reading them aloud. They were couched in terms of deep gratitude
for the foster-parents’ care, and a large return in cash and honour was
promised as a reward for their services. The grand-duke did not limit
himself to empty promises; he sent through Thalreuter a costly present
of six strings of fine pearls of great value, very acceptable to the
Stromwalters, who, thanks to the extravagance of their foster-son, the
pretended prince, were much pinched for money. The pearls were pledged
for a fictitious value, Thalreuter declaring that his grand-ducal
father would be greatly offended if he heard they had been submitted
to formal examination. The impostor studiously suppressed the fact that
he had bought the pearls at two shillings per string at a toy shop with
money which he had stolen. He had obtained a pair of sham earrings
at the same shop. Any story was good enough to fool the simpleton
Stromwalters; he exhibited the miniature one day of an officer in
uniform, blazing with orders, as that of the grand-duke, and on another
day showed them sketches of the estates that were to be bestowed upon
the worthy couple. Again, he pretended that his highness had called in
state in a carriage and four to pay a ceremonious visit when they were
absent; and another time claimed that the royal chamberlain had invited
the baron to share a bottle with him at the Swan Inn, but was called
away by urgent business before the baron arrived.

This shameless deception profited Thalreuter greatly. As a prince in
disguise, he was treated with much indulgence and liberally supplied
with the means of extravagance. He now invented a fresh lie, that of
a proposed match between the son, Lieutenant von Stromwalter, and the
heiress of a rich and noble family, the Von Wallers, and the whole
intrigue was carried forward even as far as betrothal without bringing
the parties together, secrecy being essential to the very last, as
Thalreuter explained to the old people. But he produced letters--of his
own manufacture--from the grand-duke and various people of rank at
court, all of them congratulating the Stromwalters on the approaching
most desirable marriage. The ultimate aim of the fraud was at last
shown when Thalreuter forged a letter calling upon the baroness to pay
a sum of 10,000 florins into the military fund as a guarantee that her
son was able to support a wife. The generous grand-duke had offered
to advance a large part of this money, but at least 2,700 florins
must come from the Stromwalters, and they actually handed the cash
to Thalreuter, who rapidly squandered it in dissipation of the most
reckless kind.

Were it not that all the facts in this marvellous imposture are
vouched for by the legal proceedings afterward instituted, it would be
difficult to credit the amazing credulity, amounting to imbecility,
displayed by the Stromwalters. Thalreuter played his game with
extraordinary boldness, and continually traded on the name of the son
in support of his preposterous fictions. He invented the story of a
seditious plot, in which the lieutenant was embroiled and for which
he was arrested, only to extract a sum of one thousand florins for
obtaining his release from prison.

The next fraud was a trumped-up tale that the lieutenant was in serious
pecuniary difficulties and that, unless cleared, the marriage must be
broken off; the result was a further advance by the baroness, who sold
off a quantity of her furniture to obtain cash. Then it appeared that
the lieutenant was involved in a dishonourable intrigue and could only
be extricated by paying blackmail; he must make presents to his fiancée
and the jeweller’s bill must be settled; a house for the young couple
must be furnished, and hence the abstraction of many articles from the
home of the old Stromwalters, all of which were pawned by Thalreuter.

Strange to say, relations were never opened up with the Von Wallers;
stranger still, no direct communications were opened with the son. And
it would seem perfectly incredible that his parents did not write to
him on the subject of his coming marriage, of his arrest, or of his
embarrassments and necessary expenditure. They did write, as a matter
of fact, but Thalreuter intercepted all the letters and continued his
thefts and embezzlements unchecked and undiscovered. He made a clean
sweep of everything; emptied the house, dissipated the property,
obtained the baroness’s signature to bills and drafts by false
pretences, and ruined her utterly.

The large sums thus shamelessly obtained by Thalreuter were thrown
absolutely away. He entertained his acquaintances, mostly of the lowest
classes,--peasants and domestic servants,--in the most sumptuous manner
at different inns and taverns. Not only were the most costly wines
poured out like water at the table, but they were cast into adjacent
ponds and dashed against the carriage wheels; the most delicate viands
were thrown out of the window for boys to scramble for; splendid
fireworks were set off to amuse the guests, among whom he distributed
all kinds of expensive presents with the greatest profusion. One
witness even stated that on one occasion he moistened the wheels of
the carriage he had hired with eau de Cologne. A toyman, Stang by
name, who was the constant companion of Thalreuter and partaker of
his extravagant pleasures, sold him, in one year, goods to the amount
of 6,700 florins, among which was eau de Cologne worth 50 florins.
Stang, on first witnessing the boy’s extravagance, thought it his
duty to report it to Baroness von Stromwalter, but was told that the
expenditure of her James would not appear surprising whenever the
secret of his birth and rank should be revealed; that at present she
could only say that he was the son of very great parents and would have
more property than he could possibly spend. The poor toyman was, of
course, overjoyed at the thought of having secured the friendship and
custom of a prince in disguise, and no longer felt any hesitation in
accepting Thalreuter’s presents and joining his parties, and from that
time forward they became almost daily companions.

Thalreuter’s behaviour did not escape the notice of the authorities,
but when they applied to his foster-parents, they were put off by the
same mysterious hints of his noble birth. But fate at last fell heavily
upon the young impostor. When called upon to pay a long-standing
account for coach hire, Thalreuter produced a cheque purporting to
be drawn by a certain Dr. Schroll. The signature was repudiated as a
forgery, and the young man was arrested. The baroness still stood by
him and was ready to answer for it until the scales fell from her eyes
at the swindler’s astonishing confessions. Thalreuter now recounted
at length the repeated deceits and frauds he had practised upon his
foster-parents, the extent of which could hardly be estimated, but
there was little doubt that he had extorted by his dishonest processes
a sum between 6,000 and 8,000 florins. He implicated the unfortunate
Stang in these nefarious actions, and other well-do-do and respectable
persons. Many of the charges brought proved to be utterly false, and
it appeared that this consummate young rogue had acted chiefly alone.
It was clearly made out that he had had no assistance in effecting the
ruin of the too credulous Stromwalters, and had relied upon his own wit
and the extreme weakness and simplicity of the old people.

Thalreuter, in consideration of his youth, was sentenced to only
eight years’ imprisonment at hard labour and a corporal punishment of
twenty-five lashes on admission to prison. He only survived to complete
two years of his sentence and died in 1828 at the bridewell in Munich.

Not many years after the coming and going of the false prince,
Thalreuter, at Munich, another fictitious aristocrat flashed across
the horizon of Berlin society, springing suddenly into notoriety
and attracting universal attention. She was generally known as the
“Golden Princess,” but no one knew certainly whom she was or whence
she came. She appeared about 1835, when she adopted a sumptuous style
of living which dazzled every one and made her the universal topic
of conversation. She occupied a luxuriously furnished villa in the
Thiergarten, kept a liveried man servant, a coachman, a cook, a maid
and also a lady companion, and habitually drove about Berlin in a
beautifully equipped carriage. She frequented the most expensive shops,
where she made large purchases, to the intense satisfaction of the
tradesmen, who considered the “Golden Princess” their best customer,
particularly as she was quite above haggling and bargaining. She was
generous to a fault; the poor besieged her door, and her deeds of
charity were many. She often travelled, and her journeys to London and
Brussels were much discussed; she visited German baths and would post
to Carlsbad with four horses. From all these places she brought back
splendid presents which she lavished upon her acquaintances, although
they were not always cordially accepted, for her social position during
the earlier part of her career by no means corresponded with her
general magnificence. She did not frequent fashionable circles, nor did
she receive much company at home.

A woman of this kind could not escape gossiping criticism. Many
reports were current of her quality and antecedents. One story was that
she was betrothed to a Brazilian, Count Villamor, who was supposed
to have fallen in love with her abroad and was now providing the
means for her to live in Berlin and to travel, so that she might fit
herself for the high position of his wife. Others said that she was
engaged to marry a Hamburg senator. German counts, and even princes,
were also suggested as the future husbands of this interesting girl.
The consensus of opinion, however, was in favour of the Brazilian,
and her very ample means gave some colour to this assumption. She was
an attractive woman, although not strikingly beautiful; she had good
features and fascinating manners, and it was natural that this wealthy
foreign count should fall in love with her. To call her an adventuress
was unjustifiable.

This Henrietta Wilke, for such was her modest name, was no stranger in
reality, nor was she of distinguished parentage. She was born of humble
people who died when she was a child, and she had been befriended by
some wealthy folk who gave her an education above her station, so that
when, at their death, she was obliged to go into domestic service, she
was treated more as a friend than a servant. She began as a nurse-maid
and then became companion to an elderly maiden lady of Charlottenburg
named Niemann, who played a large part in her subsequent history.

Henrietta Wilke had borne a good character as a respectable,
unpretending girl, and there was no reason whatever to suspect her of
frauds and malpractices for the purpose of acquiring wealth. The police
could urge nothing against her, even if the sources of her wealth were
obscure. She did not thrust herself into the society of well-to-do
people to cheat and impose upon them. On the contrary, she consorted
with a lower class and behaved with great propriety; her reputation
was good; she paid her way honourably, was extremely charitable and
never seemed ashamed of her poor relations. Still, there were those who
smiled sarcastically and hinted that some strange truths would yet be
disclosed about this enigmatic personage.

Among those who trusted her implicitly was the proprietor of a large
furniture establishment in Berlin, Schroder by name, from whom she had
made large purchases, always paying for them in cash. One day he made
so bold as to ask her if she would lend him a few thousand thalers
to increase his business, as she seemed to have a large capital at
her command. She replied that she had not attained her majority--she
was twenty-three years old, but the age of majority in Germany was
twenty-four years. She would otherwise gladly give him the sum herself,
she said, but in the meantime she promised to try to procure it from a
friend of hers who had the control of her own fortune. The following
day she informed Schroder that her old friend Fräulein Niemann,
of Charlottenburg, was quite prepared to lend him 5,000 thalers at
four per cent., on the security of his shop. The money, however,
was invested in debentures, and it could not be released until the
repayment of 500 thalers which had been borrowed on them. If Schroder
would advance that sum, the whole business might be settled at once.

Schroder, after making inquiries and hearing nothing but satisfactory
reports about Fräulein Niemann, went to Charlottenburg and, in the
presence of Henrietta Wilke, gave her the 500 thalers to secure
the 5,000 thalers which were to be shortly handed over. But on the
following day Fräulein Wilke came to him again and said that the
debentures could only be released by the payment of 1,000 thalers;
to compensate him she offered to raise the loan to 8,000 thalers.
Schroder, after some hesitation, agreed to pay the further 500 thalers;
but he first sought further information as to Fräulein Niemann’s
solvency, taking her promise in writing to lend him on June 28th, 1836,
a capital of 8,000 thalers and to repay him his loan of 1,000 thalers.

Instead of the money, however, Henrietta Wilke came to him again and
announced that Fräulein Niemann meant to make his fortune. She would
lend him 20,000 thalers instead of 8,000 thalers, but to release
so large an amount of debentures she required a further sum of 500
thalers. Schroder at first demurred, but, after paying the two
ladies another visit, he relented. He paid the third 500 thalers and
for this was to receive on February 10th the whole sum of twenty
thousand thalers. The 10th of February passed, but the money was not
forthcoming. Instead, a message came to say that 8,000 thalers at least
should be paid on the following Monday. Fräulein Wilke appeared on
the Monday without the money, indeed, but with the news that as her
friend’s banker had not made the promised payment, she would borrow the
sum from another friend. Schroder believed her, and his confidence was
such that he gave her 100 thalers more, which she still required to
draw out the necessary debentures. He received a receipt from Fräulein
Niemann, and February 13th was fixed as the day of payment. But on the
day when this agreement was made, Schroder heard that other persons had
received from Fräulein Wilke some of the bank-notes he had given to
her or Fräulein Niemann for the release of the debentures. Indeed, he
learned that Fräulein Wilke had bought two horses with one of his 300
thaler notes.

He rushed to Charlottenburg and found Henrietta and her companion at
Fräulein Niemann’s. A violent scene took place, but a reconciliation
followed, and Schroder allowed himself to be persuaded to wait until
February 27th. When on that day the money was again not forthcoming, he
very naturally grew uneasy and applied to the police. Herr Gerlach,
at that time the head of the force, found no cause for prosecuting
Henrietta Wilke or the blameless Fräulein Niemann, and although the
celebrated police magistrate Duncker did not agree, no steps were
taken to arrest them. Schroder now decided to sue Fräulein Niemann. A
compromise, however, was reached. He then limited his demands to the
repayment of the 1,600 thalers and to the loan of a small capital of
8,000 thalers, both of which were conceded. To disarm his suspicion,
Fräulein Wilke required of Fräulein Niemann that she should at least
show him the money he was to receive. The old lady accordingly took out
of her cabinet a sealed packet with the superscription “10,000 thalers
in Pomeranian debentures.” Schroder asked that it should be given over
to him at once, but Fräulein Wilke, always the spokeswoman for Fräulein
Niemann, explained that this was impossible on account of family
circumstances, and that he could not have the debentures until March
30th. The day came but not the money; Fräulein Wilke and her companion
Fräulein Alfrede called upon him and continued to allege complicated
family affairs as the cause of the delay. To reassure him, however,
and to disarm suspicion, she handed over to him, in Fräulein Niemann’s
name, the sealed packet with the 10,000 thalers in debentures, but with
the injunction not to open it until April 5th, otherwise, no further
payments would be made; then to convert the debentures into cash, keep
1,600 thalers for himself, take 8,000 thalers as a loan, and return the
rest to Fräulein Niemann. All parties now seemed satisfied.

On the date fixed, Schroder went to a notary’s office under police
instruction and broke the seals, when, in the place of the 10,000
thalers in debentures, they found nothing in the envelope but several
sheets of blank paper. A fraud had evidently been committed which
pointed to other irregularities. It would be tedious to describe in
detail the ingenious deceptions practised for years past by Henrietta
Wilke on Fräulein Niemann, whose god-daughter she was, and upon whom
she had continually imposed by pretending that she was the protégé
of great personages, more especially the princess Raziwill, who had
secured the good offices of the king himself, William III, on her
behalf. The Fräulein Niemann was deluded into making large advances,
ostensibly to help the princess in her necessities and ultimately the
king, but which really were impounded feloniously by Wilke. The king
was also supposed to be mixed up in the backing of Schroder’s furniture
business, and the packet containing the sham debentures was represented
to have been really prepared by royal hands. This farrago of nonsense
failed to satisfy Schroder, who now gave information to the police and
the “Golden Princess” had reached the end of her career. She was taken
into custody and subjected to judicial examination. When before the
judge, all her powers of intrigue seemed to abandon her. She made a
full confession and admitted everything. What was the motive which led
so young a girl to commit such gigantic frauds, was asked. The criminal
herself gives the simplest explanation of this in her own statement:

“In first practising my frauds on Niemann, I was actuated by a distaste
for service as a means of support. It proved so easy to procure money
from her that I continued doing so. At first I thought that she was
very rich and would not be much damaged if I drew upon her superfluity.
When, however, she was obliged to raise money on her house, I saw that
she had nothing more, but then it was too late for me to turn back.”
When asked if she had never considered the danger of detection, she
replied with complete unconcern that she had entertained no such fears.
She had spent everything she had received from Fraulein Niemann and
others to gratify her desire to live like a fine lady, and had retained
nothing but the few articles found in her possession at the time of
her arrest. In this simple statement the whole explanation of her way
of life was contained. All the witnesses who had known her previously
testified to her being a quiet, good-tempered person and that she was
well conducted from a moral point of view was certain. Her relatives
confirmed all this, but stated that they had always considered the
education given her to be above her condition, and had thought it
encouraged her in her frivolity and her desire to play the lady of
quality. All this tallies with the whole story of her life which was
based upon the desire for luxury and show.

Opportunity creates thieves and also begets beings of her sort,
addicted to speculative transactions. They begin in a small way and
good luck spurs them on to greater enterprises. Like her imagination,
her talent for intrigue grew apace. From the humble position of a
nurse-maid, she aspired to raise herself to that of a lady companion.
She only pretended to act as the favoured agent of a king, after having
posed as the pet of a princess and the betrothed of several counts, her
early desire to be a school mistress having been cast aside as unworthy
of her soaring ambition.

While in prison, she composed a letter to the king, supposed to be
written by Fräulein Niemann, in which this lady is made to implore
his pardon for her protégé, and begs him to open the prison doors.
To this she added some lines addressed to Fräulein Alfrede, Wilke’s
former companion, directing her to induce Fräulein Niemann to copy it
in her own hand; and it was then to be delivered by the companion to
a trustworthy person who would see that it was given to the king. The
contents of this epistle were divulged by another prisoner. It produced
no results, of course, but bears witness to Henrietta Wilke’s courage
and adroitness in continuing to weave her intrigues within the prison
walls, and shows how long she must have held the old lady a captive in
a net of lies.

The first verdict was pronounced on May 21, 1836. According to Prussian
law, the fraud committed could only be atoned for by the reimbursement
of double the sum misappropriated, and if the criminal were without
means, a corresponding term of penal servitude would be inflicted.
This duplicated fine was computed by the judge at 42,450 thalers,
and he desired that on account of the self-evident impecuniosity of
the girl Wilke, and of the allegation brought forward of aggravated
circumstances connected with her malpractices, a sentence of twelve
years’ penal servitude be pronounced.

Confined at first in Spandau and afterward in Brandenburg, the
prisoner’s conduct seems to have been uniformly good. She occupied
herself with embroideries, which were said to be very skilfully
executed. A petition for her pardon was sent in some years ago, but
was rejected, as there was no reason for letting out so dangerous a
prisoner before her term had expired. Even when the period for release
arrived, she was not allowed her freedom until the administrator of the
institution had satisfied himself that she had really been improved by
the punishment endured, was capable of earning her livelihood honestly,
and that her liberation would not endanger the public safety.

A case of the pretentious impostor of recent date, imprisoned in
various German prisons, is that of George Manolescu, whose memoirs
have appeared in the form of an autobiography. So varied were the
experiences of this thorough-paced scoundrel, so cleverly did he carry
out his gigantic depredations and his numerous frauds and thefts great
and small, almost always without any violence, that his story has
all the elements of romance. Manolescu was highly gifted by nature.
Endowed with a handsome person, he appeared to have an affectionate
disposition, spoke several languages with ease and fluency, and his
singular charm of manner made him at home in the most fastidious
society. Exhibiting an utter disregard of the commonest principles of
right and wrong, he devoted his talents and his marvellous ingenuity to
criminal malpractices.

George Manolescu was born on May 20th, 1871, in the town of Ploesci
in Roumania. His father was a captain of cavalry, who, owing to his
implacable and haughty character, was constantly being shifted from
one garrison to another; his mother, a great beauty, died when he
was two years old, and the care of his early childhood was confided
to his grandmother, whom he caused endless trouble. Later on he was
transferred from school to school, for his passionate love of perpetual
change and his undisciplined nature prevented him from settling down
to work anywhere. This longing for travels and adventures was, indeed,
deep seated and unconquerable, so that at last his father sought to
give it a natural vent by sending him to an academy for naval cadets.
At first his conduct was good, but soon his intolerance of control
asserted itself and led him to insubordination. On his return to the
academy after a vacation, he misconducted himself and was punished with
close confinement in a small cell under the roof. He managed, however,
to break open the door, climb out on the roof and let himself down
into the street by means of the nearest telegraph post. He started at
once for the harbour of Galatz, and with only one franc, 50 centimes
for his whole fortune, stowed himself away on a steamer bound for
Constantinople. The captain had him put on shore at that port. Half
dead with fatigue and hunger, he obtained a portion of _pilaf_ from
the first vendor of that delicacy whom he met in the streets of the
Turkish capital, and after satisfying his appetite, in lieu of payment
he flung the empty dish at the man’s head and took to his heels. He ran
up to Pera and entered the public garden, where an entertainment was
in progress at a theatre of varieties. Here he met a Turkish officer
who noticed him and with whom he had some conversation. Seeing the
corner of a pocket book protruding from that worthy’s half-open coat,
the boy with lightning speed possessed himself of it unobserved, and
also picked the officer’s pocket of a cigarette case encrusted with
diamonds. He then escaped with his booty. The pocket book contained 20
pounds sterling; with this sum he set up a sort of bazaar by filling a
large basket with various articles for sale, and, assisted by a young
Italian he casually met, cried his wares all over the town. This first
venture was not successful, as he made no profit and the assistant ran
away with the whole stock in trade, including the basket.

Thus living from hand to mouth, he decided to turn his back on
Constantinople, where he felt the eyes of the police were upon him.
Being penniless, he applied to the Roumanian legation to send him home,
which they consented to do. On landing at Galatz, as he was entirely
without money, he went into the nearest café, annexed the first
overcoat he saw, and pawned it for a few francs. This was not enough
money to pay his journey to Bucharest where his family now lived, so
he sought other means to replenish his exchequer. Loving, as he did,
everything pertaining to the sea, he visited the various foreign ships
lying in the harbour and inspected all parts, always stealing as he
went any valuables he could find in the cabins of the captain and chief
engineer. Presently Galatz became too hot for him, and he found it
expedient to proceed to Bucharest, where he made but a short stay.

Paris, the dream of every youthful _vaurien_, strongly attracted him.
In the meantime he started on his travels once more, and again reached
Constantinople, from whence he travelled on to Athens, defraying his
expenses by clever thefts. One fine day, however, he found himself
in the Grecian capital without funds and once more applied to the
Roumanian legation to be repatriated. This request being refused, he
drew his revolver, put it to his breast, pulled the trigger and fell
down senseless. He was removed to a hospital, and although the ball
could not be extracted, he did not die, as the surgeon expected. While
he lay there, he attracted much sympathy and received several gracious
visits from Queen Olga of Denmark, who was at that time in Athens. Her
kindness so touched him the first time she came that he burst into
tears. She caused him to be removed to the best room in the hospital,
defrayed his expenses, and when he recovered ordered him to appear at
the Greek court. Subsequently she provided the means for his journey
home where, as before, he remained but a short time.

