Less than the Least
Julius Martin Lamprecht, arrested and remanded on a charge of murder, lay on the bench in his cell in the lock-up at Knapefiord, staring into the gray gloom about him.
He was telling himself, as he had done so many times since his arrest, that he was not really guilty, and that there was really no need to confess.
“Now, if I really had been,” he said to himself, recollecting his own words at his examination that same morning—“if I really had been guilty of cracking in the skulls of two old people, I should never deny it for a moment. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth—I know about that. And I know that justice must be done. And better to take your punishment in this world than have it to come in the next, where it lasts through all eternity.”
The accused was a man about forty-five years of age, and looked almost a giant as he lay there in his cell. His hair was fair and curly as a child’s, his complexion had the delicate colouring of youth, with a touch of deeper warmth on the cheeks. A handsome face, on the whole, with well-cut features. Only the eyes, though handsome too in a way, were unprepossessing, with a look in them now staring boldly, now flitting uncertainly from floor to ceiling, from corner to corner.
“Each according to his kind,” he thought. “Judges and public prosecutors and that sort must be taken their way. Have to talk a special sort of truth to them, by reason that the real truth cannot reach their hearts, unless it be interpreted unto them.”
And all the time he lay here telling himself that he had really committed no murder; he saw himself cold and hungry, dressed in miserable beggar’s rags, coming in late one evening to a lonely village hidden away among barren, rocky hills. The door had by accident been left unfastened; he remembered how terrified the old folk had been as they looked up and saw him come in; how hurriedly they had closed the drawer in the table at which they sat. He had spoken kindly, sat down with them by the fire, to warm himself, eaten the food they gave him without hesitation, but aware all the time that they were far from glad of his company, and wished him a thousand miles away.
“And when you happen to be an old convict, sentenced to imprisonment for life, and let out after twenty years of it for exemplary behaviour, it’s only natural to be suspected. I can’t blame any one for that. I might have thought the same myself.” Once more he was quoting from his defence of the morning.
And all the time he saw clearly in his mind’s eye how he and the two old people had settled down to rest for the night, they in their bed in one corner, and he on a straw mattress at the other end of the room. The fire was still burning when they went to bed, and he could see the two gray heads side by side. He felt by no means comfortable himself; his bed on the floor was hard and uninviting; he was in ill-humour, and in particular it annoyed him to feel that these two old people grudged him the shelter they could not refuse. The axe that the old man had used to cut a few twigs to put under the pot still lay on the chopping-block; he wondered if it had been left there on purpose, with the blade gleaming in the light of the fire. Easy to find, and ready to hand—was it that?
He began to feel sleepy, but dared not sleep. Once he did so, the old couple would have him at their mercy. The old man, despite his seventy years, looked active enough still. And they were two to one.
He had told them in court that morning, a man who has done his twenty years in prison doesn’t want to go back again in a hurry. And really, he ought to be less suspected than others. “But I know it’s not that way, as a rule—or, at least, people don’t generally act on it.”
And as he repeated his well-chosen words he saw himself once more lying on the floor in the little house, straining his ears to listen to the old couplets whispering, the old man urging something, and the woman trying to dissuade him. “Wait till he’s asleep,” he heard her say. And the vagabond on his hard straw pallet felt more and more uneasy. It was plain that the old couple had money in the house, and were afraid he might steal it. There’s a power of danger more than folk would think in the life of a poor vagabond.
And he was cautious, and pretended to go to sleep, and snored loudly, waiting to see what they would do. The old man said his prayers, and that was all; but that in itself was a masterly piece of deceit to one who knew what they had in mind—one who could see how the blade of the axe shone in the light of the dying fire, all ready to hand—one who understood well enough that they were only trying to lull his suspicion to rest.
“But,” thought the accused, “you can’t get a judge to believe a thing like that. Won’t hear a word of self-defence, especially when it’s a poor wanderer coming all unarmed and helpless into a strange house. But, for my part, I can’t call it murder at all. If I hadn’t got up and smashed in their skulls, they’d have smashed in mine. I don’t believe they were asleep at all, though they lay quite still and never moved. It was all a sham. And if I’d been fool enough to go off to sleep myself in earnest, what would have happened then? They’d have been up and out of bed in a moment, with the axe. And after, what could be easier than to bury a body and hide it up, in a wild place like that? No, it’s almost wicked to tempt people, having it all so easy.”
