I.N.R.I. Peter Rosegger

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      Konrad was taken every day for half an hour into the dirty and sunless courtyard. But he dreaded that half-hour. It stirred a vain longing for light. And the rough and insolent fellow-prisoners with whom he was brought in contact! He preferred to be alone in his quiet cell.

      During his imprisonment he had often asked for work, but was always informed that nothing of the sort had been provided for by the authorities. Besides—work was an honourable thing, and it must first be proved that he was worthy of it. But now it was not a time for work, rather a time for preparation. What could he do in order to get through these days? Or what could he do in order to keep the days from flying so quickly? Look how a flash of lightning seems sometimes to pass over the floor. Then it is gone again. High up in the opposite wall, on which the sun sometimes shone, was a casement window, and its glass doors, swayed by the breeze, were reflected in the prison. Konrad was terrified by these sparks from heaven; he would grope on the ground as if for a gold piece that had rolled away.

      Then came visitors, unexpected, alarming visitors! The judge's stiff figure and serious face appeared in company with the gaoler.

      Konrad felt stunned, and could only think: "The hour has come!" The man had pronounced his sentence as coldly and unfeelingly as if he had been a machine which, when its keys are pressed, gives forth sounds like words. The judge ordered the gaoler to withdraw. The old man hesitated—what could that mean? The judge had to repeat his order before the old man would go. When the judge was alone with the prisoner, he bent down and felt with his hands, for he was not yet accustomed to the darkness. Then he said kindly: "Konrad Ferleitner, I have come to ask you if there's anything you wish for?"

      The prisoner wrung his hands convulsively; wild pulsations, that beat in strong double strokes at irregular intervals, coursed through his body. So violent was his agitation that the poor wretch stuttered forth words that the judge could not understand.

      "Compose yourself!"

      When he caught the words "Father-confessor!" amid the sounds uttered by the prisoner, it occurred to the judge that the poor fellow imagined that the hour of execution had arrived. "Ferleitner," he said, "come and sit by me on the bench. You think it's the end—no, it hasn't come so far yet, and perhaps it won't come so far at all. I may tell you that a petition for mercy has been sent to His Majesty."

      Konrad looked up as if in a dream, and the dim light showed how terribly pale and sunken his cheeks were. "Mercy!" he muttered in suppressed tones. "Mercy for me? Then—why did you condemn me?"

      The question appeared to puzzle the judge. The delinquent seemed in all seriousness to think himself innocent. "You were there yourself, Ferleitner, and heard how the jury decided after listening to the witnesses. After that the judge must condemn; he has no choice."

      "For mercy? The king?" asked Konrad, who, more bewildered than consoled, had sat down on the bench, for his legs would scarcely support him.

      "The advocate ventured it," replied the judge. "Your whole bearing proves that you were inveigled into the business. We want nothing further. You see, Ferleitner, that evil cannot be eradicated from the world with evil. To fight evil with evil only increases its power. But a large heart can pardon such a deed or purpose. Let us hope meanwhile that our king possesses one. The Chancellor is getting better. Here, just look—sign the paper." He pulled out a folded sheet, then an inkpot and a pen. Konrad bent over the table and groaned while signing his name.

      "Ah," he said, "if only I could be free again! I should never think of such things again. The world could go on as it pleased. I should do my work, and not trouble about anything else. Only," and he said it softly, uncertainly, "only I shall not forget God again."

      "There is naturally only a moderate chance," said the judge. "In some cases, where it is concerned with the whole——"

      "It is very uncertain, then?" asked Konrad. "But, my God! how is it to be borne? If this time is lengthened, how is it to be borne? This terrible suspense!"

      "It can be a time of hope," said the judge.

      "But how long will it last?" asked Konrad.

      The judge shrugged his shoulders. "It may last three weeks, but it might last double that time."

      Konrad asked confidingly: "Do you think, sir, that a man can hold out?—with the terror of death lasting for weeks?"

      "Haven't you just a little confidence?" asked the judge. "Haven't we all to endure uncertainty?—the judge as well as the condemned man?"

      "But what am I to do?" demanded Konrad. "How am I to employ myself all the dreadful time? It's being buried alive."

      "Unhappily it's not in my power to give you a better room, though you haven't the worst cell in the building. But perhaps you have some other desire that can be granted. Speak out frankly, Ferleitner," said the judge.

      Therewith he folded the paper, and put the writing materials into his coat pocket. Konrad followed his proceedings with his eyes. He could not comprehend how this dread personage came to speak to him in so kindly a fashion. "As to the room," he said, "it's all I need—when you've nothing to do, and are not likely to have anything to do, what can a man want? If a man isn't free, nothing else matters. But one thing—I have one request, sir."

      "Then speak it," said the judge, and holding Konrad's hand firmly in his, broke out with: "Don't you see, it's cruel to think, to believe, that we must be the personal enemies of all whom we're obliged to condemn. You think the proceedings in court were so callous, you've no idea how we actually feel about the business. It is not only the accused who passes sleepless nights—the judge, too, knows them. We lawyers—outside our profession—have founded an association to support and encourage those we are obliged to pronounce guilty, that they may not sink down uncomforted. So, my dear Ferleitner, you may trust me that, as far as I can, I will alleviate your position."

      Then Konrad, looking down on the floor, said: "I should like to have writing materials."

      "You want to write?" asked the Judge.

      "If I might ask for paper, pens, and ink," returned Konrad. "In former years I used to like writing down my thoughts—just as they came, I had little education."

      "You wish to write to your friends?" inquired the judge.

      "Oh no! If I had any, they'd be glad not to hear from me," said Konrad.

      "Or to draw up a plea of justification?"

      "No."

      "Or an account of your life?"

      "No, not that either. My life has not been good enough. Misfortune should be forgotten rather than recorded. No, I think I can write something else," stated Konrad.

      "You shall have writing materials," said the judge. "And is there anything else? A more comfortable bed?"

      "No, thank you. It's right enough as it is. If a hard bed was the only thing——"

      "And is everything kept properly neat and clean?" interrupted the judge.

      "If you're always waiting and thinking, 'Now, now, they're coming!' I tell you, sir, you don't sleep well," replied Konrad.

      "Don't keep worrying yourself with ideas, Ferleitner," said the judge warningly to the СКАЧАТЬ