In July, 1888, his love of adventure again drew him away and eventually
he managed to reach Paris, where he established himself in the Latin
Quarter. His family agreed to make him a small monthly allowance,
provided he should adopt some reputable means of livelihood. But the
attempt was half-hearted, and as he soon found himself straitened in
his means, he eked them out by thefts committed at the Bon Marché,
Louvre and other great department stores. His tricks and fraudulent
devices were ingenious and varied and may be passed over. He soon
aimed at higher game and began stealing unset precious stones from
jewellers’ shops, by which he realised plunder to the value of about
5,000 francs monthly. He hired a beautiful villa in the rue François I,
lived in luxury, kept race horses and was well received by members of
fashionable society, in whose exclusive homes he was made welcome as
the supposed son of a rich father, and where he gambled on an enormous
scale, often losing large sums. One fine day, however, fate overtook
him and he was arrested for thirty-seven thefts to the aggregate value
of 540,000 francs. He was thus dashed from the height of prosperity
into an abyss of misfortune, and in 1890, when still barely nineteen
years of age, he was sentenced to four years’ imprisonment. After
his release, he was again sent home to Bucharest, where as usual he
remained only a short time.

He now visited various countries, including Japan and the United
States. In Chicago, where many bankers are of German extraction, he
was invited everywhere, partly because his German was so perfect and
also because he adopted the title of Duke of Otranti and so made an
impression by his imaginary high rank. Rich marriages were proposed
to him, but the parents of a beautiful girl whom he desired to make
his wife discredited the proofs he offered of his wealth and exalted
rank. He continued his thefts and was twice imprisoned during this
period of his career. But as we are chiefly concerned with his German
experiences, we shall take up his life again at the time of his
marriage to a German countess of an ancient Catholic family whom
he met travelling in Switzerland. He managed to procure the consent
of the girl’s mother, but the rest of the family were averse to the
match. The young people were genuinely in love, and this marvellous
adventurer never ceased to love his wife and was a tender, though not
very faithful husband while they remained together. There were so
many difficulties to be overcome and so much to be concealed that the
marriage seemed hardly possible. But Manolescu procured his papers
from Roumania and the couple were married by the bishop of Geneva, the
Roumanian vice-consul being present, though the bridegroom, to add
to other complications, belonged to the Greek Church. He travelled a
great deal with his wife, and in 1899 visited some of her aristocratic
relations at their fine country schloss, where he was warmly received.
Later on the young couple settled in a lovely villa on the Lake of
Constance, where their only child, a girl, was born.

Of course Manolescu was soon short of money, and he decided to start
for Cairo to try to procure for himself a position there as hotel
manager. The parting between husband and wife, although they supposed
it would only be temporary, was most pathetic. They never lived
together again. He never reached his destination, for when out of
reach of his wife’s good influence, his thieving proclivities again
overmastered him, and at Lucerne, one of his stopping places, he
entered the rooms of a married couple staying at his hotel and stole
most of the contents of the lady’s jewel case which he found in the
first trunk he opened. In the husband’s trunk he also found valuable
securities which he appropriated, and with this rich booty he escaped
to Zurich. At the Hotel Stephanie there, he robbed the bed-room of an
American gentleman, making off with bank-notes and French securities to
the amount of 70,000 francs. Shortly after this coup he was arrested at
Frankfurt and taken to a police station. A brief description given in
his own words of some of his experiences there may be of interest.

“At the prison I was given in charge of the inspector. This man,
wishing at once to assert his authority, ordered me in a brutal tone to
strip where I stood, on a stone floor in a cold corridor where there
was a terrible draught from the open windows. I submitted, knowing
this measure to be usual at most prisons, though it does not take
place elsewhere in a corridor, but in rooms specially arranged for
this purpose; also prisoners are generally allowed to keep on their
under-linen and shoes. I, however, had to divest myself of everything
except my shoes. My garments were carefully searched one by one. During
this time the inspector stood in front of me with an evil smile on his
face, swaying himself from side to side. I begged him civilly to allow
me to keep on my shirt, whereupon he replied that I was well protected
from cold by my shoes. Beside myself with rage, I took them and flung
them at his head. He threw himself upon me and tried to strike me with
his bunch of keys, but I seized his wrist and twisted it, forcing him
to drop them. Two warders now appeared at his call, and he ordered me
to put on my clothes. To these irons were to be added, but I resisted,
and a fight took place in which I came off the victor. The attempt to
put me into irons was given up, and I was moved up into a small but
airy cell, where I was securely locked up. Later, however, the chief
inspector came to see me; he spoke to me kindly and begged me to behave
quietly and he would see that I was not maltreated in any way.”

Manolescu’s attempt at escape, his simulation of madness, and the
interviews with his wife, who came to Frankfurt that she might see
him, need not be detailed at length. It is enough to say that he was
extradited to Switzerland, tried and sentenced to only six months’ hard
labour. Having regard to the strictness of the Swiss laws, this was a
mild sentence, but Manolescu was not considered by the authorities to
be in his right mind.

In September of 1900, after his release, he crossed once more to
America, where he carried out a large robbery successfully, and
returning to Paris, again lived on the very crest of the wave,
frequenting the same fashionable circles and attributing his long
absence from France to family affairs. He now assumed the title of
Prince Lahovary, and had a neat prince’s coronet printed on his
visiting cards. He posed as a bachelor, looked about for a wife, and
proposed to a young American widow whom he met at Boulogne, where she
was staying with her father and brother. She evinced some inclination
to accept him and some of her relatives favoured the “prince’s”
suit. At the end of three weeks’ courtship they parted, agreeing to
meet later on in Berlin. Lahovary, as we must now call him, returned
temporarily to Paris, where he literally wallowed in luxury. The large
sums he spent he managed to provide for the time being by play, for
he was a most inveterate gambler, although not usually lucky, as he
calculated that he had lost altogether 1,800,000 francs at cards during
his career. In November he arrived, as agreed, in Berlin, accompanied
by a secretary and valet, and made his entry into the proud German
capital as “Prince Lahovary,” a great personage by whom all Europe
was presently to be dazzled and who was to be the subject of endless
talk. He established himself with his suite at the Kaiserhof, still
falsely pretending to be unmarried, and continued his courtship of
the young widow. But his resources soon melted, and he was forced to
undertake a fresh robbery on a large scale, which led to his undoing.
On the evening of this theft he left Berlin for Dresden, where he
sold some of the jewelry he had stolen to a court jeweller for 12,000
marks, and then returned to Berlin to take a temporary leave of his
American friends, explaining to them that important affairs called
him to Genoa. The father of the young widow proposed that as he and
his son and daughter were shortly to sail for America from that port,
they should all meet there, and they arranged a rendezvous for January
10, 1901. Now occurred a dramatic little incident in the life of this
strange man worth recording.

On January 1, 1901, he left Berlin and went to the place where his wife
lived with her child. He wanted to see them once more before proceeding
to Genoa to sail from thence to the new world, although he had fully
determined to marry the other woman, if possible, and settle down to
a properly regulated life in America. He reached the town on January
2nd, at 9 o’clock in the morning, hired a carriage and drove to a shop
to buy toys for his child and presents for his wife. He then drove to
the villa where his wife lived and stopped at the gate, which he rang
five or six times. No one answered or came to open the gate for him.
His wife lived on the ground floor and from the window she could see
any one who came without being seen. When she recognised her husband,
she would not open the door, having promised her aunt never to resume
relations with him. He was not to be gainsaid, however, and continued
to pull the bell unceasingly. At last the outer door was unlocked and
his wife came out as far as the garden gate, but this she did not open.
With a trembling voice she asked him what he desired of her. He could
hardly speak from emotion, and held out to her his presents, which
she refused, saying she did not know with whose money he had bought
them. He implored her to let him in to see their child, but she firmly
declined. Then he fell into a passion and threatened to return with a
representative of the law to help him claim his paternal rights. To
prevent a scandal, she promised to show him the child from the window.
At last he agreed to this compromise; she returned to the house and
presently appeared at the window with the child in her arms. The little
child looked at her father with uncomprehending eyes; he stared at his
daughter for several minutes, then turned, hurriedly drove away and
never beheld his wife or child again.

On reaching Genoa shortly afterward, he was arrested, as the police
authorities in Berlin had discovered his theft, and he was sent back
there and detained in the well-known Moabit prison. He was placed in
a cell where he remained for nearly a year, until May 30, 1901. The
examining magistrate was a humane and just man and the lawyer whom
Manolescu retained for his own defence was a celebrated barrister.
He had no hesitation in confessing his crimes. As doubts of his
sanity existed, the medical reports from the Swiss prison, expressing
uncertainty as to his mental state, were examined by the doctor of
Moabit. Although the identity of the medical officer was suppressed,
Manolescu guessed it by intuition and simulated madness so cleverly
that he was sent to the infirmary in connection with Moabit, where he
was kept under observation for six weeks. He was then taken back to
the prison in December, 1901, armed with a certificate drawn up by
specialists, stating him to be completely deranged, though this was
doubted by the crown solicitor-general. At last, on May 28, 1902, he
was brought before the criminal court, where he had some difficulty in
maintaining his pretence of madness. The solicitor-general pressed for
a conviction as an impostor, but a verdict of insanity was pronounced;
he was acquitted as irresponsible, and transferred to the lunatic
asylum at Herzburg.

Fourteen months later he escaped. He attacked and pinioned his warder,
took forcible possession of his keys, locked him into his own cell,
and then quietly left the institution by climbing over the garden
wall. With the help of a lady, a member of the Berlin aristocracy, who
was a friend of his, he was able to cross the Prussian frontier and
to enter Austrian territory. As the papers, however, were full of his
exploits, he was arrested at Innsbruck some time later and taken to
Vienna, where he still feigned madness. The Austrian doctors supported
the views of their Prussian colleagues, and he was acquitted also by
the Viennese court of justice. Following this acquittal, Manolescu was
sent to Bucharest, where he went determined to reform and to earn his
bread honestly. He could find no employment until a publisher suggested
he should write his memoirs in the form of an autobiography, from
which this summary of his career has been taken. By this occupation he
supported himself for a time. As he could find no other means of making
his livelihood, he decided to emigrate to America, where he declared
every industrious man could find work. He ends his autobiography
with these words: “I do not bear my countrymen any grudge. I only
wish that the unfortunate prejudices of the egoistic Roumanian form
of civilisation which prevented them from holding out a hand to a
repentant sinner may soon be removed. Thus ends the autobiography of
George Manolescu, alias Prince Lahovary.”

We fear his career after leaving Bucharest was not all it should have
been, as the following paragraph appeared in January, 1906, in the
_Daily Express_.

“George Manolescu, the celebrated swindler, has lately escaped from the
prison of Sumenstein in Germany by feigning madness and pretending to
be General Kuropatkin.”

Another impostor, Leonhard Bollert, has stated that he was born in
1821. His father served as sergeant-major in the fifth _chevau-legers_
regiment, and soon after the birth of the boy left the army, married
the boy’s mother and settled with his family in his own birthplace,
a small town in lower Franconia, where he gained his livelihood as a
provision merchant. The boy, who was greatly gifted, was apprenticed
to a shoemaker at Würzburg, where he learned the trade thoroughly.
After serving six years in the same regiment as his father, he went to
foreign parts, incidentally embarking upon a life of criminal adventure
which lasted nearly forty years. While in the service of one of his
employers, he was sentenced, for embezzlement, to a term in prison,
which he served in Würzburg, a town which seems to have been at that
period a high school for criminals. He then successively progressed,
with longer or shorter intervals between the terms, through the prisons
of Plassenburg, Kaisheim, Lichtenau, Diez in Nassau, the house of
correction in Mainz and the Hessian penal institution, Marienschloss.
By his aptitude and his thorough knowledge of shoemaking, he everywhere
earned for himself recognition and good results. How he employed his
time when at large could not be definitely established. At one time he
served a Hungarian count, with whom he made long journeys. It must have
been then that he acquired his refined manners and his aristocratic
bearing. Why he left his employer at the end of six months is not
clear. Probably some of his master’s coin found its way into his own
purse. Bollert used to relate to a small and select circle of friends
the more startling incidents of his career with great pride,--such as
his appearance at Wiesbaden as an officer and bogus baron. He also
served in the papal army for a short time until it was defeated and
dissolved. He was not indifferent to the fair sex and, as a handsome
man, claimed to have had many successes.

During his last period of liberty in 1870, Bollert followed the
profession of burglary and swindling on a large scale. The scene of his
activity extended from Munich to the Rhine. He was clever at disguises
and used a variety of costumes, wearing false beards of different
hues; he possessed the complete uniform of a Bavarian railway guard,
in which he once got as far as Bingen without a ticket. He plied his
nefarious trade in Frankfurt, Würzburg, Heidelberg, Darmstadt, Nürnberg
and Augsberg. At hotels he managed by means of false keys to enter
the rooms of people who were absent, and often carried away all the
articles of value he could lay hands on. In Frankfurt he was once
arrested, but succeeded in breaking out of the prison. In Würzburg he
was again caught and here the Court of the Assizes sentenced him to
thirteen years’ penal servitude.

No one would have taken Bollert for a dangerous and bold burglar. In
spite of his fifty-one years, he presented a handsome appearance, had
a great charm of manner and looked well even in a convict’s dress. His
expression was gentle, his address was civil and conciliating, but
not in the least cringing; his bearing toward the officials was never
too submissive, but always polite. Ladies, whose feet he measured in
his capacity of chief shoemaker, were never tired of describing the
elegant manner in which he bowed, and they took a great interest in
the history of this attractive convict. He was entrusted with the
purchase of all the leather required by the board of management of the
prison, and not only acquitted himself of this task to their entire
satisfaction, but also cut out the most perfect shoes the officials’
wives had ever worn. He was a Catholic and soon became an acolyte,
serving the mass with a fervour never before manifested by a convict
in prison. In his intercourse with the other prisoners he was always
reserved, and he was and remained the “gentleman”--they always spoke
of him as “Herr” Bollert. He never descended to frauds or low tricks,
he never betrayed any one; but openly expressed his contempt for the
behaviour of many of his companions in misfortune, without their daring
to resent it. If he was offered a glass of wine or beer in the house of
one of the officials, he never mentioned the circumstance. How was it
that a man capable of thus altering his conduct, one may say his whole
character, for a series of years, fell back into the old vicious course
of action, upon being freed from restraint?

Bollert completed his thirteen years in prison, grew somewhat paler and
older, but preserved his erect, graceful carriage. His end was never
definitely known; no information reached the prison after his last
release. Before his departure, the chaplain presented him with an old
great-coat which he had repaired and remade, and he wore it with such
a grand air that an acquaintance of the chief superintendent who had
accompanied Bollert to the railway station, asked, “Was not that the
attorney-general?”



CHAPTER VI

TYPICAL MURDERERS

    Andrew Bichel, the German “Jack the ripper,” murders many
    women for their clothes--John Paul Forster murders a
    corn-chandler in Nürnberg and his maid-servant--Mysterious
    circumstances cleared up by clever inferences--Circumstantial
    evidence conclusive--Sentenced to perpetual imprisonment
    in chains--Rauschmaier, the murderer of a poor charwoman,
    detected by his brass finger ring--Sentenced to death and
    decapitated--The murder of August von Kotzebue, the German
    playwright, by Karl Sand, to avenge the poet’s ridicule of
    liberal ideas--Wide sympathy expressed for the murderer and
    strange scene at the scaffold.


A chapter may be devoted to some of the especially remarkable murders
recorded in German criminal annals, which go to prove that the natives
of northern regions, while outwardly cold-blooded and phlegmatic, will
yield readily to the passions of greed, lust and thirst for revenge.
The case of Riembauer, the abominably licentious priest, who murdered
the victims he seduced, and who long bore the highest reputation for
his piety and persuasive eloquence, rivals any crime of its class in
any country. Germany has also had her “Jack the ripper,” in Andrew
Bichel, who destroyed poor peasant women for the pettiest plunder.
Murders have been as mysterious and difficult of detection as that
of Baumler and his maid-servant at Nürnberg, and conversely, as
marvellously discovered as by the telltale brass ring inadvertently
dropped by the murderer Rauschmaier when dismembering his victim’s
corpse. The murder of the poet Von Kotzebue by the student Karl Sand
was a crime of exaggerated sentimentalism which attracted more sympathy
than it deserved. Quite within our own times the killing of an infant
boy at Xanten unchained racial animosities and excited extraordinary
interest.

Let us consider first the case of Andrew Bichel, a Bavarian who lived
at Regendorf at the beginning of the nineteenth century. He was to all
outward seeming well-behaved and reputable, a married man with several
children and generally esteemed for his piety. But secretly he was
a petty thief who robbed his neighbours’ gardens and stole hay from
his master’s loft. His nature was inordinately covetous and he was an
abject coward, whose crimes were aimed always at the helpless who could
make no defence. No suspicion was aroused against Bichel for years.
Girls went to Regendorf and were never heard of again. One, Barbara
Reisinger, disappeared in 1807 and another, Catherine Seidel, the year
after. In both cases no report was made to the police until a long time
had elapsed, and a first clue to the disappearance of the Seidel girl
was obtained by her sister, who found a tailor making up a waistcoat
from a piece of dimity which she recognised as having formed part of a
petticoat worn by Catherine when she was last seen. The waistcoat was
for a certain Andrew Bichel, who lived in the town and who at that time
followed the profession of fortune-teller.

Catherine Seidel had been attracted by his promises to show her her
fortune in a glass. She was to come to him in her best clothes,
the best she had, and with three changes, for this was part of the
performance. She went as directed and was never heard of again.
Bichel, when asked, declared she had eloped with a man whom she met at
his house. Now that suspicion was aroused against him, his house in
Regendorf was searched and a chest full of women’s clothes was found in
his room. Among them were many garments identified as belonging to the
missing Catherine Seidel. One of her handkerchiefs, moreover, was taken
out of his pocket when he was apprehended. Still there was no direct
proof of murder. The disappearance of Seidel was undoubted, so also
was that of Reisinger, and the presumption of foul play was strong.
Some crime had been committed, but whether abduction, manslaughter,
or murder was still a hidden mystery. Repeated searchings of Bichel’s
house were fruitless; no dead bodies were found, no stains of blood, no
traces of violence.

The dog belonging to a police sergeant first ran the crime to ground.
He pointed so constantly to a wood shed in the yard and when called off
so persistently returned to the same spot, that the officer determined
to explore the shed thoroughly. In one corner lay a great heap of straw
and litter, and on digging deep below this they turned up a quantity of
human bones. A foot deeper more remains were found and near at hand,
underneath a pile of logs by a chalk pit, a human head was unearthed.
Not far off was a second body, which, like the first, had been cut into
two pieces. One was believed to be the corpse of Barbara Reisinger; the
other was actually identified, through a pair of pinchbeck earrings, as
that of Catherine Seidel.

Bichel made full confession of these two particular crimes. The
Reisinger girl he had killed when she came seeking a situation as
maid-servant. He was tempted by her clothes. To murder her he had
recourse to his trade of fortune-telling, saying he would show her
in a magic mirror her future fate, and producing a board and a small
magnifying glass, he placed them on a table in front of her. She must
not touch these sacred objects; her eyes must be bandaged and her hands
tied behind her back. No sooner had she consented than he stabbed her
in the neck, and after completing the hideous crime, appropriated her
paltry possessions.

A complicated and for a time mysterious murder committed at Nürnberg
in 1820 may be inserted here, as it throws some light upon the prison
system of those days. A rich corn-chandler named Baumler was violently
put to death in his own house in the Königstrasse late one evening,
and with him his maid-servant, Anna Schütz, who lived with him alone.
It was noticed that his shop remained closed one morning in September
much later than five o’clock, his usual hour for beginning business.
With the sanction of the police, some of his neighbours entered the
house through the first floor windows by means of a ladder. They came
upon a scene of wild disorder; drawers and chests had been broken open
and ransacked with all the appearances of a robbery. Descending to the
ground floor, the corpse of the maid-servant was discovered in a corner
close to the street door, and soon the body of Baumler was found lying
dead in the parlour by the stove.

There was little doubt that the master had been killed before the maid.
She had been last seen alive the night before by the baker near-by,
whose shop she had visited to purchase a couple of halfpenny rolls, and
in answer to a question she had said there were still some customers
drinking in Baumler’s shop. Corn-chandlers had the right of retailing
brandy and the place was used as a tavern. The murderer was almost
certainly one of those drinking in the shop, and the last to leave. The
maid must have been attacked as soon as she returned, for the newly
purchased rolls were picked up on the floor where she had evidently
dropped them in her fright. She had apparently been driven into the
corner of the shop and struck down. Baumler must have been killed
first, for he would certainly have come to the maid’s rescue when she
gave a first cry of alarm. His body was found near the overturned stool
on which he sat of an evening smoking his pipe, which lay under him
with several small coins fallen out of his pocket when rifled by the
murderer. The drawers and receptacles of the shop had been thoroughly
ransacked and a large amount of specie had been removed, although a
repeater watch and other valuables were overlooked.

The murderer had evidently acted with much circumspection. The entrance
to the shop during working hours was by a glass door which was
unhinged at night and a solid street door substituted, usually about
eleven o’clock. The change had been made three-quarters of an hour
earlier than usual, and the place had been closed, no doubt to prevent
premature discovery of the bloody drama. All was dark and quiet by half
past ten, although the miscreant was still inside, seeking his plunder,
washing off the bloodstains and changing his clothes. He had taken
possession of several of Baumler’s garments, and this imprudence, so
frequently shown by murderers, contributed to his detection.

Suspicion soon fell upon a stranger who had visited the shop at
an early hour in the evening and had remained there alone after
nine o’clock, when the other guests had left. All agreed in their
description of him as a man of about thirty, dark, black haired and
with a black beard, who wore a dark great-coat and a high beaver hat;
he described himself as a hop merchant and sat with a glass of red
clove brandy before him, his eyes fixed on the ground, saying that he
was waiting for a friend. He was easily identified as a certain Paul
Forster lately discharged from prison, whose father was a needy day
labourer with vicious daughters. The son Paul lived with a woman named
Preiss, in whose house he was arrested, together with the woman, and
a substantial sum in cash was found on the premises. Next day Forster
was recognised by the waiter at an inn as the man who had entrusted an
overcoat of dark gray cloth to his keeping. The coat when produced was
seen to be soaked in blood. Forster himself was wearing another, a blue
overcoat, which soon proved to have belonged to Baumler.