And each time the accused went over in his mind the events of that night he felt more and more convinced that he had only killed the two old people in self-defence.
At first, he had not expected to be arrested at all. In the first place, the village where the two old people lay asleep, each with a cloven skull, was far off the high road, and he had every hope that nothing would be discovered until he was far away in safety. Then, too, he had so thoroughly persuaded himself of his innocence that he felt Providence must protect him. For the justice of Providence is other than that of courts of law on earth. It was a justice that understood how a poor vagabond might be forced to act in self-defence. With that sort of justice it was possible, so to speak, to talk as man to man.
The only thing this supreme justice could reasonably reproach him with was—he admitted it freely—a little white lie or so that he had allowed himself to tell at the examination, with regard to where he had been on the night of the crime and the days following. But for all his conscientiousness and his love of right and justice, he realized that in his case it was pardonable. For when a man had been arrested in despite of common fairness and humanity, merely because he happened to have been in prison before—and possibly also to some extent because a savings-bank book, the property of the deceased, and been found on his person—why, he was simply forced to deviate a little from the strict and literal truth. He had been obliged to confess that he had stolen the bank book from the pocket of a fellow passenger in the train. He had not endeavoured to assert that it had been honestly come by, but had freely confessed he had stolen it. As to where the other traveller had obtained it—who could say? It was too much to ask that he, the accused, show know the goings and comings of every stranger.
Again and again he went through the same arguments, each time feeling himself more and more innocent of any crime.
He had reached so far, indeed, as to be filled with an intense conviction of having barely, by a miracle of grace, escaped being murdered in his sleep himself—when the door of his cell opened, and the notary, who had conducted the proceedings of that morning, stepped in, followed by two other men. One was the warder, who had been deputed to look after him, and the other a young man, dressed like a workman of the better class.
The prisoner rose at once to his feet, with an air of respectful attention. He was resolved, as he had told the prison chaplain, on all occasions to observe a proper demeanour, and show that he himself was not only a lover of justice, but well disposed toward its servants.
“I have to inform you, Lamprecht,” said the young notary, “that your case will be decided to-morrow. And once more I would ask you, while there is yet time, to ease your conscience and obtain a lighter sentence by sincere repentance and confession.”
The accused answered only with a determined shake of the head, but for the rest maintained an attitude of tolerant understanding.
“I can understand, of course, that the notary finds it difficult,” he said. “I have myself learned to love justice, which is the foundation of all society—the one thing in which all must trust. And I can understand that it seems hard to judge. You do not wish to condemn an innocent man, or, on the other hand, to let the guilty escape.”
While he was speaking he noticed that the judge made a gesture with his hand once or twice as if to interrupt, but he took no heed. A man who has spent twenty years in prison has gained a certain amount of experience in the time, and may have various things to say which might be useful to a notary acting, perhaps for the first time, as judge.
He was allowed to finish what he had to say. Then the judge went on, entirely unmoved.
“You find it very difficult to give clear and distinct answers to questions put. And I have therefore written down these three points which you have to answer.” He took up a paper, and held it toward the accused, reading out the contents at the same time:
“‘Do you, Julius Martin Lamprecht, confess to having murdered Jonas Mikaelson with an axe on the night following the twelfth of February 1909?
“‘Do you, Julius Martin Lamprecht, confess to having murdered Brita Gustava, wife of the aforesaid Jonas Mikaelson, with an axe on the night following the twelfth of February 1909?
“‘Do you, Julius Martin Lamprecht, confess to having been aware that the two persons aforesaid possessed a bank book showing a deposit of two hundred kronor, and to having committed the murder in order to gain possession of the same?’”
The notary laid the paper on the table.
“You can think it over,” he said. “You know that there is no prospect of your being acquitted, but a confession given of your own free will may lead to a mitigation of the sentence. Here is the paper; I will have pen and ink brought in.”
The accused was by no means pleased at the manner in which his mode of expressing himself had been criticized; he was indeed altogether out of humour now. He stared blankly before him.
“You heard what I said?” the notary went on. “You understand that there are three questions here for you to answer, with your signature?”