On reaching Nürnberg, both prisoners were confronted with the bodies of
the two murdered persons. Forster viewed them with great unconcern, but
the woman Preiss was visibly shocked. Forster’s movements on the night
of the crime were traced, and he was shown to have visited his father’s
house just after the murder, also it was proved that his sister had
given him an axe some time before to take into the town to be ground,
and this was found in his house lying behind the stove wrapped in a wet
rag, and visibly stained with blood.

The circumstantial evidence against Forster was conclusive. The
blood-stained great-coat, the possession of Baumler’s property and
clothes, and his presence at the scene of the crime were significant
facts. The accused felt that all this surely tended to convict him,
but he thought out a line of defence in the quiet of his prison cell.
He sought to throw the blame upon others. He invented two persons,
relatives of the murdered Baumler, who, he said, invited him, Forster,
to go with them to Nürnberg where they promised him work, and from
them he got, as a gift, the incriminating clothes. This fictitious
story could not be sustained. The two relations did not exist and they
had had no dealing, as pretended, with Forster. The whole defence was
a failure, but not the less did the accused persist in his denials
of guilt and fight strenuously with the examining judge. He was
questioned on thirteen separate occasions and replied to thirteen
hundred questions, after being confronted with innumerable victims.
No confession could be wrung from him, and without it no sentence of
capital punishment was admissible in the Bavarian courts. He held
out obstinately to the last, under a well assumed cloak of calmness,
gentleness and piety, as if submitting passively to a fate he did
not deserve. He must have seen toward the end of his trial that the
truth could not be overcome by his fables and cunning evasions, but he
remained unmoved and, as his reward, escaped with his life.

The sentence passed upon him was perpetual imprisonment in chains
and it was endured in the fortress of Lichtenau in Hesse-Cassel.
His behaviour in gaol was in keeping with his dogged, unemotional
character. He bore his heavy punishment in impenetrable silence for
years. His unbending obstinacy of demeanour was partly due to his
callous, apathetic temperament, his unyielding power of physical
endurance and his exalted personal pride. He liked to think that by
stolid endurance he was proving his heroism. He boasted of his unbroken
steadfastness of purpose, “Believe me,” he told a fellow prisoner,
“I shall never confess; I shall resist all persuasion to do so until
my last dying breath. I never gave way all my life in anything I
undertook. I hug my chains.” He did so, literally, treating them as a
badge of honour, a tribute to his constancy, and set himself in his
leisure hours to polish them till they shone like silver. He delighted
in the manifest admiration of his fellows, and at one time conversed
with them freely, giving picturesque descriptions of his adventurous
career and enlarging with evident pleasure on the details of his
principal crime. He was often sullen and insubordinate and would do
no work; no punishment would compel him or break his spirit; when
they flogged him, he offered his back to the lash with the utmost
indifference, taking the strokes without moving a muscle or uttering a
sound, calmly protesting that they might do what they liked with his
body, his spirit was unconquerable.

Forster’s countenance was vulgar and heavy, his face was long, with an
unusual development of chin in contrast with a narrow forehead; this
gave a harsh revolting animal expression to his fixed and unvarying
features, in which the large prominent eyes alone showed signs of
baleful activity.

In one of the remote quarters of the town of Augsberg, a charwoman of
the name of Anna Holzmann lived in a shoemaker’s house. She was rather
more than fifty years of age and, on account of her poverty, was in the
habit of receiving relief from charitable institutions. It was thought
by some, however, that she was not really in poor circumstances. She
had good clothes and other possessions, for which she was envied. She
evidently had more beds and furniture than she required for her own
use, for she was able to take in two men as lodgers, who paid her
rent and occupied a room next to her own. It was generally rumoured,
moreover, that Mother Holzmann, although receiving alms, had put by
quite a considerable sum and had a pot full of money saved.

On Good Friday, 1821, which fell on April 20th, Mother Holzmann was
seen for the last time. From that day she disappeared and left no
trace. Her two lodgers, after awaiting her return for several days
in vain, vacated their quarters. One, called George Rauschmaier, was
the first to go. His companion, who bore the name of Josef Steiner,
waited rather longer, and then he, too, took his departure. Believing
the absent woman Holzmann would presently return, they had notified
the fact of her disappearance only to the proprietor of her house who
lived in the next street. This man took over all the keys which his
tenant had left behind, but, seeing nothing particularly remarkable in
the circumstance of the woman’s disappearance, he forbore to report
it to the police until May 17th. The police immediately notified a
magistrate, who caused Anna Holzmann’s nearest relatives, her brother
and sister-in-law, to be questioned. The brother shared the prevailing
impression that she had probably committed suicide. It was the general
belief that she was a usurer who lent out money at high interest, and
it was thought she had probably been defrauded of a large sum, and that
when she found she could not pay her rent, she had no doubt drowned
herself.

The seals which had been placed upon her property were now broken and
an inventory made of her possessions. The brother and sister-in-law
testified that the best articles were missing, and the pot of money
which she was supposed to keep by her was not unearthed, nor any other
hidden treasures. In all this there was nothing to arouse any suspicion
of foul play, except a dreadful odour pervading the room, which greatly
incommoded the persons engaged in drawing up the inventory. It was
argued that a closer examination of the premises ought to be made, but
for lack of any suspicious evidence pointing to a crime having been
committed, the further search was postponed. Nothing occurred until
early in the new year, when it so happened that one day in January a
laundress and her son wanted to dry linen in the attic of the house
which Holzmann had occupied. In this attic, as was indeed the case
throughout the wretched tenement, brooms and dustpans had never played
a great part, and dust, old straw and other rubbish covered the floor
and all the corners. Having kicked away some of the refuse with their
feet, the two workers came upon something solid, which on closer
inspection they discovered to be the thigh, leg and foot of a human
body. Mother and son at once became convinced that these were the
remains of the missing woman, and they hastened to acquaint the legal
authorities with the facts of their ghastly discovery. A deputation
from the courts of justice immediately proceeded to the spot and found,
among the straw and refuse in the corner of the garret, a naked left
thigh with the leg and part of a foot attached. About six paces further
on, inserted between the chimney and the roof, was a human trunk
without head, arms or legs. On closer search, an old petticoat with a
bodice and a red neckerchief were disclosed, the whole thickly coated
with blood. These garments were immediately identified by the persons
living in the tenement as having been worn by the woman Holzmann.

The search was now pressed forward still more energetically, and under
the floor, concealed by one of the boards and in close proximity to
the chimney, a right arm was found. The rotten boards in the small
room Holzmann’s lodgers had occupied were now further loosened and
broken up, and a large bundle was uncovered. When the blood-drenched
petticoat, which formed its outer covering, was unwrapped, there came
to light a compressed right thigh with the leg and part of the foot,
and separately enclosed in an old linen shirt, a left arm bent together
at the elbow joint. All these limbs, as well as the trunk, were
shrivelled like smoked meat and much distorted from long pressure. The
process of decomposition had not set in, owing to the draught of air or
from some other unknown causes. Now, with the idea of restoring them
to their natural shape, the limbs were soaked in water for some days,
then enveloped in cloths damped with spirits and stretched out as much
as possible to prepare them for the autopsy, at which it was easily
proved that all these members must have belonged to the same woman’s
body. The deceased, moreover, must have had small bones and have been
well shaped. The arms and thighs had been adroitly extracted from their
sockets, and neither on the trunk nor the limbs was there a trace of
any injury capable of having caused death. If therefore a wound had
been inflicted, fatal to life, it must have struck that portion of the
body which was missing, and in spite of all research could not be
brought to light, namely, the head of the victim. But even without the
head, the dismembered limbs were identified as having belonged to the
vanished Anna Holzmann. This there was abundant evidence to show.

A sure clue was presently found with regard to the head. Near the house
inhabited by the deceased, a canal passed, receiving its water from the
Lech; there were several of these water courses and they flowed through
Augsberg with strong currents. The overseer of a factory, situated on
the bank of this canal, had found, as far back as the Whitsuntide of
the previous year, a human skull in the water, which might have come
from a charnel house. He had examined it, had showed it to his brother,
and then had thrown it back into the water to avoid any troublesome
investigations. The skull was small, entirely stripped of flesh and
only two or three teeth remained in the jaw. This head corresponded
with that of Anna Holzmann as described by her relations. Obviously,
if she had been murdered and dismembered, the easiest way of disposing
of the head was to fling it into the canal at night time. As the water
from the canal flowed back into the Lech, it would be swiftly carried
away.

Another possibly important clue had been obtained when the corpse was
laid out for the postmortem. The doctor, in trying to straighten out
the left arm, had seen a brass finger ring drop to the floor from
the inner bend of the elbow. This ring had not belonged to Mother
Holzmann. No doubt it was the property of the murderer and, in the
excitement of carrying on the dismembering process, it must have
slipped off his finger unknown to him. The arm of the dead woman had
caught and detained it. Here was conclusive evidence at first hand. But
to whom did the ring belong? No one could say. Suspicion at once fell
on the former lodgers of Anna Holzmann. They were the last persons who
admitted having seen her and they had remained in the house without
giving notice of her disappearance. Besides, who but they could have
accomplished the dismemberment of the corpse, for which time and
freedom from interruption were essential? Again, it was in the room
occupied by them that a portion of the body had been disinterred.
Rauschmaier had plainly prevaricated; he had stated on oath before the
court of justice that his landlady had gone away on Good Friday with
another woman, leaving him the keys of the lodging; yet this statement
was, according to the clear evidence adduced, a distinct lie. It also
developed that on the Saturday after Good Friday, Rauschmaier had, with
the help of his sweetheart, carried off a part of Holzmann’s property
and sold or pawned the articles. This was deemed sufficient ground for
his arrest.

Rauschmaier had not left Augsberg and his lodging was well known.
When apprehended, he behaved with a mixture of calm indifference and
seemingly absolute ingenuousness. He denied all knowledge of any crime
committed on the woman Holzmann and again declared that she had gone
away on Good Friday with another woman whom he did not know, leaving
her keys in his charge. When taken to the cemetery and shown the corpse
with its dismembered limbs pieced together, he exhibited no emotion
and declared that he did not recognise the body. After being detained
till the end of January, he begged to be brought before a magistrate
and requested to be set at liberty. On the following day, however, he
admitted that he had allowed himself to be tempted to take possession
of some of his landlady’s belongings during her absence. Yes, he was
the thief. He also confessed that his sweetheart had removed the
stolen goods with his knowledge and consent. With this frank avowal,
all hope of further elucidation seemed at an end. There was nothing
against him but that he had been the last to see the murdered woman;
that he had omitted to report her disappearance; that he had excellent
opportunities for murdering and dismembering her and that he was
clearly a thief. But there were no witnesses to prove him worse.

The judge felt convinced of Rauschmaier’s guilt. Another circumstance
told against him. Among his effects there was a paper of a kind well
known to the police. It was printed at Cologne, was ornamented at the
top with pictures of saints and purported to be a charter of absolution
from all sins and crimes however heinous, and it was claimed that
it had been written by “Jesus Christ and sent down to earth by the
angel Michael.” These worthless documents were often palmed off on the
superstitious in those days.

The examining judge now proceeded with circumspection. Instead of
making more searching investigations into the murder, he dropped it
entirely and, pretending to be occupied only with the theft, questioned
the culprit solely in regard to this. The woman Holzmann’s clothes were
spread out before Rauschmaier, and he was inveigled into recognising
all of them. But various little trinkets had been included, which had
been found in his room and about the ownership of which some doubt
existed. Among them were two earrings, two gold hoops and the brass
ring already mentioned, which the corpse had tightly pressed in her
left arm. The judge now seemed on the point of closing the examination,
as though he took it as a matter of course that Rauschmaier, who had
admitted so much, would not hesitate to confess that he had also stolen
these trifling pieces of jewelry as well. “No,” the accused exclaimed,
suddenly protesting against the supposed injustice, “these are mine, my
own property.” The judge strongly urged him to make no mis-statements
but to stick to the truth. Nevertheless Rauschmaier continued to assert
with great violence that the earrings, the hoops and the brass ring
really belonged to him. He declared that he had always been in the
habit of wearing the ring, and, as the judge still shook his head,
Rauschmaier drew the ring on to show that it fitted the little finger
of his right hand. It did so, but very loosely, and it could be twisted
about from one side to the other. This betrayed him. He was further
interrogated, and the judge laid much stress upon the suspicious
circumstance, whereupon Rauschmaier broke down utterly and made full
confession of his guilt.

He had been an idler from his childhood and, after serving in the
Franco-Russian war, he deserted and was often an inmate of the house of
correction at Augsberg. When free, he had supported himself in various
ways in that city till he became a lodger in the house of the ill-fated
woman Holzmann, whom he had resolved to kill on finding that she had
so many valuable things and was supposed to possess much money. He was
long undecided as to the method of doing the deed, but at last chose
strangling as the easiest form of death and because it could be carried
out without noise or leaving traces of blood; and he had heard doctors
say that a strangled and suffocated corpse yielded little blood when
dismembered. His opportunity came on the morning of Good Friday, when
all the people in the house were at church and the lodger, Steiner, had
gone out. Silence reigned in the tenement; he was alone in the upper
story with the woman Holzmann. He stepped into her room and, without
a word of warning, seized his victim around the throat with both hands
and pressed his thumbs against her wind-pipe for the space of four or
five minutes until he had murdered her outright. Then, when certain of
the fact, he threw the corpse down and hastened to ransack her chest,
which he found practically empty. Instead of a great treasure, he came
upon only eight kreutzers and two pennies, and nothing more was brought
to light after further minute search. He had strangled her for a few
coppers.

Concealment was now imperative. After a quarter of an hour the corpse
was cold, and he dragged it out through the door into the garret
adjoining. He then proceeded to the ghastly work of dismemberment, and
acquitted himself of the horrible task with the greatest adroitness,
thanks to the knowledge he had acquired when campaigning, from watching
the Russian surgeons at the same work. His labours occupied only a
quarter of an hour. His plan for disposing of the limbs has already
been described. Rauschmaier was condemned to be beheaded, but the
additional sentence that he should previously stand in the pillory was
remitted.

Besides Rauschmaier, his sweetheart and the other lodger, Josef
Steiner, had been involved as suspects in the cross-examination. The
woman’s guilt consisted only in her having assisted in selling the
stolen goods, and she came off with a trifling punishment. Steiner’s
connection with the principal crime was looked upon in a different
light and was more complicated. This man caused much perplexity to the
judge. In point of education and intelligence he was far inferior to
his late room-mate. He could not be sworn because, although thirty-four
years of age, he could not be brought to understand the nature and
meaning of an oath. The judge declared that Steiner was on the
borderland of insanity and on the lowest level of intelligence. When
interrogated, he at first denied any knowledge of the crime, but later
he practically became a witness for the prosecution and his evidence
helped materially to secure conviction. Steiner himself was acquitted.

At Mannheim, on March 23, 1819, August von Kotzebue, the eminent German
playwright, author of the famous play _The Stranger_, was stabbed to
death by a hitherto unknown student named Karl Ludwig Sand. It was
a murder of sentiment, not passion, and inflicted with cold-blooded
calmness, to vindicate the liberal tendencies of the age exhibited by
the so-called “Burschenshaft” movement, which Kotzebue had unsparingly
ridiculed and satirised by his writings. Immense sympathy for the
criminal was evoked in Germany; the heinous deed was approved by even
the right-thinking, phlegmatic Germans, and tender-hearted women wept
in pity for the assassin. His last resting place was decked with
flowers, and he was esteemed a martyr to the cause of romanticism,
while no one regretted the great dramatic poet.

As a youth, Sand suffered much from depression of spirits and
pronounced melancholia. He was a patriot even to fanaticism, and showed
it in his fierce hatred of the Napoleon who had enslaved his country.
He could not bring himself to attend a review of French troops by
Napoleon, lest he should attack him and so risk his own life. After
the return from Elba, he entered the Bavarian service and narrowly
escaped being present at the battle of Waterloo. At the end of the war
he matriculated at the university of Erlangen and became affiliated
with the “universal German students’ association,” the Burschenshaft,
to which he vowed the most enthusiastic devotion. “It became,” says a
biographer, “his one and all, his state, his church, his beloved.”

This guild did not develop very rapidly. But its leading members
selected a meeting place situated on a hill in the vicinity of
Erlangen. Here, after smoothing the ground and piling up stones to
serve as seats, the students held a consecration feast at which
punch and beer were freely indulged in. Hot discussions, followed by
reconciliation, interrupted the proceedings. Dancing was indulged in
around a fire, under the rays of the moon which shone through the pine
trees, until the tired and probably somewhat intoxicated students,
including Sand, lay down in different parts of the ground to sleep
off their excitement. From Erlangen Sand moved to Jena, where he was a
much less prominent student, and his life was uneventful, but when he
left after eighteen months’ residence there, it was for Mannheim with
daggers in his breast and a matured purpose of slaying Kotzebue. He
had satisfied himself, after much inward conflict, that by killing the
satirist he would be rendering a supreme service to the Fatherland.
He was now possessed with a passion for notoriety. At Erlangen he had
championed a good cause; at Jena his activity had perforce ceased, and
the desire to do some remarkable deed had grown upon him. Constantly
hungering for an opportunity to make himself celebrated, he resolved at
least he would become a martyr if he could not be a hero.

No obvious reason existed for his attack upon Kotzebue. The poet had
many foibles and failings, it is true, but he had done nothing to
deserve to be struck down by the dagger of a fanatic in the cause
of virtue, liberty and the Fatherland. He had indeed ridiculed the
outburst of German national feeling which was now being developed,
and thereby gave great offence to the youthful enthusiasts. He was
employed as a correspondent by the Russian government, to report
upon German conditions, literary, artistic and intellectual. Men of
ability were often chosen in a like capacity by the Russian and other
governments, and their calling was regarded as a perfectly honourable
one. Kotzebue, however, wrote of Germany in a malevolent spirit. His
vanity had been wounded by the public burning of his “History of the
Germans,” and this, no doubt, inspired the bitter sarcasm with which he
attacked the German character, though his strictures were taken much
too seriously by the Germans of that day.

Before Sand left Jena for Mannheim, he had a long dagger fashioned
out of a French cutlass of which he made the model himself. This was
the dagger which actually penetrated Kotzebue’s breast. Sand called
it his “little sword.” On arrival, he engaged a guide to take him to
the house where Kotzebue lived. The poet was not at home. Sand gave
his name as Heinrichs from Mitau to the maid, and she appointed a time
between five and six o’clock in the afternoon for him to call again.
Soon after five o’clock he stood once more in front of Kotzebue’s door.
The servant, who admitted him at once, went up-stairs to announce him
and then called to him to follow, and after some further preliminaries
ushered him into the family sitting room. Kotzebue presently entered
from a door on the left. Turning toward him, Sand bowed, of course
facing the door by which Kotzebue had come into the room, and said
that he wished to call upon him on his way through Mannheim. “You are
from Mitau?” Kotzebue inquired as he stepped forward. Whereupon Sand
drew out his dagger, until then concealed in his left sleeve, and
exclaiming, “Traitor to the Fatherland!” stabbed him repeatedly in the
left side. As Sand turned to escape, he paused to notice a little child
who had run into the room during the progress of the murderous attack.
It was Alexander von Kotzebue, the four-year-old son of the victim,
who apparently had watched the proceedings from the open door. The
boy shrieked and the murderer, who had been stupidly staring at him,
was recalled to what was happening. But for this incident Sand would
probably have escaped. A man-servant and Kotzebue’s daughter now rushed
in and raised the wounded man, who still retained sufficient strength
to walk into the adjoining room with their assistance. Then he sank
down near the door and died in his daughter’s arms.

The house was in an uproar and for a moment Sand found himself
alone. He fled downstairs but was interrupted; loud cries of “Catch
the murderer, hold him fast!” pursued him, and being held at bay,
he stabbed himself in the breast with his dagger. When the patrol
appeared, he was carried on a stretcher to the hospital. For some hours
after his arrival there he appeared to be sinking, but toward evening
he revived sufficiently to be subjected to some form of examination.
When questioned as to whether he had murdered Kotzebue, he raised his
head, opened his eyes to their fullest extent and nodded emphatically.
Then he asked for paper and wrote what follows:--“August von Kotzebue
is the corrupter of our youth, the defamer of our nation and a Russian
spy.” On being told that he was to be removed from the hospital to
the prison, he shed tears, but soon controlled himself, ashamed, as
he said, of showing such unmanly emotion. In gaol he was treated
considerately and allowed a room to himself, being always strictly
watched and allowed no communication with the outside world.

On May 5, 1820, the Supreme Court of the Grand-Duchy of Baden passed
sentence on him in these terms: “That the accused Karl Ludwig Sand is
convicted, on his own confession, of the wilful murder of the Russian
counsellor of state, Von Kotzebue; therefore, as a just punishment to
himself and as a deterrent example to others, he is to be executed with
a sword,” etc., etc.

May 20th, the Saturday before Whitsuntide, was the day fixed for
the execution. The place selected was a meadow just outside the
Heidelberg gate. The scaffold erected there was from five to six
feet high. In spite of precautions, the news of the approaching
event spread far and wide so that crowds poured into Mannheim. The
students’ association had agreed to mourn in silence at home. Most of
the students, therefore, came to the fatal spot only when the bloody
spectacle was over. Measures were taken to avoid disturbances by
strengthening the prison guard, surrounding the scaffold with a force
of infantry, using a detachment of cavalry to escort the procession
from the prison, and providing a detachment of artillery under arms to
call upon if necessary. Those of the educated inhabitants of Mannheim
who felt sympathy for Sand did not show themselves outside their
houses. Nevertheless, the streets were thronged, but in spite of this
everything passed off quietly. When the scaffold was completed, the
executioner appeared with his assistants. Widemann, the executioner,
wore a beaver overcoat under which he concealed his sword, but the
assistants were dressed in black. They are reported to have eaten their
breakfasts and smoked their pipes on the scaffold. In the covered
courtyard of the prison Sand was lifted into a low open chaise, which
was bought for the purpose, as no vehicle could be borrowed or hired in
Mannheim for such an occasion. Looking around, he silently bowed his
head to the prisoners whose weeping faces appeared behind their grated
windows. It is said that during the course of the trial they were
careful when being led past his window to hold up their chains so that
the rattle might not annoy him. When the door of the yard was opened
and the assembled crowd perceived the condemned man, loud sobs were
heard in every direction. Upon perceiving this Sand begged the governor
of the prison to call upon him by name should he manifest any sign of
weakness. The place of execution was hardly eight hundred feet from
the prison. The procession moved slowly. Two warders with crape bands
round their hats walked on either side of the chaise. Another carriage
followed, in which were town officials. The bells were not tolled. Only
individual voices saying, “Farewell, Sand,” interrupted the pervading
silence.

Rain had recently fallen, and the air was cold. Sand was too weak to
remain sitting upright. He sat half leaning back, supported by the
governor’s arm. His face was drawn with suffering, his forehead open
and unclouded. His features were interesting without being handsome;
every trace of youth had left them. He wore a dark green overcoat,
white linen trousers and laced boots, and his head was uncovered.
Hardly was the execution over than all present surged up to the
scaffold. The fresh blood was wiped up with cloths; the block was
thrown to the ground and broken up; the pieces were divided among the
crowd, and those who could not obtain possession of one of these, cut
splinters of wood from the scaffolding. According to other accounts, a
landed proprietor of the neighbourhood bought the block, or beheading
chair, from the executioner and erected it on his estate. Single hairs
are said to have been bidden for, but the headsman protested against
the accusation of having sold anything at all. The body and head were
promptly deposited in a coffin which was immediately nailed down. After
it had been taken back to the prison under military escort and its
contents examined by the governor so that he might assure himself of
the identity of the corpse, it was removed to the Lutheran cemetery
where Kotzebue’s remains were also interred.



CHAPTER VII

THE STORY OF A VAGRANT

    The biography of a German tramp--Miserable and neglected
    childhood--Becomes a professional beggar and thief--Committed
    to an industrial school--Joins a fraternity of beggars
    and becomes very expert--Meets with varied luck on the
    road--Arrested and punished--Gives some account of German
    prisons--Perpetrates a robbery on a large scale at Mannheim--Is
    caught with part of the stolen property in his possession and
    sentenced to penal servitude.


Germany has suffered grievously in recent years from the growth of
vagrancy. The highroads are infested with tramps, and the prisons are
perpetually full. Every good citizen is keenly desirous of reducing
these scourges of society, but the progress of reform is slow. It
is a difficult problem, but the first step toward solving it is to
acquire a more accurate knowledge of the true spirit and character
of these wrong-doers. One of the most unregenerate and irreclaimable
has revealed the whole story of his life and transgressions, and some
quotations from the account may throw light on the difficulties of the
problem confronting the prison reformer.

“My name is Joseph Kürper and I was born at H. in the Palatinate on
June 14, 1849. I was an illegitimate child and I spent my early years
with my mother. When I was four years old, she went to service and
I, thrown on my own resources, was forced to beg for broken victuals
from door to door. Sometimes I was driven away with hard words or the
dogs were set on me. I cannot remember ever having owned a pair of
shoes, and as a child I had no bed to sleep in. I suffered all kinds
of hardships. When the time came for me to go to school, my troubles
increased. As I was dressed in evil smelling rags and tatters, I was
kept apart, treated like a leper and an outcast, and if I played truant
I was cruelly beaten. Nevertheless, I managed to evade instruction
almost entirely and did not learn much more than the alphabet. My life
was that of a poor waif forsaken by God and man.

“At first I bore no ill-will to the well-to-do, and I had no quarrel
with those who had treated me so harshly. Gradually, however, I
realised my grievance against society and began to wage war on it by
acts of pilfering, the first of which I committed in the house of a
small farmer where my mother was in service. Tormented by hunger, I got
in through a window and stole a loaf of bread and a few kreutzers. This
was my first theft and it had bad results for me, for, when taxed with
it, I confessed and was cruelly flogged by the farmer. Out of revenge
I killed one of his fowls every day. Presently my mother again gave
birth to an illegitimate child, a girl, and when the little thing was
just able to toddle, she sent us out to beg in company, preferring
this mode of support to that of working herself. We were beaten if we
returned empty-handed to our hovel, so I became an expert thief in
order to avoid the stick. My mother applauded me and my success was my
ruin.

“At last, in the continued practice of stealing, I committed a theft
that brought me for the first time within reach of the law. In the
spring of 1860, when in my eleventh year, I laid hands on a watch in
an empty house in the village of Kottweiler. I broke it up into its
different component parts, which I sold separately to the children of
our own village for pieces of bread. Though the watch was missed, I
was not suspected and, growing bolder still, I soon after audaciously
possessed myself of another watch hanging in a bake-house. This time
I was caught red-handed, severely flogged, and then taken before the
magistrate at Kusel. He put me through a cross-examination and I
confessed everything. On my return home the village authorities vented
their rage against me by beating me black and blue, and my little
sister having let out the secret that I was also the thief of the watch
at Kottweiler, I was again arrested and taken back by a police official
to the magistrate at Kusel, who, on account of my youth, only sentenced
me to two years’ detention at the industrial school at Speier. I was
allowed to go home with my mother before being sent there, and when
the police came to convey me, I ran away and managed to get over the
Prussian frontier to St. Wedel. Here I first begged and then worked
for a small farmer in the neighbourhood. After a time I ran away
again, taking with me the watch of this brutal man who had maltreated
me. I now tried to live by carrying luggage at the railway station of
the town. Here I found several opportunities for committing daring
thefts and finally absconded, after helping myself to some money from
the till of the refreshment room. After again intermittently working
and stealing, I tried to set up as a highway robber, but without
success, and was soon arrested by a police official who had a warrant
out against me, and actually handed over to the authorities of the
industrial school at Speier.

“Had this institution been the best in the world, I should not have
felt at my ease in it, as I was like a young wild-cat or a bird of
prey shut up behind iron bars. About one hundred Catholic children
were confined there, all of them vicious and corrupt. Those who were
unversed in criminal ways soon learned from the others. The majority,
among whom I count myself, left the school worse than they entered.
The system of education was perfectly worthless; we were constantly
beaten and, being badly fed, we lost no opportunity of stealing broken
victuals. I must acknowledge that I learned a great deal at school in
regard to my trade, that of a shoemaker. But I had not been long in
the place before I contrived to escape and reach the town of Lautern.
Here I was taken into the house of a worthy tradesman, to whom I told
my real name and origin; but I concealed the fact that I had run away
from Speier. He became fond of me, and I noticed that he now and then
put my honesty to the test, which induced me to resist every temptation
bravely. As he was childless and wanted to train me up as a tradesman,
a happy future might have been in store for me, had not fate decreed
otherwise.

“One Sunday my master proposed taking me to see my mother, and we
started on our drive. I was so afraid that the authorities of the
village would send me back to Speier that when we halted somewhere to
dine, and my master had dropped asleep, I ran away. I wandered about
homeless for a time until at Kaiserslautern I was caught and returned
to Speier. There I soon became aware that nothing good awaited me, and
my fears were realised, for I was deprived of my supper the first night
and on going to bed was cruelly flogged with a knout until the blood
streamed down my back. But, though specially watched, I again escaped
to Kaiserslautern, where I was employed by an upholsterer who taught
me a great deal. Once more I was discovered and sent back to Speier,
where I was a second time welcomed with the knout. I now made no
further efforts to escape and for the rest of my time possessed my soul
in patience. The days passed monotonously, the only variation being
that sometimes I was flogged more than usual. We rose early, dressed,
washed, prayed and did our school tasks, breakfasted on thin soup, in
which there was never a scrap of fat, and worked in the various shops
until eleven o’clock, when we dined. After that meal came gymnastic
exercises and drill. Then school or working at our trades alternately
occupied the time until supper at seven, and we went to bed at half
past eight. Sundays were more entertaining. In the afternoon, after
service, we went to walk outside the town. On these expeditions we
stole what we could in the way of edibles and took our booty to bed
with us to eat it during the week, though, of course, we were flogged
if our thefts were discovered, which, however, did not deter us from
further efforts at pilfering in the institution itself. When the two
weary years were over, I had grown into a tall, likely lad. I possessed
a fair amount of schooling and I believed myself to be qualified to
take a place as assistant to a shoemaker, being expert at my trade. I
had received no religious impressions; principles I had none. I only
longed for freedom and to enjoy life.

“My dreams of golden liberty were not to be fulfilled as yet. On being
dismissed from the school, I was provided with two suits of clothes
and sent to Lautern, where I had to present myself to a certain Herr
Meuth, the president of a reformatory society. He placed me with a
shoemaker. I had hoped I should be paid wages but, when claiming them
with the other journeymen, I was told I should get what I deserved,
and my master proceeded to take down a dog-whip from a peg where it
hung and flogged me unmercifully. On the following Sunday he informed
me that I was only an apprentice and should have to serve him in that
capacity two years longer and could not escape it. At the end of that
time he offered to keep me and pay me regular wages, but I refused,
as he had so often abused and maltreated me. He gave me my indenture,
which was, at the same time, a certificate of good conduct. I packed my
possessions and wandered out into the world.

“As happy as a king, I started on my journey to Mannheim. I carried a
satchel on my back and my road lay through the Rhine district where
the trees were in full bloom. Arriving at my destination, I found
occupation with a shoemaker who, however, declared that my work was
not of a very high character and paid me only one gulden a week, with
insufficient food. In everything outside of my trade I was left to my
own devices and consequently, being of an undisciplined nature, I led
anything but a decent life. Looking back to these days, I recognise how
very much better it would be if every apprentice, at the outset of his
wage-earning life, were forced to belong to a guild, so that he would
be protected by a strict corporation of this sort and obliged to obey
its laws. In those days I thought otherwise, but now that I am under
prison rule I regret the license I was allowed then. I remained a year
at Mannheim but, as my master refused to raise my wages, I departed
one fine day and walked to Karlsruhe, passing through Bruchsal and
Heidelberg on my way.

“In Karlsruhe I likewise had the good fortune to find occupation
without undue delay. The court shoemaker, Heim, took me into his house
and gave me good wages and, as I did piece work, I sometimes earned
from 12 to 15 guldens a week. On Sundays I used to dress myself in
fashionable clothes, on which I spent my pay, and walk out with a glass
in my eye and a cigar in my mouth, hoping to be taken for something
far superior to a shoemaker’s assistant. I was a good-looking lad, and
on a fine Sunday in summer I walked into a beer garden, where I made
the acquaintance of a pretty young lady who was sitting at a table
with a party of respectable people. I represented myself as the son of
a rich man from Munich and said that my name was Junker, that I held
a position in Karlsruhe as a confectioner and lodged in the house of
the shoemaker Heim. The girl and her family believed my statements,
and I was received with kindness as a visitor at their house. Of
course, courtship in the guise of a rich man costs money, and I was
soon obliged to pawn my watch. A Sunday came round on which I was
unable to call on my sweetheart; I had to sit on my stool and draw my
cobbler’s thread through shoeleather. My lady-love came to inquire for
me, and saw me in my working garb. She turned and left the house, but
I followed her and tried to excuse myself, whereupon she took out her
purse and, pressing it into my hands, said, ‘Keep it and amend your
ways. I do not quarrel with you for being a cobbler, but I am grieved
that you should have deceived me.’ I returned to my room terribly
ashamed and wrathful. I determined not to remain a moment longer in
the town, so I paid my debts with the contents of my purse and took my
departure. It was lucky for the respectable and decent girl that she
discovered my swindling practices before it was too late.”

After this the tramp wandered to and fro, from Baden to Offenburg,
leading a precarious existence, working as a shoemaker when he could
find employment and living royally when he had the funds, but begging
for food and half-starved when out of luck. At last he reached
Darmstadt where he joined an organisation of professional vagrants.
Their headquarters were at a low tavern where false passports and
“legitimation” papers were manufactured to help in confusing the
police as to the true antecedents of this semi-criminal fraternity.
He continues: “The day after my arrival at the inn, my new colleagues
joined me at breakfast and a plan of campaign was fixed upon. I was
to take off my shirt and leave it at the inn, wind a cloth around my
neck and button up my coat to meet it; thus attired, I was to start
out, accompanied by one of the vagrants dubbed in familiar parlance
‘the Baron.’ He was to point out to me the most likely houses for
our purpose. I was to enter the first of these and beg for a shirt,
and having obtained it, repeat the process at other houses. Thus by
evening we should have collected from twenty to thirty shirts, which
we were then to sell. By pursuing this line of business we should have
money in abundance and live at our ease. This is a fair picture of the
mode of existence of large numbers of journeymen lads in Germany, the
children of respectable parents who go to perdition, body and soul. My
first attempt turned out most successfully as the Baron had foretold,
and I became very expert in my new calling. We worked as follows: The
Baron pointed out a house where I might hope to obtain something in
the way of a gift and indicated a place where he would wait for me to
rejoin him. When the servant answered the door, I gave him the envelope
containing my false ‘legitimation,’ and a begging letter describing
my miserable condition, and asked him to take it to his mistress. He
soon returned with my papers and a thaler, explaining that this was the
best the lady could do for me. Flushed with victory, I ran to find the
Baron, who slipped my papers into another envelope. He always carried
a supply of envelopes to replace those that had to be torn open. We
next went to the house of the Bavarian envoy, where I received a gulden
and a good shirt. We continued our successful round until the evening,
when we returned to the inn with our rich booty. Here every article
was inspected, sorted, valued, and later, when the other habitués came
in, the parlour was turned into an auction room. Among the buyers was
a policeman and, as he had first choice, he selected the best of my
shirts, some of which were quite new, for himself. Other purchasers
followed, and at the end of the evening we had disposed of all our
goods. Our ready money amounted to a good round sum and was divided
into three portions. I had made more in this one day than I had ever
been able to earn in a week.

“Our plans for the following day came to nought. I was arrested about
four o’clock in the morning by four police officials who penetrated
into my room, pinioned me when I offered resistance, and took me off to
the police ward No. 2 on the charge of theft. Here I was interrogated
as to what I had done with the articles I had stolen on the previous
day. I denied indignantly that I had stolen anything at all, but I
was next conducted across the market place to a jeweller’s shop and
identified by the owner as the rascal whom he suspected. I was quite
puzzled at the unwarranted accusation against me, although I remembered
having been in the shop on the previous day. From the police ward I was
carried to the prison and locked up in a cell, where I remained for
three whole days, until interrogated, and, as the jeweller persisted
in his accusation, I was detained for eight days longer. Finally the
jeweller, Scarth by name, appeared, full of apologies, and admitted
that the knife he had believed to have been stolen had been found. The
end of this incident was that Scarth compensated me handsomely for my
long and unjust imprisonment. The next morning I packed my satchel and
started for Frankfurt. I walked from Darmstadt to Frankfurt, and only
remember that on my way I stopped at a farmhouse where, as I found no
one about, I annexed a ham. Toward evening I reached the end of my
journey and betook myself at once to a well-known ‘inn father’--for so
we called our landlords--in the Judengasse. It is needless to state
that a real vagrant has a perfect knowledge of all the disreputable
haunts and low public houses of the whole German Empire. Next day I
went direct to Baron Rothschild’s house, as he was the Bavarian consul,
where I rang the bell, and, on being admitted to his presence, was
told to produce my papers. I received two thalers and a free pass to
the next place for which I said I was bound. This was all entered on
my ‘legitimation,’ which was also impressed with an official seal, so
that it became absolutely useless to me. As I now thoroughly understood
the manufacture of these false documents, however, I made myself
another one the same evening, entering myself as the sculptor Burkel
from Messau and under this name and designation I spent ten months
at Frankfurt without doing a stroke of work. I made out a plan of
the town and pursued my trade of begging from wealthy families in the
principal streets, with great success. It is true that I was arrested
several times, and put under lock and key for a few days now and then.
Though warned to leave the place or to find work, I did neither, but
ran the chance of being caught and identified.

“There are many well managed inns all over Germany, where respectable
working men whose trade keeps them moving about can be comfortably
lodged, and I will give a brief description of one of these hostelries
called ‘The Homestead,’ situated on one of the banks of the Main, where
I spent a night during my stay at Frankfurt, drawn there by curiosity.
With my satchel packed and the air of being a newly arrived traveller,
I sat down at a table and called for a glass of beer and a dram of
spirits. The landlord inquired if I knew where I was, and said that
though any decent traveller might remain at the ‘Homestead’ for three
days if his means were sufficient, it was no place for drunkards and
brawlers; that brandy was not sold and beer only in limited quantities.
He then, having asked who and what I was, and being told that I was a
sculptor out of work, said that I might stay three days if I liked.
I was eager to know in what way this inn differed from those I had
hitherto frequented, and resolved to remain until the next day in
any case. About 8 o’clock in the evening the ‘father’ came in again
and announced that supper was ready. Most of the artisans, of whom
some forty were present, ordered some sort of meal. I asked for soup,
potatoes and a sausage. I was not a little surprised when the landlord
objected to our beginning to eat until he had said grace. Cards and
dice were not allowed, nor cursing, singing or whistling. The only
authorised games were dominoes, draughts and chess, and they might not
be played for money. At 8 o’clock the bed tickets had been distributed;
they cost 18, 12 or 6 kreutzers according to the sort of accommodation
required. Each man had a separate bed, which is not usually the case in
the low class inns. I took a 12 kreutzer ticket. My expenses were so
far small, as only three glasses of beer were allowed per head. I noted
down all these details most carefully, for I had never before been in
a house of this description, having hitherto always avoided any place
where there might be any allusion to God. At ten the father of the inn
appeared and offered up a short prayer. Then we retired for the night.
The beds were clean and so were all the rooms, and everything was very
cheap. At half past seven in the morning we had to be up.

“My experiences in this inn made a deep impression upon me but I
confess I did not enjoy being there; I preferred the haunts where I met
loose characters, and I enjoyed ribald songs and dissolute companions.
Consequently I left the Homestead as soon as I could and betook myself
to the Sign of the Stadt Ludwigsburg, where ne’er-do-weels congregate.
Here I was initiated by a friend into the art of inveigling countrymen,
small farmers and the like, to play cards. Our first attempt was made
on a man who had just sold his produce in the town and been paid for
it. We plied him with liquor and let him win for a while; then we
relieved him of his ready money.

“Soon after this I was arrested as a disorderly tramp and sentenced to
a short imprisonment with an injunction to find work on pain of being
expelled from the town. The yearly fair was being held at Frankfurt,
and I obtained employment on my release with the proprietor of a
menagerie. My business was to attract people to his show, but I soon
left him, as the public refused to pay for the sight of the sorry
and starved wild beasts he exhibited. Next I hired myself out to the
manager of a puppet show where I developed a great aptitude in the art
of manipulating the puppets. When the fair was over, I had got together
quite a considerable sum of money and I resolved to leave Frankfurt and
go on to Stuttgart.

“Stuttgart is a happy hunting ground for those of my sort. It contains
many ‘pietists,’--a sect made up of good and charitable souls who give
freely. I remained there four weeks and did a wonderful business. I
now figured in my papers as a compositor and on the strength of these
documents even appeared before the Bavarian consul. I had collected a
fine store of clothes and a lot of money when one day, toward the end
of the fourth week of my stay, I was arrested in the Königstrasse by a
man in civilian dress who told me to follow him. There was something
in his looks which so impressed me that I dared not resist. I was
condemned by the police actuary to fourteen days’ imprisonment and
then to be banished from the town. I was taken to the Stuttgart prison
where the governor received me with harsh words; he was a Swabian and
the Swabians are ruder than any other Germans; in other respects I had
nothing to complain of.

“Several of my colleagues were sitting or lying about in a large room
where we were detained, and at first they did not notice me. At last an
old boy, who had evidently been through many vicissitudes, addressed
me, and after some conversation, promised to wake me next morning to
communicate something of importance. At three o’clock he poked me
gently in the side and then led me to a corner of the room; there he
told me that he was interested in me and wished to contribute to my
success in the future, and that though he knew I was a member of the
guilds, still I did not understand what most appealed to the public.
At the present time, the war being just over, soldiers played first
fiddle. He possessed an iron cross and a genuine ‘legitimation’ as
the owner of it. This would suit me excellently, as it came from a
Bavarian. He was old and had no more use for it and would sell it to
me for three thalers. I was overjoyed at this offer which promised me
large receipts, and I gladly paid the old man the three thalers.

“On my release I resolved to try my luck at Baden-Baden. I began by
purchasing a newly published illustrated description of the French
war, which I studied carefully, and tried to form an idea of those
regions where I intended to lay the scene of my deeds of heroism. I
bought a list of the visitors at this fashionable resort and selected
my victims. I decided to present myself in person to German families of
position, but to foreigners of distinction I would appeal in writing.
At the end of two days I had purchased all the outfit I required from
a dealer of old clothes, and on the third day I started out fully
equipped. I had strapped my left arm to my naked body; the empty sleeve
was pinned to my coat; on my breast I proudly wore the iron cross; in
the pocket of my blouse I carried my ‘legitimation,’ and I had given
my small moustache a martial twist. I began with a German baron, into
whose presence I was admitted and who looked at me approvingly. ‘Ah,’
he exclaimed, when he had read my papers, ‘one of our “Blue Devils;”
you Bavarians must have given the French gentlemen a rare dressing.’
‘We showed them,’ I replied, ‘that a Frenchman cannot wage war with
Germans, Herr Baron.’ I then told him, in answer to his further
inquiries, what regiment I had served in, etc., and that I had lost my
arm at the storming of the Fort Ivry. He said he would gladly assist
a brave soldier who had bled for his country, and gave me two gold
pieces. This gift filled me with joy and confidence.

“At a country house where the family of a Prussian count were spending
the summer, I was likewise admitted. The ladies were drinking their
coffee on the veranda. ‘Look, mamma,’ exclaimed the daughter, ‘there
comes a “knight of the iron cross,” like Papa. And the poor man has
suffered the loss of an arm in battle.’ The young lady seemed to me
rather over-enthusiastic, but that was all the better for my purpose,
and I satisfied her curiosity with accounts of my prowess and deeds
of daring and described how, when my heroism had resulted in my arm
being shattered by a cannon ball during the storming of the village of
Bazeilles, it had afterwards been sawed off in the hospital. I also
told her in answer to her eager questions as to whether I was in want,
that I had an aged mother to support and wished to buy a hand-organ.
She gave me all the money in her cash box, and when I returned to
my lodging I found a large parcel of clothes which she had directed
a servant to leave for me. All my other visits were more or less
profitable, and the foreign visitors whom I addressed by letter, two
Russian princes, the Duchess of Hamilton and the Princess of Monaco,
each sent me a handsome present in cash. Owing to the insufficiency
of the police, I was able to carry on my frauds unmolested until I had
almost exhausted the fashionable world at Baden-Baden. One morning
whilst I was absent a police official called at my lodgings. Hearing
of this on my return, I hastily packed my spoils and took train for
Karlsruhe.