The accused drew a deep breath. He was annoyed, and made no attempt to hide it. He spat on the paper and going back to his bench, lay down and closed his eyes.
“I will have a new copy of the paper brought in at once,” said the judge as calmly as before.
“You have an hour. I shall wait in the building that time for your answer. You are too fond of delay and prevarication; I intend to show you that the time for such evasions is now past.”
The accused answered only with an oath.
A moment after, he heard the door open, and imagined that the visitors had left. He did not trouble himself to open his eyes and look.
“That slip of a boy will never dare to condemn me,” he thought. “Not as long as I stick to a firm denial. As for his paper, I’ve no need to answer that. Why should I?”
And, lying stretched on his bench, he saw in his mind’s eye the same scenes as he had seen before; repeated his former arguments, growing ever more and more convinced of his entire innocence. He was certain now that the two old villagers had been in the habit of laying traps for lonely wanderers; they must have had more than one such life on their conscience.
At the same time, he found something pleasant in the thought that the judge had come in person to ask him to confess. It was proof that they regarded him as an important and dangerous man, whom they were loth to release.
“There you are!” he said to himself proudly. “That’s how it is. People all round are afraid the murderer may escape after all. All that crowd there was in the court this morning. And the papers taking it up so eagerly. And the judge himself uncertain what to do; yes, it’s all easy enough to understand. They’d like to condemn, but they haven’t proof enough. And so they’re trying to wring out a confession to help them. They know they can’t condemn a man without proof as long as he denies it and sticks to it.”
He felt so sure of his safety now that he began to whistle.
Perhaps, after all, it might turn out that this sore trial had not been in vain. “After this,” he thought to himself, “there’ll be no need to be content with cold potatoes and scrapings of porridge when you come to a lonely hut. After this, you’ll only have to say your name, Julius Martin Lamprecht, and people ’ll know what they’ve got to do. They’ll get busy then, soon enough, with pots and pans on the fire, and serve up the best they’ve got. No more lying on a bit of mattress on the floor; no, it ’ll be the visitor, the stranger within their gates, that sleeps in the best bed, and the others can sleep on the floor or out in the shed, if they like.”
But here the accused was again interrupted in his train of thought. A quiet, gentle voice close by him:
“Five minutes have gone already.”
He opened his eyes. The man dressed like a workman, who had followed the others into the cell, stood by his side, watch in hand, pointing to the dial as he spoke.
“What are you doing here? Who are you?” cried the accused, unpleasantly surprised to find that he was not alone. He wondered uneasily if he had been thinking aloud.
“I—I am nobody to speak of,” said the other. “My name is Sven Elversson, son of Joel Elversson from Grimön. But it just occurred to me that you might perhaps fall off to sleep, or forget about the time, until it was too late. And so I asked them to let me stay in here and talk to you.”
Lamprecht could find nothing to disapprove of in the stranger. There was something extremely humble about his manner, his smile, the tone of his voice. Even the way his hair was done seemed to have something of humility about it. He was clean-shaven, too, which added to the impression. All that could indicate selfishness, pride, superiority, was effaced. “Must be one of those well-meaning folk that go about doing good,” thought the prisoner to himself. “Well, he won’t get much out of me, anyhow.”
“D’you think for a moment I’m ever going to write a word on that paper there?” he asked, scornfully.
“Do not say ’no’ before you’ve had time to think,” said Sven Elversson, with a glance of gentle humility and goodness. “You have had dealings with the law before, and you know well enough that you cannot be condemned in this court as long as you persist in a denial; they will have to acquit you for lack of proof. But before you decide, let me tell you that there are certain persons here who have ordered the sum of five thousand kronor to be placed at your disposal if you decide to confess. There is reason to believe that you would be glad of the money, although you will not, of course, be able to spend it yourself.”
The accused felt a sudden shiver through his body from head to foot. At the same time, he could not help making a grimace. But he pulled himself together.
“What the devil is that you say?” he cried.