“The account of my criminal career would be incomplete without some
mention of prisons. They play a larger part in the life of the
budding convict than many people realise, and contribute materially
to his development. While the state turns its chief attention to the
larger gaols, the smaller prisons are often sadly neglected. If these
were better administered, fewer large houses of correction would be
required. Here the vagrants tarry, shaping their plans; here one thief
learns from another various artifices and tricks; here young offenders
are won over to the criminal life. The principal evils of these small
prisons undoubtedly are the promiscuous congregating together of
all offenders and the absence of occupation. It is not surprising,
therefore, that the time is passed in idle talk, and that the man who
can relate the largest number of rascally tricks he has played should
be the hero of the company. Many an inexperienced lad listens to these
anecdotes and acquires a taste for the life of a sharper. When to all
this is added a brutal superintendent, open to bribery, then the prison
becomes a real training school for criminals.

“Once in a prison at Baumholder I was locked up in company with a
robber and murderer who had broken out of a Prussian gaol, and, on the
road by which he was escaping, had killed a poor labourer for the sake
of stealing his clothes and his small store of money. One evening this
sinister individual sat brooding, his eyes glowing weirdly. Suddenly
he said, ‘Hark you; when the warder comes round to-morrow he must
be pulled in here; you shall hold him and I will cut his throat.’ I
declined to be an accomplice in murder, and then he threatened me and
looked at me so strangely that cold shivers ran down my back and I
trembled like an aspen leaf. He saw my terror evidently and relented,
for he offered me his brandy bottle and agreed to drop his murderous
intentions if I would join with him in an attempt to escape that
very night. This I was quite willing to do, but our essay came to
nothing. We moved the stove and dug a hole in the floor beneath, but we
presently came upon a beam with which we were not able to cope, and we
were obliged to fill up the aperture with rags and bread and to move
the stove back over it to escape detection.”

An account of a robbery perpetrated by Kürper on a larger scale, and
its sequel, may be told in conclusion of this criminal’s career.

“On July 4th, in the year 1873, I was crossing the market place at
Mannheim, when I met an old comrade of mine from the industrial school
at Speier. We greeted each other warmly and exchanged our experiences,
which ran in a similar groove only in that he had been more unfortunate
than myself, having already served two rather long terms in prison.
We decided to enter into a temporary partnership, and this was the
beginning of the end. He had a theft in view promising rich spoils, for
which he required an accomplice, and that part he wished me to perform.
Nothing loth, I agreed, and we arranged a plan of campaign. He related
to me that a well-to-do man he knew of lived on the first floor of
a house which was surrounded by a high wall, and in an unfrequented
street, and kept his possessions in a heavy leather trunk. He went
out every evening from nine until twelve o’clock, so that during his
absence the coast was clear. We were to convey the trunk to the castle
garden, carry it over the bridge which crosses the Rhine, and at
Ludwigshafen break it open, bury it and take its contents to K., where
my ally knew how to dispose of them.

“I liked the idea of the job, and we agreed to go to work that same
evening. Accordingly just before ten o’clock we started. On reaching
the street in question my heart began to beat furiously and I felt a
presentiment that ruin was at hand, but it was too late to turn back.
My colleague assured himself that the owner of the trunk was away,
according to his usual custom, and engaged in playing cards. The street
was quiet, and we scaled the wall around the house and entered the
room where the heavy box stood. We dragged it out and succeeded in
carrying it to the castle garden over the bridge already alluded to,
bearing our burden slowly and securely in this region where the police
is well represented. We passed through Ludwigshafen and reached a field
where there is a fish-pond.

“Here we opened the trunk, which we found packed full to bursting,
emptied it and buried it so successfully that the police were afterward
four weeks in finding it, in spite of accurate indications. That
same night we marched, laden with our spoils, to Rheingönnheim,
from whence we travelled to K., where in a few hours, thanks to my
companion’s admirable business talents, we disposed of all we had to
sell at remunerative prices. Drunk with victory, we could not rest
satisfied and determined to attempt another _coup de main_. By broad
daylight we proceeded to enter the room of a tradesman and rifle it
of all its contents. We sold everything we had stolen except one
waistcoat. This was the cause of our undoing. My comrade carried the
garment in question, being half drunk, to a commissionaire in the open
market-place. The police were already on our traces. Two members of the
force came round the corner and immediately took us both in charge. We
were now imprisoned, previous to being tried, and when subjected to
a severe cross-examination, of course took refuge in subterfuge and
lies. As we were parted, however, and separately interrogated, we
soon made contradictory statements. My companion then decided to make
a partial confession, but endeavoured at the same time to incriminate
me as the ringleader in the affair. When I realised his infamy, I, on
my part, did not hesitate to keep back the truth in regard to him. On
December 24, 1873, we were taken, securely hand-cuffed, to the Court
of the Assizes in Zweibrücken, where we were condemned to three years’
penal servitude. We entered a petition against this sentence, but it
was thrown out. On February 5, 1874, the dark door of the gaol of
Kaiserslautern closed upon me with a clanking sound.”



CHAPTER VIII

SOME REMARKABLE PRISONERS

    Extracts from the experiences of a Bavarian prison
    chaplain--Life history of a notorious criminal, Joseph
    Schenk--Early crimes--Kaiserslautern, “The Crescent Moon”
    prison--Schenk becomes known as the “Prison King”--Punishment
    has no effect on him--Frequent escapes--Passes through
    the prisons of Würzburg, Munich, Bayreuth--Würger, the
    usurer--Plies his trade when committed to gaol--Anecdotes of
    his rapacity--The tax collector who becomes his prey--Anna
    Pfeiffer, a rare example of a female hypocrite--Two recent
    crimes--The boy murdered in Xanten--A Jewish butcher
    accused--Trial causes an immense sensation--Gigantic sum stolen
    from Rothschild’s bank by chief cashier--Eventually arrested in
    Egypt--The causes of the cashier’s crime.


Some other interesting types of German criminals are described by
a Bavarian prison chaplain, the Rev. Otto Fleischmann, who spent a
quarter of a century in earnest labours among the inmates of a great
penal institution. Some of his descriptions and experiences will be of
interest and give us at the same time the life histories of notorious
criminals. Let us begin with one Joseph Schenk, a curious example of
the old-time convict, one of a class now rarely to be met with in the
modern prison.

Joseph Schenk was born in Berlin in 1798. His mother was a canteen
woman in a Prussian regiment. His father, whose name he never learned,
was no doubt a soldier and a man of coarse, brutal disposition, many
of whose worst traits had been clearly transmitted to his son. Joseph
Schenk, from his earliest days, exhibited a cruel nature; his temper
was ungovernable, his delinquencies incessant; he was given to acts of
brutal violence, and to the last he was of an inhuman character. He
passed much of his old age in the prison hospital, where his greatest
treat as a patient was permission to attend at a post mortem and be
present at the dissection of a corpse. It was horrible to see him
gloating over the hideous details as he watched the autopsy.

Schenk’s mother, when she left the regiment, went to her native place,
Oberlustadt, where her son served his apprenticeship to a weaver and
was then drawn by conscription into a regiment of Bavarian light
horse. He never talked much of those days (we are still quoting from
the chaplain), but it is certain that when the restraints of strict
discipline were loosened and he was discharged, he rapidly fell into
evil courses and developed into an accomplished miscreant. He went home
to Oberlustadt and became the terror of the neighbourhood as the author
of repeated dastardly crimes. In 1824 Schenk was put upon his trial
to answer for the commission of three heinous offences perpetrated
in rapid succession. A large concourse of people attended the trial
at the Assizes. He was charged with rape, street robbery and murder,
and his sentence was death, but was commuted by the soft-hearted king,
Maximilian I, into lifelong imprisonment in chains.

At that time the great central prison of Kaiserslautern, the so
called “Crescent Moon,” was still in process of construction, and
the reprieved convict was lodged in the gaol of Zweibrücken. There
he quickly developed into a prison notoriety; he became a terror to
his officers from his bold and cunning tricks, and the admiration
of his fellow-convicts. He was known as the “prison king,” whom no
walls, however high or thick, could hold, and who was endowed with
such strength that he could carry with ease a leg chain and bullet
weighing 28 pounds. He soon acquired the deepest insight into prison
ways and was unceasingly insubordinate and the constant contriver
of disturbance. He scoffed at all authority, sought perpetually to
attain freedom and was for ever setting all rules and regulations
at defiance. When the Kaiserslautern prison was finished he was
transferred there to ensure his safe custody, but was still the same
reckless, irreconcilable creature. In chapel services, which male and
female prisoners attended in common, he attracted the attention of the
women and started many intrigues by passing letters and presents to
them. When the spirit moved him, he would burst out into loud roars
of laughter or mock the officiating clergyman in the middle of the
service. He was continually engaged in tampering with officers and
guards, bribing them to carry on a clandestine traffic with “outside”
and persuading them to supply him with food and prohibited articles. He
was a power among his fellow-prisoners, who yielded ready obedience to
his caprices and carried out his orders punctiliously. When searched,
contraband articles were frequently found in his possession; weapons
for assault and tools to be of assistance in his many projected
escapes. Punishment, blows and close confinement in a dark cell, he
endured with a stoical resignation which earned him the glory of
martyrdom. With the higher authorities he comported himself cunningly,
adapting himself to their individual peculiarities; he could in turn
be cringingly civil, or audaciously impudent, and more than one letter
of complaint against them he concocted and contrived to have secretly
forwarded to Munich.

After making several attempts to escape on his own account, he formed
a conspiracy with a number of daring convicts, the object of which was
to obtain freedom by armed force. The plot was carried out on October
18, 1827, but proved disastrously unsuccessful. The conspirators,
who were unable to effect the murder of some of the warders as
contemplated, were completely overpowered. A special court met in the
following year to sit in judgment on the would-be perpetrators of
this foul attempt, and on June 9, 1828, Schenk, as well as two of his
associates, was condemned to death for the second time, the execution
to be carried out in the market place at Kaiserslautern. King Ludwig,
the reigning monarch, was no more in favour of capital punishment than
his predecessor, and Schenk’s sentence was again commuted to life-long
imprisonment in chains.

His peregrinations now began, for he was transferred from one prison
of Bavaria to another, until he had made acquaintance with nearly all.
In each his conduct was so outrageous that the managing board always
declined to keep him beyond a certain time, deeming him a constant
menace to good order. He invariably obtained so great an influence
in whatever prison he was held that the officials were in despair.
On January 22, 1829, Schenk left Kaiserslautern, laden with chains
and escorted by three of the most trustworthy police officials, and
arrived at the prison in Würzburg on February 1st; he remained there
until September 30, 1833. Here every thought was centred on means
of escaping. He tried violence, and all kinds of clever schemes and
devices, and in spite of being flogged and receiving other punishments,
he persevered in his daring ventures until the authorities of the
Würzburg prison declared that the prison was not sufficiently secure
to retain him in durance. He was now transferred to Munich, where an
interesting group of the most dangerous malefactors of Bavaria had
been collected and were placed under the supervision of a strict and
competent prison administrator. In Munich Schenk underwent a series
of the most severe punishments that could be inflicted. The governor
stated it as his opinion that Schenk was the most dangerous criminal
of his kind and of his century. He added that never during the six and
thirty years of his official life had he met with such a combination of
astute cunning, incomparable audacity and hypocritical deceit.

Schenk remained at Munich until the year 1842, when the minister Abel
succeeded in establishing the plan he had conceived of placing the
Bavarian prisons on a denominational basis. This might have answered
fairly well had the convicts not been allowed to alter their religion
while in prison. As it was, whoever had had enough of one institution
and desired a change, simply declared himself converted to another
belief, and was then transferred to the fresh gaol where its professors
were collected. The convicts could change their creed as often as they
liked, but Schenk repudiated such weakness of character, and pretended
to set great store by his Protestantism. He could not, however, remain
at Munich because it was a Catholic prison, and at the beginning
of the year 1842 he was removed to St. George at Bayreuth. In this
institution he reached the pinnacle of his evil fame and influence.
The administrator charged with its management in the years 1848-1849
must have been a young and diffident man, for Schenk intimidated him
to such an extent that the prisoner became the actual master of the
gaol. Seldom or never, perhaps, has a convict occupied such a position
in a prison as Schenk did during his palmy days at Bayreuth. To curry
favour with him he was often invited to drink coffee with the governor
in the office and while they drank it the governor discussed with him
prison problems and the proper treatment of prisoners. It must have
been a strange sight to witness the convict in his chains on a sofa
and the director doing the honours. Of course a peremptory stop was
put to such a scandal. The timid governor was superseded by a more
severe disciplinarian and Schenk was grievously annoyed. He stirred up
a fierce opposition to the new man, whom he represented as a ruthless
despot, and filled his fellow-convicts with apprehension as to the
future that lay before them. They determined, therefore, to greet this
functionary with a striking proof of their bad humour and distrust.
Accordingly, when the new administrator entered the building on
February 9, 1850, a general insurrection broke out among the prisoners,
which was only quelled with great difficulty by armed force. Schenk’s
reign was now over. The new governor soon knew that he had been the
ringleader and took measures to subdue his troublesome charge. Instead
of coffee, he received hard blows, and in place of the sofa he was
provided with a wooden couch.

Yet Schenk contrived secretly that a letter full of complaints of the
new director, whom he described as a bloodhound hungry for the life
of a peaceful, inoffensive man, meaning himself, should reach the
authorities at Munich. The director accused was not slow to explain the
true facts; the lying denouncer met with his deserts and was soundly
flogged. He was still untamed, however, and fought on stubbornly until
his iron constitution began to give way. As his health declined and
he felt that death was approaching, he became for a time singularly
amenable. At last, in 1860, he was finally transferred to Plassenburg
prison, which he entered for the first time. His old audacious and
rebellious spirit reasserted itself, and he succeeded in breaking out
of prison with several companions. They were all promptly recaptured
by the peasants in the first village they reached, and laid by the
heels like wild beasts escaped from their cages. When once more in
durance, Schenk devoted himself to the writing of petitions for milder
treatment, and he was granted a few small privileges, such as the
lightening of his chains. In 1863 he was taken back to Kaiserslautern
after an absence of thirty-four years. Although feeble and broken in
health, he still enjoyed a great influence over the other prisoners,
and, when he chose, could still incite them to mutiny and rebellion. In
January, 1864, a violent outbreak occurred at Kaiserslautern in which
he did not figure personally but which he had no doubt brought about.

It was at this period of his career that Herr Fleischmann became
acquainted with him and writes: “Schenk’s every thought was now centred
in obtaining a pardon. I often heard him exclaim, ‘I would gladly
die, if I could but enjoy freedom for a single day.’” His passionate
appeals were nearly bearing fruit when the inhabitants of Oberlustadt
protested, and, still remembering his parting threats on leaving
the town, hastily sent in a petition against the liberation of so
dangerous a man. With his hopes thus dashed to the ground forever, a
last spark of energy revived and he made a final attempt to escape from
the hospital, which miscarried, and in the end his release was only
compassed by death. For forty-seven years he had maintained a ceaseless
conflict with law and authority.

Herr Fleischmann gives a graphic presentment of this remarkable
criminal, whom he first met in the hospital toward the end of his
life. “My interlocutor was an old man in the seventies. I shall never
forget his appearance, for I never beheld a more hideous or repulsive
countenance. He was of medium height, strongly built, and dragged one
leg slightly, like all those who have worn chains and balls for years.
His head was covered with thin gray hair always carefully brushed. One
side of his face was completely distorted from the effects of a stroke
of paralysis. Half the mouth and one wrinkled cheek hung down flabbily;
one bloodshot eye stared dimly from its socket, but the other, on
the contrary, was light gray and quite alive, with a look of extreme
cunning. He was a man of great natural intelligence, unusually gifted,
and he had improved himself by much reading; he expressed himself well,
possessed a keen knowledge of human nature and often succeeded in
deceiving the prison officials by his masterly power of dissimulation.”

We have to thank our reverend author for one or two more types of
German prisoners. He speaks of one, Würger by name, who was of Jewish
extraction, but a Christian according to the testimony of his baptismal
certificate, although there was little to prove his real religion
in the records of his life. As to the outer man, he was short of
stature and very broad-shouldered; he had an enormous head with bushy,
prominent eyebrows and teeth large and pointed like the fangs of a wild
beast. His eyes were gray and cold but acute in their expression. The
first time the chaplain visited him in his cell he was sitting on the
edge of a big chest filled with papers and literally in hysterics. No
other word could adequately describe the passionate outburst of rage
and despair to which he was giving vent. When asked the cause of his
distress, he asserted with renewed wails that he was a ruined man. The
facts came out gradually. His wife had sent the huge chest to him,
because not even the most astute man of business in her vicinity to
whom she had applied could disentangle the mass of promissory notes
and dubious deeds which it contained. She had also written that no one
admitted indebtedness to him, and indeed, several of his debtors had
already run off. She said he must put the papers in order himself and
send the chest to some agent with instructions to act for him. The box
was full of documents, and represented the ruin and wretchedness of the
impecunious victims of his remorseless usury.

The chaplain had little sympathy with his whining regrets and strongly
urged him to commit the contents of the box to the flames, but this
advice WÜrger received with horror. It would bring his family to
penury, he declared; he had done no one any harm but had rather been
a public benefactor, honest and straightforward in all his dealings,
and he had been ill-rewarded for his efforts to benefit his fellow
creatures. The tears streamed from the eyes of this friend of humanity
as he uttered this lying statement.

Two anecdotes told by the writer will give some idea of the character
of this rapacious creature. His wife, who belonged to a good family,
had once instituted divorce proceedings against him. Her lawyer
insisted before the court that Würger was essentially a bad, vicious
person, but that his client had been quite unaware of his evil
tendencies before her marriage. Würger’s lawyer then took up the
parable and exclaimed,--“What, the plaintiff pretends ignorance of what
sort of man my client is! Why, it is notorious that in the whole of
Pfalz there is no worse fellow than Würger. And you worshipful judges,”
he added, “you certainly cannot assume that Würger’s wife was the
only person who did not know anything about it.” The wife’s petition
was dismissed and Würger, on hearing the result of the proceedings,
rubbed his hands, smirked with glee and clapped his lawyer on the back,
saying, “That was a lucky hit of yours, calling me the worst fellow in
Pfalz; you deserve great credit for the conduct of my case.”

When Würger was in prison awaiting trial, a fraudulent tax-collector,
whom an auditor had caught embezzling public money, occupied the
same cell as the usurer. The collector was a man of fair character
but afflicted with a consuming thirst and fit for nothing until he
had swallowed many pints of beer. He brought into prison with him a
certain sum in cash, a silver watch and chain and a gold ring. Here was
Würger’s opportunity. He saw his companion’s funds gradually diminish
by his terrible thirst, and when they were exhausted, proposed to buy
his fellow-prisoner’s silver chain, and offered a ludicrously low price
for it. Bargaining and haggling went on for some time but without
result, although the usurer strove hard and backed up his offer by
constantly calculating how many pints of beer the suggested price would
buy. Every time Würger mentioned the word “beer” the other would sigh
deeply until the temptation conquered him, and finally the chain passed
into Würger’s hands. The price of the chain was consumed in drink and
the silver watch was the next to go. The last struggle was for the
gold wedding ring. The poor collector was quite determined not to part
with it; he inwardly took a solemn oath to conquer himself and not to
sacrifice this last precious treasure. Würger did not utter a word
for some days nor seem to notice the tortures of his mate. Finally,
however, he appeared softened by the moans and groans of his companion
who grew more and more thirsty, and offered to help him, but only at
the cost of the ring. The tax-collector fell on his knees and begged
the tyrant to lend him the money only and let him but pawn the ring;
but Würger drove him to distraction by ordering a pint of beer which
he slowly consumed before the drunkard. Again and again he tempted
and played upon the appetite of the unfortunate man until at last the
collector, half mad, tore the ring from his finger and threw it at the
feet of the usurer, who smilingly slipped it into his pocket.

In prison Würger’s behaviour was cringing and artful. At the exercises
in chapel he would sit with his head bowed, evidently cogitating over
his impending lawsuits and thinking of his gold. His fellow-prisoners
treated him with contempt, and revelled in the knowledge that this
rich fiend, who had cheated many a poor man out of his last farthing,
was now one of themselves; and on Sunday especially they would cast up
his misdeeds against him and hold him up to ridicule. Toward the end
of his term he went to the chaplain and bought a Bible. This reckless
extravagance seemed odd, but it became known that the chaplain bought
his Bibles at a reduced rate, and the usurer had calculated that he
could sell at a profit.

“A clergyman’s task,” says Herr Fleischmann, “is far more difficult in
a prison for women than in one for men. In the latter he has to deal
with coarseness, brutality and moral degradation, but in the former he
meets with many despicable traits: unlimited cunning, spitefulness,
love of revenge, deceit and artifice. The man often reveals himself as
he is, while the woman, on the contrary, having lost caste, desires to
conceal her abject condition and, with rare exceptions, assumes some
part foreign to her real nature which she plays cleverly throughout.
I was often obliged in spite of myself to compare the man’s gaol to a
menagerie, the woman’s to a theatre or stage.

“I was twenty-six years of age when I started on my official career
of activity in K. On making my first rounds through the cells on the
female side, I found one woman sitting with her head on the table
weeping bitterly. She gave no sign that she had noticed my entrance,
but when I wished her ‘Good morning,’ she slowly lifted her head and
transfixed me with an uncomprehending gaze from soft, tear-dimmed brown
eyes. She was apparently about fifty years of age and retained traces
of great beauty.

“‘I am your new pastor’ I said. What is your name?’ Then she passed
her hand across her forehead as if to dispel an evil dream and, rising
from her seat with a great show of good feeling, begged me to excuse
her seeming rudeness, but in truth she had been absorbed in the
contemplation of her past life. She claimed to be unfeignedly grateful
for my visit and as she spoke she seized my hand and would have kissed
it had I not drawn it away. I asked her name. ‘Ursula Pfeiffer,
reverend sir,’ she replied. ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘I will look into your
record and the next time I come we will discuss your past.’ But she
continued, ‘Let me confess at once; I am the greatest sinner in the
whole prison, but thank heaven, I have at last found peace within these
walls.’

“On the prison registers this woman’s record ran thus: ‘Anna Ursula
Pfeiffer, born at Zirndorf, near Nürnberg, in 1813, sentenced for
repeated thefts to four years’ penal servitude. Was, from 1838 to
1863, punished forty-one times for leading a vicious life, vagrancy
and theft.’ During my next few visits, her behaviour was characterised
by reserve, which led me to think she had realised that she must not
lay on her colours too thick. After the lapse of some weeks, she told
me her history simply, without flourishes, and I recognised from her
manner of relating that I had before me a woman of uncommon mental
gifts.

“Her parents had been poor people, earning an honest livelihood, who
brought up their children respectably. They thought a great deal of
their Ursula, who always took a high place in school. Her intelligence
and her beauty, however, were to prove her curse. She went into
domestic service with a rich Jewish family, where the son of the house
seduced her and, when the consequences of the intrigue could no longer
be concealed, she was dismissed ignominiously. She moved to Nürnberg,
where she took to disreputable ways, and she always had plenty of money
until her beauty began to wane. Then she gradually sank lower and lower
in the social scale, and finally became addicted to thieving, which
landed her continually in prison.

“I observed my penitent closely, but saw no reason to doubt or mistrust
her. I now and then made use of a text on Sunday to inveigh against
hypocrisy, but she continued to play the part of the crushed and
contrite Magdalen and asked permission to take down my sermon on her
slate. To this I could not, of course, object. I would sometimes look
at the slate and compare it with my manuscript and seldom found a word
wrong. What might not this woman have become had she been born in a
higher sphere? When her term of solitary confinement had expired, she
requested that it might be extended over her full time, and remained
for two years longer in her cell. By and by she became a prison nurse,
and not only tended the sick with kindness and devotion but also with
uncommon skill. Her conduct was exemplary to the last, and when she
finally departed, it was with many protestations of gratitude and the
most heartfelt assurances of reform.

“Yet a few months later, Ursula Pfeiffer’s papers were asked for by
some other penal institution. She had soon fallen back into evil ways,
and was sentenced to a fresh imprisonment. I was convinced that my
first impression of her as a hypocrite and a dissembler was absolutely
correct.”

The Reverend Otto Fleischmann’s experience will be borne out by
hundreds of other God-fearing, philanthropic ministers who have devoted
themselves to the care and possible regeneration of criminals.

Two sensational crimes committed in our own day, and which made a great
stir in Germany, were much commented on in the journals of the time.
One was the murder of a boy of five years old at Xanten in Prussian
Rhineland. The trial took place at the provincial court of justice at
Kleve, and the hall used was part of the ancient castle of the dukes of
Kleve, around which the legend of the “Knights of the Swan” (Lohengrin)
still lingers. The case excited widespread interest. The man accused
was a Jew and the fiercest passions caused by religious hatred were
engendered. Excesses were committed in the town; the case became a
subject of heated dispute in the popular assemblies, and more than once
occupied the attention of the Prussian Chamber of Deputies.

On June 29, 1891, soon after six o’clock, a servant maid, Dora Moll,
found the body of a boy, Johann Hegemann, with his throat cut, in a
barn where fruit was stored, belonging to a town councilman named
Kupper. The boy was the son of the carpenter and coffin-maker of the
place. At noon on the same day the child, a fine and healthy boy,
had been seen playing near the barn. The wound was a clean one and
there seemed to be no doubt that a murder had been committed, but
there appeared to be no motive for it. Soon, however, suspicion fell
upon Adolf Buschoff, a butcher and also the superintendent of the
Jewish congregation. Several persons testified to the boy having been
attracted by Buschoff’s wife and daughter to the butcher’s shop,
situated close by the Kupper barn, on the eve of the crime. Other
causes for suspicion were suggested, with the immediate result that
Buschoff’s property was laid waste by his enraged fellow-citizens and
“Murderer’s house” was written on his abode. Many shops belonging to
Jews were also sacked; indignation was intensified by a report that
the boy had been done to death by a knife such as is used by Jewish
butchers, and that murder had been committed because the Jews require
Christian blood for their Passover feast. The excitement of the
Christian population grew to such a pitch that the Jewish community of
Xanten begged, in their own defence, that a special detective might be
employed to follow up the crime. The result of this inquiry was the
arrest of Buschoff, with his wife and daughter, and their committal to
the prison at Kleve, from which they were at last released on December
23rd.

Anti-Semitism, however, constantly rankled and inflamed public opinion;
the case was re-opened, and Buschoff, who had settled at Cologne, was
again arrested on the plea that further suspicion had arisen. His wife
and daughter escaped, although a warrant had been issued against them
as being also privy to the crime. Hitherto Buschoff had been looked
upon as a popular and harmless citizen, but now feeling ran high
against him and it was generally believed that the charge of deliberate
murder would be fully proved.

The court was crowded to suffocation; many ladies looked down upon the
crowd in the place set apart for them. A hum was heard like that in a
theatre before the curtain rises, followed by a painful silence when
the prisoner entered and took his place behind the barrier. Buschoff
was a man of fifty, strongly built and of medium height. He sat with
downcast eyes, his hands trembling; his colour was so ruddy that, but
for the signs of inward agitation expressed in his face, it would not
have been easy to suppose that he had spent a long time in prison
awaiting trial. The case lasted ten days and many witnesses were
called, but no evidence was adduced incriminating Buschoff, who, when
interrogated, steadfastly denied his guilt. A professor of Semitic lore
and an expert in interpreting the Talmud, was asked if murders in the
cause of ritual were anywhere justified in the Talmud. This he denied,
and other witnesses testified that Buschoff belonged to the order of
priests commonly called Levites, who are not allowed to approach a
corpse except those of their parents or brethren. On the sixth day, a
bag belonging to Buschoff, apparently blood-stained, was examined, but
it could not be proved to be human blood. On the seventh day, the chief
interest was centred in the evidence of the provincial judge, Brixius,
who had examined Buschoff at the time of his first arrest. The result
was, upon the whole, favourable to the accused, as Brixius considered
many of the statements which had been made by witnesses the result
of heated fancy and unbridled imagination dictated by hatred of the
Jews. On the last day of the trial, Frau Buschoff, who had not as yet
been called, had to appear. The accused wept bitterly at the sight of
his wife. She corroborated the testimony which had been given by her
husband and daughter.

The jury was then asked to decide whether “the accused Adolf Buschoff
were guilty of having deliberately murdered Johann Hegemann in Xanten
on the 29th June, 1891.” A speech for the defence then followed, which
lasted two hours, and in the afternoon a second counsel spoke for the
prisoner, setting forth the innocence of the accused and appealing to
the jury to acquit him. Then followed the judge’s summing up, which was
absolutely fair and impartial. He called attention to the fact that the
population of Germany was divided between friends and foes of the Jews.
“Before the court of justice, however,” he said, “all men are equal. A
judge’s task is not to inquire to what religion an accused belongs; he
must have no partisan feeling.” The jury was absent for only half an
hour, and returned with the verdict of “not guilty,” which was received
with storms of applause. So ended a trial which produced an immense
sensation, not only in the Rhine provinces but to the furthest confines
of Germany, and was followed with strained and feverish attention.

Another great crime is of about the same date, but of a very different
character,--the theft and misappropriation of gigantic sums by the
chief cashier, Rudolf Jaeger, of the Rothschild banking-house at
Frankfurt-on-the-Main. The story will be best understood by an extract
from the indictment on which he was eventually charged. It stated that
on Good Friday, April 15, 1892, the chief cashier of the banking-house
of M. A. Rothschild and Sons disappeared, but was not missed until
April 20th by reason of intervening holidays, both Christian and
Jewish. The suspicion of his flight was confirmed by two letters from
him posted at Darmstadt. One was to a Frau Hoch, who sent it to the
Rothschild house; the other was addressed to Baron Rothschild’s private
secretary, Herr Kirch. In both letters Jaeger stated that he had been
guilty of embezzlement and that he meant to take his own life. In the
letter to Kirch he carried the comedy to the extent of sealing his
letter with black, using a black-edged envelope and placing a memorial
cross under his signature. He confessed that he had lost 1,700,000
marks by unlucky speculations on the bourse with money entrusted to him
in the course of business by others, including the bank. The money was
gone, he declared briefly, and he meant to expiate his deed by death,
hoping for mercy from God alone.

Rudolf Jaeger first entered the Rothschild house as assistant to his
father, then chief cashier, and on his father’s death he succeeded to
the position. His salary was 4,500 marks; besides this, he received
other payments for keeping the private accounts of the Barons Wilhelm
and Mayer Karl Rothschild, as well as the New Year’s bonus, and such
other extras, so that his circumstances were easy. He married in 1877.
His first wrongdoing was when he embarked upon an egg-trading business
in partnership with one Heusel, who subsequently entered the dock by
his side. Heusel was always in financial straits, insatiable in his
demands for money, and although Jaeger had advanced the sum of 102,000
marks, he clamoured incessantly for more, and to satisfy him Jaeger
made his first fatal dip into the Rothschild safe, which was in his
keeping. For a long time he managed his depredations most skilfully,
and his methods of throwing dust into the eyes of the clerks under
him by manipulating the books of the bank were extremely clever. Even
when a revision of the books took place, after he had gone so far as
to falsify them, his dishonesty was not suspected. However, he only
narrowly escaped. He felt he was on the verge of being discovered and
began his preparations for flight, in company with Josephine Klez, with
whom he had been intimate for some time.

The fugitives went first to Hamburg and thence to Marseilles, where
they embarked for Egypt. Having arrived there, they considered
themselves safe and went about freely and openly, frequenting different
hotels. Jaeger bought many valuable jewels for Klez in Alexandria and
Cairo. The police in pursuit were soon upon their track and on May 10th
both were arrested by the German consul, with the assistance of the
Egyptian authorities, at Ramleh in the Hotel Miramare, and their goods
were seized. Both carried revolvers. Jaeger attempted to draw his, but
was prevented. At first, both endeavoured to deny their identity, but
in the end they gave their real names. Jaeger maintained, when brought
before the consul, that he had lost the greater part of the embezzled
sum on the bourses, but the examination of his luggage proved this
to be false, and a sum of 489,779 marks was found among his effects.
Part of it consisted in thousand mark notes, which Klez had sewn into
a pin-cushion. She had two purses, a black and a red one; in the first
was English, French and Egyptian money, and the second contained German
bank bills and marks in gold. On a second search, one hundred notes of
a thousand marks each were extracted from a pillow. Among the papers
seized, the most important was Jaeger’s note book, for pasted under its
cover was a slip of paper with abbreviated figures not very difficult
to decipher, and with a complete account of the embezzled sum and of
the persons in whose hands the money had been deposited; so, thanks to
the discovery of this memorandum, the greater portion of the sums left
in Frankfurt was discovered.

When Jaeger and Klez arrived in Germany, they were committed to the
Frankfurt prison, where a number of their accomplices were already
lodged. Jaeger, when arraigned, pleaded guilty on every count. The
woman Klez admitted her complicity in the flight, but denied that she
was concerned in the frauds or had accepted anything but jewelry from
Jaeger. The trial was brief and judgment was soon given. Jaeger was
condemned to ten years’ imprisonment and, over and above this, to five
years’ deprivation of his civic rights, “because he was so lost to all
sense of decency as to leave his family and elope with a shameless
woman.” Klez was sentenced to three years’ imprisonment, Heusel to six
years, and others concerned to short terms.



CHAPTER IX

SILVIO PELLICO AT SPIELBERG

    Spielberg for many centuries Imperial State prison--Its
    situation--Originally the castle of the ruling lords of
    Moravia--Silvio Pellico imprisoned there--Also Franz von
    der Trenck--Pellico’s relations with the Carbonari--His
    imprisonment in the Santa Margherita and the Piombi--Sentence
    of death commuted to fifteen years in Spielberg--Administration
    of this prison--His fellow sufferers--The gaoler,
    Schiller--Prison diet--Strict discipline enforced--Pellico is
    released at the end of ten years.


Spielberg, in Austria, served for several centuries as an imperial
state prison to which many notable political and other offenders were
committed. It stands on the top of an isolated hill, the Spielberg, 185
feet above the city of Brünn, the capital of Moravia and headquarters
of the governor of the two provinces of Moravia and Silesia. The
castle was originally the fortified residence of the ruling lords of
Moravia and a formidable stronghold. It was the place of durance for
that other baron Von der Trenck, Franz, the Colonel of Pandours or
Austrian irregular cavalry, whose terrible excesses disgraced the Seven
Years’ War. His unscrupulous and daring conduct gained him life-long
incarceration in Spielberg which he ended by suicide. The fortress was
besieged and captured by the French just before the famous battle of
Austerlitz, which was fought in the neighbourhood. Its fortifications
were never fully restored, but a portion of the enclosure was rebuilt
and the place was again used as a place of durance, where some three
hundred prisoners were constantly lodged. These were criminals largely,
with a sprinkling of persons of higher and more respectable station who
had become obnoxious to the Austrian government.

The lengthy sentence of imprisonment which Silvio Pellico endured at
Spielberg was the penalty imposed upon him as an Italian subject who
dared to conspire against the Austrian domination. The rich provinces
of northern Italy had been apportioned to the emperor of Austria in the
scramble for territory at the fall of Napoleon. The Italians fiercely
resented the intolerable yoke of the arbitrary foreigners, and strove
hard to shake it off, but in vain, for nearly fifty years. Secret
societies pledged to resistance multiplied and flourished, defying all
efforts to extinguish them. The most actively dangerous was that of the
Carbonari, born at Naples of the hatred of the Bourbon rule and which
aimed at securing general freedom for one united Italy. Its influence
spread rapidly throughout the country and in the north helped forward
the abortive uprisings, which were sharply repressed by the Austrian
troops. Plots were constantly rife in Lombardy against the oppressive
rule in force and centred in Carbonarism which the government
unceasingly pursued. Silvio Pellico was drawn almost innocently into
association with the society and suffered severely for it.

Silvio Pellico was born in 1788 and spent a great part of his youth at
Pinerolo, a place of captivity of the mysterious “Man with the Iron
Mask.” His health was delicate; he was a student consumed with literary
aspirations and intense political fervour, and he presently moved to
Milan, where he began to write for the stage. A famous actress inspired
him with the idea of his play, _Francesca da Rimini_, which eventually
achieved such a brilliant success. Pellico was welcomed at Milan by the
best literary society and made the acquaintance of many distinguished
writers, native-born and foreign--Monti, Foscolo and Manzoni, Madame de
Stael, Schlegel and Lords Byron and Brougham among them. The author of
“Childe Harold” paid him the compliment of translating “Francesca” into
English verse.

About this time Silvio Pellico accepted the post of tutor to the sons
of Count Porro, a prominent leader of the agitation against Austria,
and whose dream it was to give an independent crown to Lombardy. Count
Porro approached the Emperor Joseph pleading the rights of his country,
and but narrowly escaped arrest. He saw that overt resistance was
impossible, but never ceased to conspire and encourage the desire for
freedom in his fellow-countrymen. He opened schools for the purpose and
founded a newspaper, the _Conciliatore_, to which many talented writers
contributed, including Pellico. It was a brilliant, though brief,
epoch of literary splendour, and the new journal was supported by the
most notable thinkers and eloquent publicists, whose productions were
constantly mutilated by the censorship. In the end, the _Conciliatore_
was suppressed.

Silvio Pellico, soon after his entry into Count Porro’s household, was
invited to affiliate himself with the Carbonari but hesitated to join,
having no accurate knowledge of the aims and intentions of the society.
He was moved, however, to inquire further and very incautiously wrote
through the post to a friend, asking what obligations he would have
to assume and the form of oath he must take,--all of which he was
willing to accept if his conscience would permit him. There was no
inviolability for private correspondence under Austrian rule, and
Silvio Pellico’s letter was intercepted and passed into the hands of
Count Bubna, the governor of Milan, who was already well informed of
the conspiracy brewing. He was, however, a humane official and did not
wish to proceed to extreme measures, but quietly warned the most active
leaders to disappear, telling them that “a trip to the country” might
benefit them just then. Many took the hint and left the city, among
them Count Porro, who escaped on the very day that the police meant to
make a descent on his house. Confalonieri, one of the chiefs, was not
so fortunate. He declined to run away until the _sbirri_ were at his
door and then climbed up to the top of the house, hoping to gain the
roof, but the lock of a garret window had been changed and he was taken
by the officers.

Silvio Pellico, having no suspicion of danger, was easily captured in
his house and was carried at once to the prison of Santa Margherita
in Milan, where he lay side by side with ordinary criminals, and also
made the acquaintance of the “false” Dauphin commonly called the Duke
of Normandy, the pretended heir of Louis XVI. It may be remembered that
a fiction long survived of the escape of the little dauphin from the
Temple prison, to which he had been sent by the French revolutionaries,
and that an idiot boy had been substituted to send to the guillotine.
The real dauphin--so runs the story--was spirited out of France
and safely across the Atlantic to the United States and afterward
to Brazil, where he passed through many dire adventures until the
restoration in France. A serious illness at that time prevented him
from vindicating his right to the throne, and thenceforth he became
a wanderer in Europe, vainly endeavouring to win recognition and
support from the various courts. The assassination of this inconvenient
claimant had been more than once attempted, and his persistence ended
in his arrest by the Austrian governor at the instance of the French
government, and resulted in his being held a close prisoner in Milan.

The warders of the Santa Margherita assured Silvio Pellico that they
were certain his fellow prisoner was the real king of France, and
they hoped that some day when he came to his own he would reward them
handsomely for their devoted attention to him when in gaol. Pellico
was not imposed upon by this pretender, but he noticed a strong family
likeness to the Bourbons and very reasonably supposed that herein was
the secret of the preposterous claim.

This curious encounter no doubt served to occupy Pellico’s thoughts
during his long trial which was conducted by methods abhorrent to all
ideas of justice. No indictments were made public and no depositions
of witnesses, who were always invisible. Conviction was a foregone
conclusion, and the sentence was death, on the ground that Pellico had
been concerned in a conspiracy against the state, that he had been
guilty of correspondence with a Carbonaro and that he had written
articles in favour of Carbonarism. His fate was communicated to him at
Venice, to which he had been removed and where he occupied a portion of
the Piombi, or prison under the “leads” of the ducal palace.

After a wearisome delay, the sentence was read to the prisoners,
Pellico and his intimate friend and companion Maroncelli, in court, and
afterward formally communicated to them on a scaffold which had been
raised in the Piazzetta of San Marco. An immense crowd had collected,
full of compassionate sympathy, and to overawe them a strong body of
troops had been paraded with bayonets fixed, and artillery was posted
with port fires alight. An usher came out upon an elevated gallery of
the palace above and read the order aloud until he reached the words
“condemned to death,” when the crowd, unable to restrain overwrought
feeling, burst into a loud murmur of condolence, which was followed by
deep silence when the words of commutation were read. Maroncelli was
sentenced to twenty years’ imprisonment and Silvio Pellico to fifteen,
both to be confined under the rules of _carcere duro_ in the fortress
of Spielberg.

The conditions of _carcere duro_ may be described as extremely irksome
and rigorous. The subject was closely chained by the legs; he had to
sleep on a bare board--the _lit de soldat_ or “plank bed”--and to
subsist on a most limited diet, little more than bread and water, with
a modicum of poor soup every other day. More merciless and brutal
treatment was that of _carcere durissimo_, when the chaining consisted
of a body belt or iron waist-band affixed to the wall by a chain so
short that it allowed no movement beyond the length of the plank bed.
Part of the rations was a most unpalatable and filthy food, consisting
of flour fried in lard and put by in pots for six months, then ladled
out and dissolved in boiling water.

An Austrian commissary of police came from Vienna to escort the patriot
prisoners to Spielberg, and he brought with him news that afforded some
small consolation. He had had an audience with the Emperor Joseph, who
had been graciously pleased to grant a remission of sentence by making
every twelve hours instead of twenty-four count as one day; in other
words, diminishing the term by just half. No official endorsement of
this proposal was signified and there was no certainty that it was
true, and indeed, after the lapse of the first half of the sentence,
release was not immediately accorded. Silvio’s seven and a half years
was expanded into ten, and the imprisonment might have been dragged on
for the full fifteen years but for the warm pleadings of the Sardinian
ambassador at the court of Vienna.

The long journey to Brünn was taken in two carriages and in much
discomfort, for each coach was crowded with the escort and their
charges, and each prisoner was fettered with a transversal chain
attached to the right wrist and left ankle. The one compensation was
the kindly sympathy that greeted the prisoners everywhere along the
road, in every town, village and isolated hut. The people came forth
with friendly expressions, and as the news of their approach preceded
them, great crowds collected to cheer them on their way. At one place,
Udine, where beds had to be prepared, the hotel servants gave place
to personal friends who came in, disguised, to shake them by the
hand. The demonstrations were continued far across the frontier, and
even Austrian subjects were anxious to commiserate the sad fate of men
whose only crime was an ardent desire to free their country.

[_Silvio Pellico at Spielburg_

_After the painting by Marckl_

The gifted Italian patriot, arrested as a Carbonarist in 1820, was
imprisoned for ten years, first at Milan and Venice and then in the
fortress of Spielburg in Austria, where he was subjected to gross
indignities and cruel neglect. He wrote of his experiences in his book
“My Prisons,” which struck a severe blow to Austrian tyranny.

Illustration]

Silvio Pellico records feelingly the emotion displayed by one charming
girl in a Styrian village, who long stood watching the carriages and
waving her handkerchief to the fast disappearing occupants on their
way to protracted captivity. In many places aged people came up to ask
if the prisoners’ parents were still alive, and offered up fervent
prayers that they might meet them again. The same sentiment of pity
and commiseration was freely displayed in the fortress throughout the
imprisonment; the gaolers--harsh, ill-tempered old soldiers--were
softened towards them; their fellow prisoners--ordinary criminals--when
encountered by chance in the courts and passages, saluted them and
treated them with deep respect. One whispered to Pellico, “You are not
such as we are and yet your lot is far worse than ours.” Another said
that although he was a convict his crime was one of passion, his heart
was not bad, and he was affected to tears when Silvio Pellico took him
by the hand. Visitors who came in from outside were always anxious to
notice “the Italians” and give them a kindly word.