“Yes, it is true,” said Sven Elversson. “We are ready to give you that money, if you confess. You understand that it is a matter of importance to us others that you should confess? Everyone in the district, perhaps in the whole country, is horrified. And we have resolved that you shall not go about the country asking for shelter of lonely folk if we can help it. That must not be. It is too great a temptation for a man like you. We want you imprisoned for life. We wish you no harm beyond that. We have no wish to take your life, or to hurt you at all, but we must have you in confinement. I and several others have watched you in court, and heard what you said. You are not exactly an intentional criminal, but you have fancies, and are easily frightened; you imagine that everyone is anxious to harm you. And if you think over it carefully, you will see that it is best for yourself that you should be shut up. You will be at peace then, and need have no fear of any one. I think, then, it would be better for you and for everyone else if you were to accept the five thousand kronor and confess.”
“Not for a hundred thousand!” exclaimed the accused.
Sven Elversson had drawn gradually closer to the man while speaking, and sat down now on the bench beside him.
“Do not say that,” he urged kindly, laying one hand on the other’s sleeve. “Five thousand kronor is a good sum, and fully enough for the purpose for which you would use it. You cannot say otherwise. More would not be good for the one who is to have the money, and less would hardly do. Five thousand is as good as could be.”
“I can’t make you out,” said the accused. “What do you think I should use it for? Who is the one I should give it to?”
“I am glad you asked me that,” said Sven Elversson. “It was of that I wished to speak to you. There has been a great deal about you in the papers of late, and, among other things, how you are always asking after your daughter wherever you go. You were married, it seemed, before you committed that first murder two and twenty years ago, and on your release you tried at once to find out where your wife was. But she was dead. But you had a daughter—she would be a little over twenty now, and, as far as any one knows, she is alive, but no one could tell you where she had gone. And so you have been wandering about the country looking for her everywhere. As soon as you entered a house, the first thing you did was always to ask if any there knew anything of Julia Lamprecht. And”—here Sven lowered his voice and went on a little sadly—“it seemed to me that there was something I liked about that. There must be something good in a man who went about seeking for his daughter.”
“But in the name of Heaven,” cried the accused, “what have you to do with it all? Why are you here, talking to me like this? Can’t you tell me what it is you want with me?”
“Thanks once more,” said Sven Elversson in his gentlest voice, as if fearing to arouse the other’s displeasure. “Those are just questions that I shall be only too glad to answer. I am from Grimön, as I said—a little island far out at sea, so far, at any rate, that I myself need have no fear of you, for you would hardly come there. But I have a mother who has warnings in her dreams at times. And on the morning of the thirteenth of February she asked me to go over to the mainland and see how things were with an old couple—relatives of ours—who lived in a little cottage among the stonehills, far from the high road, and with no neighbours near. She had dreamed something that made it seem best for someone to go and see how they were. And I did as she asked me. And so it came about that I was the first to discover what you had done that night. And I will not deny that it was a cruel sight, and ever since I have wished something could be done to prevent you from ever being free to go about again. And that is why I have been about collecting this money. I wish you no harm, do not think that. I have told you so already. I only want to see you imprisoned now for life.”
As he spoke, he moved a little closer, and stroked the other’s sleeve gently. He was evidently anxious that Lamprecht should not think he bore him any personal ill will. Had the man been a lion escaped from its cage, its keeper might have coaxed it back behind the bars in the same way.
It would be untrue to say that the accused did not regard him with uneasiness. Everyone filled him with uneasiness: judge and gaoler, magistrate and witnesses. But he could not help feeling that this Sven Elversson was little to be feared—he seemed, indeed, something weak in his mind. “One of those fellows that go about doing good,” he told himself again. “Philanthropists, they call them.”
“I seem to understand a little now,” he said aloud. “As soon as you found out that I went about looking for my daughter you thought you could use her as a bait to catch a poor fellow again for good.”
And he laughed in Sven’s soft face. The lion was determined to keep its freedom, and cared nothing for the bait offered.
“Thank you,” said Sven Elversson, with his humblest smile. “What you say brings me just to the very thing I wanted to tell you. Look you, last summer I was doing some building work in the district. Not for myself, you understand, but to order. And I had to get some stone from a quarry just above the fishing village of Knapefiord, where we are now, and in that way I came into contact with a good many of the people there. And among them was a young woman named Julia Lamprecht. It was an unusual name, and as soon as I saw your name in the papers I remembered her.”