Pellico, when received by the superintendent of Spielberg, was treated
to a lecture on conduct and warned that the slightest infraction
of the rules would expose him to punishment. Then he was led into
an underground corridor where he was ushered into one dark chamber,
and his comrade Maroncelli into another at some distance. Pellico’s
health was completely broken by the long wearisome journey and the
dreary prospect before him. His cell was a repulsive dungeon; a great
chain hung from the wall just above his plank bed, but it was not
destined for him, as his gaoler told him, unless he became violently
insubordinate; for the present leg irons would only be worn.

This gaoler was an aged man, of gigantic height, with a hard
weather-beaten face and a forbidding look of brutal severity. He
inspired Pellico with loathing as he paced the narrow cell rattling
his heavy keys and scowling fiercely. Yet the man was not to be judged
by appearances, for he concealed beneath a rough exterior a tender,
sympathetic heart. Pellico, misjudging him entirely, bitterly resented
his overbearing manner and showed a refractory spirit, addressing
his warder insolently and ordering him about rudely. The old man--a
veteran soldier who had served with distinction in many campaigns,
behaved with extraordinary patience and good temper and shamed Pellico
into more considerate behaviour. “I am no more than a corporal,” he
protested, “and I am not very proud of my position as gaoler, which
I will allow is far worse than being shot at by the enemy.” Pellico
readily acknowledged that the man Schiller, as he was called, meant
well. “Not at all,” growled Schiller, “expect nothing from me. It is
my duty to be rough and harsh with you. I took an oath on my first
appointment to show no indulgence and least of all to state prisoners.
It is the emperor’s order and I must obey.” Pellico regretted his first
impatience and gently said: “I can see plainly that is not easy for you
to enforce severe discipline but I respect you for it and shall bear
no malice.” Schiller thanked him and added: “Accept your lot bravely
and pity rather than blame me. In the matter of duty I am of iron,
and whatever I may feel for the unfortunate people who are under my
control, I cannot and must not show it.” He never departed from this
attitude, and though outwardly cross-grained and rough-spoken, Pellico
knew he could count upon humane treatment.

Schiller was greatly concerned at the prisoner’s ailing condition. He
had grown rapidly worse, was tormented with a terrible cough and was
evidently in a state of high fever. Medical advice was urgently needed,
but the prison doctor called only three times a week and he had visited
the gaol the day before; not even the arrival of these new prisoners,
nor an urgent summons to prescribe for serious sickness, would cause
him to change his routine. Pellico had no mattress and it could only
be supplied on medical requisition. The superintendent, cringing and
timid, did not dare to issue it on his own responsibility. He came to
see Pellico, and felt his pulse, but declared he could not go beyond
the rules. “I should risk my appointment,” he pleaded, “if I exceeded
my powers.” Schiller, after the superintendent left, was indignant with
his chief. “I think I would have taken as much as this upon myself; it
is only a small matter, scarcely involving the safety of the empire,”
and Pellico gratefully acknowledged that he had found a real friend in
the seemingly surly warder. Schiller came again that night to visit him
and finding him worse, renewed his bitter complaints against the cruel
neglect of the doctor. The next day the prisoner was still left without
medical treatment, after a night of terrible pain and discomfort, which
caused him to perspire freely. “I should like to change my shirt,” he
suggested, but was told that it was impossible. It was a prison shirt
and only one each week was allowed. Schiller brought one of his own
which proved to be several times too large. The prisoner asked for one
of his own, as he had brought a trunk full of his clothes, but this too
was forbidden. He was permitted to wear no part of his own clothing
and was left to lie as he was, shivering in every limb. Schiller came
presently, bringing a loaf of black bread, the allowance for two days,
and after handing it over burst out into fresh imprecations against
the doctor. Pellico could not eat a morsel of this coarse food, nor of
his dinner, which was presently brought by a prisoner and consisted
of some nauseous soup, the smell of which alone was repulsive, and
some vegetables dressed with a detestable sauce. He forced down a few
spoonfuls of soup and again fell back upon his bare, comfortless bed,
which was unprovided with a pillow; and racked with pain in every
limb, he lay there half insensible, looking for little relief. At
last, on the third day, the doctor came and pronounced the illness to
be fever, recommending that the patient should be removed from his
cell to another up-stairs. The first answer was that no room could be
found, but when the matter was specially referred to the governor who
ruled the two provinces of Moravia and Silesia and resided at Brünn, he
insisted that the doctor’s advice should be followed. Accordingly the
patient was moved into a room above, lighted by a small barred window
from which he could get a glimpse of the smiling valley below, the view
extending over garden and lake to the wooded heights of Austerlitz
beyond.

When he was somewhat better, they brought him his prison clothing
and he put it on for the first time. It was hideous, of course; a
harlequin dress, jacket and pantaloons of two colours, gray and dark
red, arranged in inverse pattern; one arm red, the other gray, one leg
gray, the other red, and the colours alternating in the same way on
the waistcoat. Coarse woollen stockings, a shirt of rough sailcloth
with sharp excrescences in the material that irritated and tore the
skin, heavy boots of untanned leather and a white hat completed the
outfit. His chains were riveted on his ankles, and the blacksmith
protested as he hammered on the anvil that it was an unnecessary job.
“The poor creature might well have been spared this formality. He is
far too ill to live many days.” It was said in German, a language with
which Pellico was familiar, and he answered in the same tongue, “Please
God it may be so,” much to the blacksmith’s dismay, who promptly
apologised, expressing the kindly hope that release might come in
another way than by death. Pellico assured him that he had no wish to
live. Nevertheless, although dejected beyond measure, his thoughts did
not turn toward suicide, for he firmly believed that he must shortly
be carried off by disease of the lungs. But, greatly as he had been
tried by the journey, and despite the fever which had followed, he
gradually improved in health and recovered, not only so as to complete
his imprisonment but to live on to a considerable age after release.

The prisoners suffered greatly from their isolation and the deprivation
of their comrades’ company, but Silvio Pellico and a near neighbour
discovered a means of communicating with each other and persisted in
it despite all orders to the contrary. They began by singing Italian
songs from cell to cell and refused to be silenced by the loud outcries
of the sentries, of whom several were at hand. One in particular
patrolled the corridor, listening at each door so as to locate the
sound. Pellico had no sooner discovered that his neighbour was Count
Antonio Oroboni than the sentry hammered loudly on the door with the
butt end of his musket. They persisted in singing, however, modulating
their voices, until they gained the good-will of the sentry, or spoke
so low as to be little interfered with. This conversation continued
for a long time without interruption until one day it was overheard by
the superintendent, who severely reprimanded Schiller. The old gaoler
was much incensed and came to Pellico forbidding him to speak again at
the window. “You must give me your solemn promise not to repeat this
misconduct.” Pellico stoutly replied: “I shall promise nothing of the
kind; silence and solitude are so absolutely unbearable that unless
I am gagged I shall continue to speak to my comrade; if he does not
answer, I shall address myself to my bars or the birds or the distant
hills.” Kind-hearted old Schiller sternly repeated his injunctions, but
failed to impress Pellico, and at last in despair Schiller threw away
his keys, declaring he would sooner resign than be a party to so much
cruelty. He yielded later, only imploring Pellico to speak always in
the lowest key and to prevail upon Oroboni to do likewise.

The greatest trial entailed by the _carcere duro_ was the lack of
sufficient food. Pellico was constantly tormented with hunger. Some of
his comrades suffered much more, for they had lived more freely than
he and felt the spare diet more keenly. It was so well known throughout
the prison that the political prisoners were half-starved, that many
kindly souls wished to add to their allowance. The ordinary prisoner,
who acted as orderly in bringing in the daily rations, secretly
smuggled in a loaf of white bread which Pellico, although much touched,
absolutely refused to accept. “We get so much more than you do,” the
poor fellow pleaded, “I know you are always hungry.” But Pellico still
refused. It was the same when Schiller, the grim gaoler, brought in
parcels of food, bread and pieces of boiled meat, pressing them on his
prisoner, assuring him that they cost him nothing. Pellico invariably
refused everything except baskets of fruit, cherries and pears, which
were irresistible, although he was sorry afterward for yielding to the
weakness.

At last the prison surgeon interposed and put all the Italians upon
hospital diet. This was somewhat better, but a meagre enough supply,
consisting daily of three issues of thin soup, a morsel of roast mutton
which could be swallowed in one mouthful, and three ounces of white
bread. As Silvio Pellico’s health improved this allowance proved more
and more insufficient and he was always hungry. Even the barber who
came up from Brünn to attend on the prisoners said it was common talk
in the town that they did not get enough to eat and wanted to bring a
white loaf when he arrived every Saturday.

Permission to exercise in the open air twice weekly had been conceded
from the first, and was at the last allowed daily. Each prisoner
was marched out singly, escorted by two gaolers armed with loaded
muskets. This took place in the general yard where there were often
many ordinary prisoners, all of whom saluted courteously and were
often heard to remark, “This poor man is no real offender and yet he
is treated much worse than we are.” Now and again one would come up to
Pellico and say sympathetically that he hoped he was feeling better,
and beg to be allowed to shake his hand. Visitors who came to call on
the officials were always deeply interested in the Italians and watched
them curiously but kindly. “There is a gentleman who will not make old
bones,”--Pellico heard some one say,--“death is written on his face.”
At this time so great was his weakness that, heavily chained as he was,
he could barely crawl to the yard, where he threw himself full length
on the grass to lie there in the sunshine until the exercise was over.

The officers’ families lived near at hand and the members, particularly
the ladies and children, never failed when they met the Italian
prisoners to greet them with kindly looks and expressions. The
superintendent’s wife, who was in failing health and was always carried
out on a sofa, smiled and spoke hopefully to Pellico, and other ladies
never failed to regret that they could do nothing to soften the
prisoners’ lot. It was a great grief to Pellico when circumstances led
to the removal of these tender-hearted friends from Spielberg.

Schiller and his prisoner had a serious quarrel because the latter
would not humble himself to petition the authorities to relieve him of
his leg irons, which incommoded him grievously and prevented him from
sleeping at night. The unfeeling doctor did not consider the removal of
these chains essential to health and ruled that Pellico must patiently
suffer the painful infliction till he grew accustomed to them. Schiller
insisted that Pellico should ask the favour of the authorities, and
when he was subjected to the chagrin of a refusal, he vented his
disappointment upon his gaoler, who was deeply hurt and declined to
enter the cell, but stood outside rattling his heavy keys. Food and
water were carried in by Kemda, the prison orderly, and it now was
Pellico’s turn to be offended. “You must not bear malice; it increases
my suffering,” he cried sadly. “What am I to do to please you? Laugh,
sing, dance, perhaps?” said Schiller, and he set himself to jump about
with his thin, long legs in the most ridiculous fashion.

A great joy came unexpectedly to Pellico. He was returning from
exercise one day when he found the door of Oroboni’s cell wide open.
Before his guards could stop him, he rushed in and clasped his comrade
in his arms. The officials were much shocked, but had not the heart to
separate them. Schiller came up and also a sentry, but neither liked
to check this breach of the regulations. At last the brief interview
was ended and the friends parted, never to meet again. Oroboni was
really hopelessly ill and unable to bear up against the burden of his
miserable existence, and after a few months he passed away.

Prison life in Spielberg was dull and monotonous. It was little less
than solitary confinement broken only by short talks with Schiller or
Oroboni. Silvio Pellico has recorded minutely the slow passage of each
twenty-four hours. He awoke at daylight, climbed up at once to his cell
windows and clung to the bars until Oroboni appeared at his window with
a morning salutation. The view across the valley below was superb;
the fresh voices of the peasants were heard laughing and singing as
they went out to work in the fields, free and light-hearted, in bitter
contrast to the captives languishing within the prison walls. Then came
the morning inspection of the cell and its occupant, when every corner
was scrupulously examined, the walls tapped and tried, and every link
of the chains tested, one by one, to see whether any had been tampered
with or broken.

There were three of these inspections daily; one in the early morning,
a second in the evening, and the third at midnight. Such scrupulous
vigilance absolutely forbade all attempts at escape. The broad rule
in prison management is obvious and unchanging; it is impossible for
those immured to break prison if regularly watched and visited. The
remarkable efforts made by Trenck, as detailed in a previous chapter,
and indeed the story of all successful evasions, depended entirely upon
the long continued exemption from observation and the unobstructed
leisure afforded to clever and untiring hands. In the Spielberg prison,
so close and constant was the surveillance exercised that no one turned
his thoughts to flight.

After the first meal--a half cup of colourless soup and three fingers
of dry bread--the prisoner took to his books, of which at first he
had plenty, for Maroncelli had brought a small library with him. The
emperor had been petitioned to permit the prisoners to purchase others.
No answer came for a year or more and then in the negative, while
the leave granted provisionally to read those in use was arbitrarily
withdrawn. For four full years this cruel restriction was imposed. All
studies hitherto followed were abruptly ended. Pellico was deprived of
his Homer and his English classics, his works on Christian philosophy,
Bourdaloue, Pascal and Thomas à Kempis. After a time the emperor
himself supplied a few religious books, but he positively forbade the
issue of any that might serve for literary improvement.

The fact was that political agitation had increased in Italy, and
Austrian despots were resolved to draw the reins tighter and crush
rebellion by the more savage treatment of the patriot prisoners. Many
more were brought to Spielberg about this time and the discipline
became more severe. The exercising yard on the open terrace was
enclosed by a high wall to prevent people at a distance from watching
the prisoners with telescopes, and later a narrower place was
substituted which had no outlook at all. More rigorous searches were
instituted and carried out by the police, who explored even the hems
and linings of clothing. Pellico’s condition had become much worse.
He suffered grievously from the misfortunes of his friends. Oroboni
died, and Maroncelli was attacked by a tumour in the knee which caused
intense suffering and in the end necessitated amputation. Added to
this was acute anxiety concerning his relatives and friends. No
correspondence was permitted; no news came from outside, but there were
vague rumours that evil had overtaken Pellico’s family.

One day, however, a message was brought him through the director of
police from the emperor, who was “graciously pleased” to inform Silvio
Pellico that all was well with his family. He begged piteously for more
precise information,--were his parents, his brothers and sisters all
alive? No answer was vouchsafed; he must be satisfied with what he had
been told and be grateful for the compassionate clemency of his august
sovereign. A second message, equally brief and meagre, came later,
but still not one word to relieve the dreadful doubts that constantly
oppressed him. No wonder that his health suffered anew and that he was
seized with colics and violent internal pains. Another acute grief was
due to the loss of his good friend Schiller, who became so infirm that
he was transferred to lighter duty and was at last sent to the military
hospital, where he gradually faded away. He never forgot his dear
prisoners, “his children,” as he called them and to whom he sent many
affecting messages when at the point of death.

The Austrian government, although uniformly pitiless and stony-hearted,
was at times uneasy, ashamed, it might be, at the consequences of its
barbarous prison régime. More than once special inquiries were made by
eminent doctors sent on purpose from Vienna to report on the sanitary
state of Spielberg and the constant presence of scurvy among the
prisoners. The evil might have been diminished, if not removed, by the
use of a more generous diet, but the suggestion, if made, was never
adopted. One commissioner had dared to recommend that artificial light
should be provided in the cells, which were so dark after nightfall
that the occupant was in danger of running his head against the walls.
A whole year passed before this small favour was accorded. Another
visitor, hearing that the prison doctor would have prescribed coffee
for Pellico but was afraid to do so, secured him that boon. A third
commissioner, a man of high rank and much influence at court, was so
deeply impressed by the miserable condition of the prisoners that he
openly expressed his indignation, and his kind words in some measure
consoled the victims of such cruel oppression.

At last the authorities were so much disturbed by the reports of the
failing health of prisoners so constantly isolated, that they were
moved to associate them in couples in the same cell. Silvio Pellico,
to his intense delight, was given Maroncelli as his companion. He
was so much overjoyed by the news that at first he fainted away, and
after he had regained consciousness he again fainted at seeing how the
ravages of imprisonment with its attendant dejection, starvation and
poisonous air had told on his friend. The two continued together for
the years that remained to be served; years of suffering, for both were
continually ill, Maroncelli lost his leg, and both were attacked with
persistent scurvy. They waited together for the long delayed day of
release, which in the case of Pellico was greatly prolonged beyond the
promised termination of seven and a half years. In the end he served
fully ten years, but was finally released in 1830.

The order reached him quite unexpectedly one Sunday morning immediately
after mass, when he had regained his cell for dinner. They were eating
their first mouthfuls when the governor entered, apologised for his
appearance, and led them off, Pellico and Maroncelli, for an interview
with the director of police. They went with a very bad grace, for this
official never came but to give trouble and they expected nothing
better. The director was slow of speech and long hesitated to impart
the joyful news that His Majesty the emperor had been mercifully
disposed toward them and had set them both free.



CHAPTER X

BRIGANDAGE AND CRIME IN AUSTRIA-HUNGARY

    Brigandage a great scourge in Eastern Europe--The Hungarian
    brigand a popular hero--The “poor fellows” and the
    “betyars” or brigands on a large scale--Their methods and
    appearance--Generous to the poor; fierce and revengeful to the
    rich--A countess who danced at a brigands’ ball--The Jews who
    were crucified and tortured--Famous brigand chiefs--Sobry--Some
    of his extraordinary feats--Mylfait and Pap--The criminal woman
    in Austria-Hungary--Remarkable rogues--Weininger--The black
    pearl from the British Crown jewels--Capital punishment--The
    execution of Hackler in Vienna--His brutal crime.


From time immemorial brigandage has been the principal scourge of the
great tracts of wild country beyond the eastern Alps. The penal code
has always bristled with laws against highway robbery and pillage.
The ancient nobility, entrenched in their fortified castles or
hidden safely within rocky fastnesses, were so many freebooters and
road-agents who issued forth to prey upon their defenceless victims.
They drew around them a strong body of vassals, peasants, herdsmen and
shepherds, and organised them into great bands of brigands, constantly
engaged in extorting ransoms and levying blackmail in the surrounding
districts. The evil example of these lawless chieftains was followed
by the “free” towns, and life and property were everywhere insecure.
Reference to this state of things is to be found in a royal decree
published by Mathias Corvinus in the fifteenth century, reciting that
“the number of criminals has so much increased that no one is safe
either on the public roads or even in his own house.” But the most
stringent laws proved powerless to repress brigandage and general
rapine. Whole villages were devastated by armed bands under powerful
and capable leaders, who carried their depredations far and wide
through the Carpathians. We may quote from the record of a traveller of
the seventeenth century, who, when making a journey from Poland into
Hungary, was forced to seek the protection of an escort of brigands
to defend him from the attacks of other brigands who dominated the
mountain road and the whole country-side. Their chief was one Janko,
who received and entertained the traveller hospitably, and he was
present at a great feast to celebrate a successful attack upon a
caravan of merchants whom they had despoiled. He was entirely at the
mercy of these questionable friends, who proposed to break one of his
legs to prevent him from resuming his journey prematurely. He escaped,
happily, and after thirty-six hours’ wandering reached a village, where
no one could be found to guide him further, lest they should offend the
brigands. The band was presently captured, and the traveller was forced
to witness the tortures inflicted upon Janko, who was flayed alive by
his executioners; his skin was wound round him in long strips, and he
was then hung in the sun on an iron hook, where he lingered for three
days. The other brigands were also flayed and broken on the wheel. It
was about this time that the famous band of cannibal-brigands under
Hara Pacha terrorised Hungary.

The Hungarian brigand was something of a popular hero, esteemed for
his generosity and chivalry. He was ready for any dangerous and daring
deed, inspired rather by a thirst for adventure than by acquisitiveness
or the savage instincts of murder and pillage. Strange stories are
told to their credit. One of them, who had been condemned to death and
was being escorted to the gallows by a pandour, or local policeman,
never forgot that he had been regaled with a good dinner and afterward
allowed to escape. Three months later the pandour fell into the
brigand’s hands, and was treated to a banquet in return and then set
free. On another occasion, a band of a dozen brigands took refuge in
a glass manufactory on the borders of Lake Balaton, where they stood
siege for three hours by a strong party of pandours. Then they made a
temporary truce, invited their assailants to come in and drink, and
after a carouse together, expelled them and renewed the fight, in which
they were worsted and obliged to surrender.

There were various classes of brigands; some of them top-sawyers
who flew at the highest game, others more or less inoffensive and
commonly known as “poor fellows,” the _Szegény Legény_, a name they
had invented for themselves. These last were mostly conscripts who
could not tolerate military discipline and had deserted from the army;
they had not dared to return home, but had taken refuge in forest
or steppe, where they lurked in concealment, issuing forth only to
steal food, seizing a sheep or a lamb from the first flock they might
encounter. The “poor companion” was not exactly a brigand, only a tramp
or vagabond who consorted with shepherds and, keeping up an outwardly
respectable appearance, entered the villages to join in the dances and
festivities. They were most formidable in parts of the country where
they were numerous enough to use menace in demanding hospitality.
They formed themselves into bands of twenty or thirty and broke into
isolated houses, armed with bludgeons, or by using threats induced the
proprietors to pay them blackmail. Once a nobleman met a “poor fellow”
in the open who had escaped from gaol, and threatened to send him back
there if he was caught stealing sheep. “If you will give me one every
year,” said the vagabond, “I will lay my hands upon no more of your
sheep.” It is not uncommon for the “poor companion” to reform, marry
and settle down into an industrious and well-conducted servant. They
have been known to beg for gifts in kind--bacon and bread, for the
support of their fellows in the woods.

The real brigand, known by the name of _betyár_, is, so to speak, born
to the business and takes to it from sheer liking. He is a constant
marauder, a thief on a large scale, prepared to break into great
houses, to invade the castles and residences of noble proprietors and
extort considerable sums. He is described by one author in graphic
terms: “His enormous hat, his black hair falling in long curls upon
his square shoulders; his thick eyebrows, his large ferocious looking
eyes, his face burned by the sun, his massive chest seen through his
tattered shirt, all combine to give him a wild and terrifying look.
He carries a whole arsenal with him--a gun, pistols, a hatchet and
a loaded stick, though he very rarely commits murder. He wages war
also with the gendarmerie. A horse that he covets he is not long in
appropriating. As cunning as an Indian, he gets into the pasture at
night and carries off, without making the slightest noise and with an
incredible dexterity, the horse or the sheep that he is in want of.
Should it be a pig that he has set his eyes on, he entices it to the
edge of the forest by throwing down ears of maize to tempt it, and then
suddenly knocks it on the head with a blow of his club.”

The betyars, armed to the teeth, ranged the country with the utmost
effrontery, daring riders mounted on good horses, accustomed to the
saddle from their earliest youth. They did not hesitate to attack
houses even in the largest villages, ransacking the places and
carrying off horses and spoil of all kinds. In 1861 a party encamped
near a town where great fairs were held, and levied contributions
on all who approached, stopping sixty carts in succession and
appropriating a sum of 15,000 florins in all. Eight of them once
surrounded a house in Transylvania, but were foiled in trying to break
in the door, so attempted the windows, where they were met by the
proprietor who opened fire on them. The brigands began a regular siege,
which ended in a parley. It appeared that hunger was the motive of the
attack, and the assailants withdrew when supplied with food and drink.

A country gentleman was driving home in the dead of night, when his
horses became frightened and were pursued by wolves. Ammunition was
soon expended and escape seemed hopeless when a large party of mounted
men came to the rescue and drove off the ravenous brutes. The grateful
traveller, mistaking them for local police, thanked them warmly for
their timely help. “Man is bound to assist his fellow man,” was the
quiet reply, “but we want something more than thanks. We are not
pandours but gentlemen of the plain in search of horses and any money
we can pick up. You have not recognised us, but we know you and cannot
allow you to run the risk of going home with wolves prowling round. You
must be our guest for a time.” They took him to a neighbouring farm,
gave him supper and a bed and made him write a letter to his wife
saying he was detained by highwaymen who would not part with him until
she had paid over ten thousand florins as his ransom. The money was
duly handed over and the gentleman released. But he was not content to
submit.

Upon reaching home he raised a hue and cry against the betyars, and
they were unceasingly pursued and driven from that part of the country,
to which they did not dare to return for a long time. Fifteen years
later, they swooped down upon the proprietor whom they thought had
betrayed them, and burned his residence and his well-filled granaries
to the ground. In explanation, the following letter reached him:
“We betyars never forget or forgive. We owe our expulsion from this
district to you, and we swore to take our revenge when we were next in
your neighbourhood. That vow was fulfilled last night! Let this be a
lesson to you never again to break a solemn promise given to a betyar.”

The brigands often descended upon their victims with dramatic
suddenness. Their information was always accurate and excellent.
Tucker in his “Life and Society in Eastern Europe,” describes the
startling appearance of a much-dreaded betyar at a historic castle in
Transylvania.

“The noble count was at table with his guests, doing justice to a
sumptuous supper, when the doors were thrown open and gave admission to
a tall, dark, handsome, fiery-eyed man, who advanced with a profound
obeisance and said, ‘I do myself the honour of paying my respects
to your excellencies,’ upon which he approached the countess with
martial step and clanking spurs and raised her trembling fingers to his
lips. No thunderbolt from heaven, no special apparition from beyond
the grave, could have terrified, stupefied, stunned the convivial
assemblage more effectually than the sudden entrance of this stranger.

“His appearance was indeed striking,--in person tall and majestic,
of fierce look, defiant and resolute, despite his fascinating smile.
His brow was exceedingly swarthy, his eyes large and luminous, whilst
his huge jet-black moustache, trimmed in true Magyar fashion, added
even more ferocity to this undaunted robber of the plain. His attire
was picturesque, fantastic, gaudy, unique. In his small, round black
Magyar hat was stuck a long white feather. His tightly fitting vest
was of crimson satin, on which there flashed and glittered two long
rows of large and handsome buttons. The sleeves of his shirt were
extremely wide and open, falling in ample folds and disclosing his
brawny and sinewy arms.... His legs were incased in highly polished
boots reaching to the knees, while a pair of glittering silver spurs
adorned his heels. Encircling his waist in many folds was a crimson
scarf, terminating in broad, loosely hanging ends. Within the folds
were stuck three daggers, the hilts and shields elaborately studded
with costly gems and pearls, and two handsomely mounted horse-pistols
lay half-concealed beside them. A _kulacs_ or flat wooden flask,
gaily painted in floral designs, hung at his side, suspended from his
shoulder by a leather strap. In his left hand he held the _pkosch_,--a
stout stick headed by a small instrument of solid steel, representing
on one side a hatchet and on the other a hammer.”

The count put the best face he could on the matter, asked how many
betyars there were, and gave entertainment for the men and horses, some
forty in all. The supper was relinquished, so that a new meal might
be set before the uninvited guests, and those present were dismissed
with a plain warning that no one was to go in search of aid. The forty
betyars then came in to devour the feast with keen relish, after
their long night’s ride. Healths were drunk in copious drafts, cigars
produced and the chief proceeded to serious business. He reminded his
host that the maize harvest which had just been gathered had been
bountiful, and a substantial sum had been paid in by the Jews for the
purchase of the crops. Forty-seven thousand florins were in the safe,
but this money was pledged to pay off a pressing mortgage and ought not
to be disturbed, the betyar chief generously admitted; but there was
a further sum nearly as large which the robbers declined to forego.
To have seized the mortgage money would have led to the betrayal
of the fact and an active pursuit would have been organised by the
police, feeble though it was, which might have led to an encounter and
blood-shed. But there was no lien upon the rest of the money, so the
robbers might safely take possession of it.

There was no thought of resistance. The betyars might have been
outnumbered but they were well armed, while the residents and servants
in the castle had few, if any, weapons, and a conflict started would
have ended only in butchery, with the burning down of the house and
outbuildings, together with all they contained in corn, cattle and
machinery. It was better to stand the first loss,--no more than many a
Magyar magnate would waste at the gambling table in a single night.

Maurice Jokai, the Hungarian novelist, tells a story, founded on fact,
of an adventure of a great lady with the brigands, in which she came
to no harm through her calm self-possession and courage. She was on
her way to a ball at Arad and, as she was obliged to travel through a
dense forest, she halted over night at an inn which was really a den of
robbers. There happened to be a great gathering of them there dancing.
Undaunted, she entered the ball-room,--a long room, filled with smoke,
where some fifty rough brigands were leaping about and singing at the
top of their voices. They stopped the dance and stared open-mouthed at
the audacious lady who dared to interrupt their revels. They were all
big, fierce looking men, and armed, but the beautiful countess cowed
them and imposed respect. One, the leader of the band, approached,
bowing low, and asked whom she was. He gallantly invited her to dance
the _czarda_ or national step, which she did as gaily and prettily as
on the parquet floor of the casino at Arad.

An ample supper was brought in; pieces of beef were served in a
great cauldron, from which every guest fished out his portion with
a pocket-knife, and ate it with bread soaked in the gravy. Wine was
served in large wooden bottles. After supper cards were produced and
high play for golden ducats followed; then more dancing, and the
countess tripped it with the liveliest until morning. She had danced
eighteen _czardas_ in all with the principal brigand. Her companions
fearfully expected some tragic end to the festivities. When daylight
came, the horses were put to the carriage and the guests were suffered
to depart with compliments and thanks for their condescension.

The betyars were not equally affable to all. They waged perpetual
warfare against Jews and priests, and all who were thought to be
unduly rich and prosperous, whom they constantly captured, robbed and
maltreated, inventing tortures and delighting in their agonies. The
wretched prisoners were beaten unmercifully, were crucified, shod like
horses, tied by the feet to a pendent branch of a tree, or buried up to
their necks by the road-side. A Jew was once taken when on his way to
market with honey. His captors stripped him naked, anointed his whole
body with the honey, rolled him in feathers and drove him in front of
them to the gates of the nearest town, where the dogs worried him and
the people jeered.

Hungary produced many notable brigands, whose names are as celebrated
as the German “Schinderhannes,” or “Fra Diavolo,” or “Jose Maria” in
southern Spain. One of the most famous of these men was Sobry, who
haunted the great forest of Bakony, the chief scene of action for
Hungarian brigands. It was a wild district, its vast solitudes sparsely
occupied by a primitive people cut off from the civilised world. The
men, mostly swine-herds locally called the _kanasz_, were thick set and
of short stature, the women well-formed, with red cheeks and dark eyes.
Pigs roamed the forest in droves of a thousand, their herds consorting
with the vagabonds and refugees who hid in the woods, and were the
spies and sentinels of the brigands, who in return respected the swine.
The _kanasz_, or swine-herds who do business on their own account, are
very expert in the use of their favourite weapon, a small hatchet which
they carry in the waist-belt and prefer to a gun, and with which they
hunt and slay the bear of Transylvania.

The great brigand Sobry was said to be the head of a noble family who
had wasted his patrimony in riotous living and disappeared. By and
by he returned to his ancestral castle with a fortune mysteriously
acquired. Again he ruined himself, and again disappeared, to turn
up later with a large sum of money, which he left to his people.
Sobry’s exploits filled all Hungary. As became an aristocrat he
had most polished manners, and treated his victims with the utmost
consideration. Once he made a descent upon a castle in the absence of
its rich owner, who had left his wife alone. Sobry hastened to the
lady, disclaiming all idea of doing her injury, but begged her to
invite him and his companions to dinner, as the table was reputed to be
the best in Hungary. Twenty-four covers were laid, and Sobry escorted
his hostess to the cellars, where she pointed out the best bins of
Imperial Tokay. At dinner the countess presided, with Sobry at her
right hand. The brigand proposed many toasts to his hostess, kissed her
hand and departed without carrying off even a single spoon.

The following incident is related: A gentleman was driving into town in
a superb carriage, on the box of which sat a police pandour. A beggar
with a venerable white beard came up asking alms, and was invited to
get into the carriage. “I will give you a new suit of clothes from the
best tailors,” said the gentleman. Ready-made clothing was chosen and
put into the carriage, the old beggar being left in pledge for the
goods. The gentleman, who was Sobry, was then driven away, and never
returned.

The affair with the archbishop was on a larger scale. His Grace enjoyed
princely revenues, and kept up great state. His coffers were always
filled to overflowing, and he had immense possessions in flocks and
herds. One day a letter was received from Sobry, announcing an early
visit and the intention to drive off His Grace’s fattest cattle. The
archbishop declined to be intimidated, armed his servants and prepared
to give Sobry a hot reception. The fat cattle were to be sold at once
to the butchers, and a summons was sent forth inviting them to come
and make their bids. One butcher, a well-to-do respectable burgher,
insisted upon transacting his business with the prelate in person, and
after much parley he was introduced into His Grace’s study. Presently
he left the room, telling the servants that he had completed the
bargain, but that the archbishop was somewhat fatigued and was lying
down on the sofa, having given orders that he was not to be disturbed.
So long a time elapsed before His Grace rang his bell that the
servants, risking his displeasure, went to him and found him tied, hand
and foot, and gagged. The story he told, when released from his bonds,
was that his visitor had been Sobry, disguised as a butcher, and that
he had suddenly drawn a pistol and pointed it at the prelate’s breast
exclaiming, “Utter one cry and I fire! I have come to fetch the 60,000
florins you have in the safe, which will suit my purpose better than
your finest cattle.” The archbishop surrendered at discretion and after
this His Grace kept the body-guard in close attendance at the palace,
and never drove out without an escort of pandours.

Two other brigands of a more truculent character than Sobry were
Mylfait and Pap, who never hesitated to commit murder wholesale. On
one occasion, Mylfait had reason to believe that a certain miller had
given information to the pandours, and having surrounded the mill with
his band, he opened fire upon the house, killing every one within,--the
miller, his wife and children, and all of the servants. He showed a
certain grim humour at times. A Jew once lost his way in the forest
and fell in with Mylfait’s band, who were sitting around a fire where
a sheep was being roasted. He was cordially invited to join the feast,
accepted gladly, and made an excellent meal washed down with much wine.
Then he rose abruptly, eager to take himself off. “Without paying for
all you have eaten and drunk?” protested Mylfait. “How much money
have you got about you? Hand it over. Thirty florins? No more!” he
exclaimed. “Here,” to an assistant, “take his gun from him and make him
strip off his clothes. We will keep them until he chooses to redeem
them with a further sum of thirty florins.” The Jew, in despair, begged
and implored for mercy, crying bitterly and shaking in every limb.

“You are feeling the cold, I am afraid,” said the pitiless brigand.
“You shall dance for us; that will warm you and will afford us some
amusement.” The wretched Jew pleaded that he did not know how to dance
the _czarda_. “But you must give us some compensation. Go and stand
with your back against that tree,” Mylfait insisted. “I am going to
see what your gun is worth and whether it shoots true. I shall aim at
your hat. Would you prefer to have your eyes bandaged?” The Jew renewed
his piteous lamentations in the name of his wife and children. But
Mylfait was inflexible, and slowly taking aim, fired, not at the hat,
but a branch above. The ball broke it and it fell upon the Jew’s head,
who, thinking himself killed, staggered and dropped to the ground. “Be
off, you cur;” cried the brigand-chief, “you are not fit to live, but
you may go.”

These notorious characters were usually adored by the female sex.
Every brigand had a devoted mistress, who prided herself on the evil
reputation of her lover, whatever his crimes, even when he had many
murders on his conscience. A strange flirtation and courtship was
carried on for years in one of the principal prisons of Vienna. It was
conducted through a clandestine correspondence; many ardent letters
were exchanged, and the parties were betrothed long before they had
actually seen each other. The letters that passed were models of style
and brimful of affection. One, which had been concealed under a stone
in the exercising yard, and was impounded, ran as follows:

       *       *       *       *       *

“VERY DEAR FRÄULEIN: I am thunderstruck by the news of your departure.
I wish you every sort of happiness, but I earnestly hope you will write
me saying you still love me, and will wait for my release a month and
a half ahead. Please go to my father’s house in the Rue de la Croix
where you will be well received, for I have assured him that you alone
shall be my wife, and you will find me a man of my word. I may add that
I have the means of supporting you. Write me, I beg, so that my misery
may be somewhat assuaged. Believe me when I swear eternal fidelity.
Your own Charles.

“Do not credit any stories you hear against me--they are all lies and
calumnies. The world is very wicked, let us rise superior to it. I
adore you. Adieu.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Love affairs do not always prosper in gaol. They may have their origin
in true affection, and are as liable to be impeded as elsewhere by
quarrels, suspicion and jealousy. An amazing case of clever deception
was that of a woman who posed as the Countess Kinski, who when at
large carried on a number of different intrigues at the same time.
She established relations on paper with several lovers,--artists,
tradesmen, and well-to-do burghers, every one of whom she promised to
marry. She gave them all an appointment on the same night at the opera,
where each was to wear a red camellia in his buttonhole; and the stalls
were filled with them. That night the real countess was present in a
box with her parents, and was unable to understand the many adoring
glances directed toward her by her admirers. A clever idea was at the
bottom of this deception. The impostor in her letters pretended that
her parents would certainly oppose her marriage, but that she was
ready to fly to her lover’s arms, if he would help her to bribe the
servants, her own maid, the lackeys and the house porter. The response
was promptly made in the shape of a number of bank-notes, and the false
countess did a flourishing business until the police intervened.

The criminal woman in Austria-Hungary differs widely from the criminal
male offender. The latter enters jail cowed and depressed, and his
temper grows worse and worse until he gives vent to it in furious
assault upon his wardens. The female, on the other hand, begins with
violent hysterics and nerve crises, crying continually, refusing food,
half mad with despair. But she improves day by day, will eat and drink
freely and take an interest in dress and appearance, until at last
she becomes gay and good-humoured. Good looks are frequently met with
in this class. The shop windows are full of photographs of attractive
_demi mondaines_. The story is told of a peasant from the Danube who
was terribly shocked by a photograph of the famous nude group of the
Graces from the statue of Rauch. “Well, well,” he exclaimed, “they are
indeed shameless. They can afford to be photographed and yet they are
too poor to buy clothes.”

Many rogues and sharpers have been found in the Viennese prisons. One
was the famous Weininger, who amassed considerable sums by the sale of
sham antiquities. He disposed of quantities to the best known museums
and collections in Europe. Among other things, he palmed off a quantity
of ancient weapons and armour upon the duke of Modena, all of which
were reproductions made at Vienna. He sold as sixteenth century work
two handsome altars for 3,000 pounds, which he persuaded an English
dealer he had bought in a Jesuit convent in Rome for 5,000 pounds.
Weininger was assisted in his frauds by a Hungarian count who gave the
necessary false certificates of antiquity.

But genuine valuables often came into the market at Vienna. One day a
poor Jew, ragged and travel-stained, offered an authentic black pearl
for sale in a jeweller’s shop. It was beyond question worth a great
sum, and the dealer very properly refused to trade until satisfied
as to the holder’s rightful possession. The story told seemed very
questionable, and the Jew was taken into custody. He claimed that the
pearl had been given to him in payment of a bill owed him by one of
the guests in his boarding-house at Grosswardein. The debtor, he said,
had been at one time a servant of Count Batthyani, who had given it to
him on his death-bed. The pearl was at once recognised as one of the
three black pearls of that size in existence,--one of the English crown
jewels which had long since been stolen. There was nothing to prove how
it had come into Count Batthyani’s possession, but it was generally
supposed that he had acquired it from a dealer, neither of them being
aware of its enormous value. The British government is said to have
paid 2,000 pounds to recover the lost treasure.

Capital punishment is still the rule in Austria-Hungary, as the
penalty for murder in the first degree. At one time noble birth gave
a prescriptive right to death by the sword for both sexes. Hanging
is to-day the plan adhered to for all. The condemned, as in most
countries, is humanely treated in the days immediately preceding
execution. He is carefully watched and guarded against any despairing
attempt at self-destruction, and he is given ample and generally
appetising food. Some curious customs survive. On the third day before
death the executioner brings the convict a capon for supper with a cord
around its neck, and at one time the bird was beheaded before being
served, and its legs and wings were tied with red thread. The ceremony
is still performed in the open air and with much solemnity. As a rule
the journey to the gallows is made in a cart with open sides, and the
condemned, tied and bound, sits with his back to the horses so that he
cannot see the scaffold. Before leaving the jail, the executioner asks
his victim’s pardon, and then, escorted by soldiers to protect him from
the people if he bungles in his horrible task, he takes a different
road to the gallows than that followed by the criminal. When he has
completed his task, he goes through the crowd, hat in hand, collecting
alms to provide masses for the man who has just passed away.

Victor Tissot in his “Viene et la Vie Viennoise” gives a graphic
account of an execution of recent date, which he witnessed at the
Alservorstadt Prison in Vienna. It was conducted within the walls,
but a large concourse had assembled in front of the gates. The place
of execution was the so-called “Court of Corpses,”--a narrow triangle
wedged in by high walls at the end of a short corridor leading from the
condemned cell. The first to appear was the executioner dressed in a
blue over-coat and a crushed hat, followed by his assistants, two of
whom were beardless boys. The gallows, erected above a short flight
of steps at the end of the small court, was minutely examined by the
executioner, after he had selected the most suitable rope from the many
he carried in a small handbag. He was provided also with cords to tie
up the convict’s limbs.

Precisely as the clock struck eight, the cortège appeared, headed by
the convict, by whose side walked the chaplain with the governor and
the president of the High Court behind. The doomed man, Hackler by
name, carried a crucifix in his hand; his face was deathly white, and
great drops of perspiration beaded his forehead and trickled down his
cheeks. He looked around with a stupid and apathetic malevolence at
the officials, and listened with brutal indifference to the judge, as
he formally handed him over to the executioner with these words: “I
surrender to you the person of Raymond Hackler condemned to be hanged;
do your duty.”

The convict betrayed no emotion. He repelled the hangman’s assistance,
who would have helped him to undress, saying: “I’ll do it myself,” and
he proceeded to remove his coat and waistcoat as coolly as though he
were going to bed to sleep the sleep of the just. He then stepped into
the appointed place beneath the gallows with his head bent between his
shoulders. His hands were now fastened behind his back, and a cord
slipped over his head fell down as far as his knees, securing his legs.
The last act was to fix the halter around his neck, which he resisted
spasmodically. The next instant the signal was given and he was run up
into the air. As there was no “drop,” no floor which opened to let the
victim fall through out of sight, and as he wore no cap, his indecorous
contortions and white protruding eyes were plainly visible, while the
hangman completed the horrible operation by adding his weight to break
the vertebral column. His last act was to close the dead man’s eyes.

Hackler’s crime was one of peculiar atrocity. He had murdered his
mother to gain possession of a few florins which he wasted the same
night in ghastly debauchery. The crime was attended with the most
revolting circumstances. When his mother would have driven him forth
to work, he threw a rope around her neck, gagged her, and killed her
with a log of wood. The same night, having thrust the corpse under the
bed, he slept on the mattress “quite as well as usual,” so he told
the examining judge. His death was heartily approved by the people of
Vienna as a just retribution.

Superstition long surrounded execution. The bodies of those who were
executed were left to hang upon the gallows until they fell to pieces.
People came in the night to cut off a shred of the clothes worn, or
sought to mutilate the body by removing a little finger; this relic was
treasured greatly by professional thieves, who foolishly believed that
they would escape detection, or even observation, if they carried it in
their pocket when plying their trade.

Under Austrian law a woman never suffers the death penalty, no matter
what crime has been committed. Women are not regarded as ordinary
criminals, and if convicted, are sent to a convent near Vienna.

The penal codes of Austria proper and Hungary are not identical, but
comparatively few criminals sentenced to death in either country are
actually brought to the scaffold. Statistics show that in Austria
over seven hundred criminals were sentenced to death in the six years
from 1893 to 1898, but less than three per cent. of that number were
actually hanged. The death sentence is in the majority of cases,
commuted to penal servitude for life or for periods ranging from ten to
twenty years, and in the case of both Austria and Hungary a distinct
decrease in the number of capital crimes committed has accompanied the
falling off in the proportion of capital executions.



      *      *      *      *      *      *



Transcriber’s note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.





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