The accused rose to his feet. Again he felt that shiver through his body. His face twitched, his eyelids quivered; it was evident that some emotion took possession of him at the mention of his daughter, though, truth to tell, he had been seeking her hitherto less from any warmth of real feeling than in the hope that she might perhaps be well off and able to give him a home.
He thrust Sven Elversson aside carelessly, and stood up in the middle of the cell.
“Is she here?” he asked. “I want to see her.”
His tone was that of a man who expects immediate obedience to his orders. But Sven Elversson did not lose countenance.
“You shall see her,” he said, kindly and gently as before, but not without firmness. “You shall sit and talk with her as you are doing now with me. But there is one thing to be done first. You must write the answers on that paper. You may think, perhaps, that we are cruel in trying to separate father and daughter in this way, but we must have that paper signed first.”
The accused flushed angrily. He was not accustomed to have any reasonable request refused. Ever since he had been arrested, he had been treated with the greatest leniency, to make him thrive, as it were, in captivity, and render him more willing to give the confession that would keep him there. He felt now as if he could spring at this stranger and thrash him soundly, but he controlled himself. He threw himself face downward on the bench, keeping his face hidden. He did not know himself what made him do so, but he felt it was best to conceal his feelings.
“I am glad, I am grateful to you for thinking it over,” said Sven. “I must tell you that Julia Lamprecht is not very happy as she is. Her mother died early, as you know. And since then she has, as one might say, grown up in the streets. She came here in company with a workman from the quarries. They were not married, but quarrymen hereabouts do not always trouble about marrying, so no one paid much heed to that. And Julia is a good girl; there are many worse than she. But a few days back, when the man heard she was your daughter, he left her. Couldn’t bear the sight of her, he said. And now she is all alone. She is handsome, like her father, with fair hair, and no doubt there will be others ready to be friends with her in a way, but it will only be the same again. Now, if she had a little money, say five thousand kroner, then she could buy a little house and be properly married. Five thousand would be just about right. More would not be well for her, and less would be hardly enough. Well, now you see how we have thought it out. As soon as you have answered the questions there, you can see her, and give her the five thousand. You would like that, I think. Then she would feel she had a father. She would feel that, whatever you might have done, you had still some affection for her.”
The accused was silent for a long time. He moved to and fro restlessly on the bench, moaning from time to time. There was, after all, something in the man that cried for his child. Fair, handsome, like her father, she was. And perhaps even then sitting outside and waiting....
Suddenly he sat up, brushed his hair from his forehead, and looked Sven Elversson straight in the face.
“Can you tell me,” he said, “why I should write on that paper at all? I shall be acquitted to-morrow.”
“Quite likely,” answered Sven, “you may be acquitted of the murder. But then there is that other matter of the bank book. In any case, you will not be released yet awhile. It may be years before you are a free man again. You cannot say how long it may be. And, in the meantime, what is to happen to the girl? She may be ruined before you see her. It is not an easy thing for a girl to be the daughter of such a man as you. And I am afraid she will go from bad to worse. Five thousand now, that would help her. Let her have the money now, and you will have something to think of, something to be glad of, all your life. Then you will have done something to wipe out what you have done. You would be respected for that.”
The accused rose to his feet once more.
“Stop it!” he cried, stamping his foot. “You are driving me out of my mind with your talk.”
Sven was silent at once.
The accused stood thinking, searching out his soul; looking everywhere for that love for his daughter that he thought must be there. They were trying to lead him as they pleased through his love for his daughter. They asked of him to sacrifice all that was left of life for her sake. He, a man with nothing in the world but his freedom, he was to give up that for his daughter’s sake! For love of her! But was there any such love in him at all? Now that he sought for it, he could find nothing. Or yes, perhaps, a little. But nothing to speak of. Not enough to make a sacrifice. It is not so easy to make sacrifices. This fellow here who talked so glibly about it all, and was trying all the time to get him shut up and put out of harm’s way—would he make any sacrifice for the sake of what he sought?
“I will do as you ask,” he said at last; “I will answer those three questions. But on one condition. It’s all very well that my girl gets the money. But the money’s not everything after all. No, the best thing she could have would be a good husband. If you will promise me to marry her yourself, then I will sign.”
Sven Elversson started back in consternation.
“I had not expected that,” he said in a low voice.
“I am asking if you will marry my daughter,” said the accused, with a sneer. “Now, what do you say to that? You ask me to give up everything for her sake, but you are not so ready to give up anything yourself.”
“But—she is your daughter. It was you that brought her into the world,” said Sven Elversson. “I have hardly spoken to her in my life.”
“Just as you like. Only then, of course, I need not trouble about the questions. It’s really a pity, though. I’ve quite taken a fancy to you. I’d like to have you for a son-in-law.” And he laughed boisterously.
Sven Elversson passed his hand over his eyes, and drew a deep breath. “I understand now,” he said to himself. “The man who would have power over others must be prepared to crucify himself. Nothing less will serve.”
He looked long and searchingly at the man before him.
“He is trying to get out of it,” he thought. “And wants to lay the blame on me. He is sure I should refuse. But I will not refuse. I have him cornered now, and I will not let him go.”
“Let it be as you say,” he said, shortly. “If your daughter will have me, I will marry her. Now write!”
The accused man hesitated.
“Very kind of you, I’m sure,” he said. “But how am I to know you will keep your word?”
“Of course,” said Sven. “I was waiting for you to ask that. Now, if you think a moment, you will understand that in a place like this walls have ears. There are witnesses already to the fact that I have promised to marry Julia Lamprecht, provided that she consents. I cannot escape now. As long as I wish to be looked on as an honourable man, I cannot escape. Now, sit down at the table and write!”
Lamprecht sat down at the table. He took up the pen, dipped it in the ink, and groaned.
Sitting there, pen in hand, he sought once more for that love for his daughter. It might, perhaps, have been there in his soul at the time when he hoped to find a home with her, but now—now that he was asked to give up his freedom for her sake, it was nowhere to be found.
He wrote with the pen upright, and with the pen aslant; dipped again and again, splashed the ink about, and at last it was done.
“All I ever promised you was to answer the questions,” he said, and handed Sven Elversson the paper.
And Sven Elversson read, and saw that the judge’s three questions were answered with three crooked, straggling words: “No” and “No” and “No.” Beneath was the signature, Julius Martin Lamprecht, and finally a single sentence, rambling and ill-spelt: “I would confess if I was guilty, but I am not.”
“You will not get the five thousand kronor for that,” said Sven Elversson, quietly.
“I didn’t suppose so,” returned the other. “But I’ve got you to marry my girl. I never promised you but I would answer the questions if you agreed to marry my daughter. And I’ve done it. I’ll be acquitted, and I’ve got a good husband for her.”
He stood there throwing out his chest, proud of his victory.
Sven Elversson flushed angrily. His humility had disappeared, and his manner toward the accused was less kind than before.
“I might have thought it,” he said. “I ought to have known what a scoundrel you were. I have seen how you treated those two poor creatures after you had killed them. What made you put out their eyes?” he asked passionately.
“Put out their eyes!” cried the accused. “That’s not true. Someone else must have done that. When I left them——”
He broke off, bit his lips, and staggered, pale as death, to the wall of the cell.
“Thanks,” said Sven Elversson drily. “I knew how I could get you, if need should be. But I waited, as long as there was a chance, to make it easier for you.”
Next moment the murderer lay on his knees before him.
“I didn’t say it; I didn’t say anything,” he cried. “I didn’t say it—it doesn’t count—you tricked me!”
The man was suddenly transformed to a miserable, grovelling heap of penitence and despair. All his armour of conceit and self-deception, all his subterfuges and excuses, had been torn from him now.
“There are witnesses here, as I told you before,” said Sven Elversson. “I warned you.”
“I’ll write it again—give me a new paper and I’ll confess. I’ll tell you all, I’ll do all you ask, for the sake of the girl.”
Sven Elversson raised his voice a little.
“I will tear up this paper,” he said. “Another shall be brought directly. And if the new one is properly answered and signed, then I fancy the walls will have heard nothing of the first. We will start again from the moment you sat down to write. The hour is not yet gone. You, Julius Martin Lamprecht, have still time to make a free confession.”
A little later, the murderer sat on a chair in his cell, facing the judge. His appearance was changed; he wore the look of a man washed and cleansed, though no such process had taken place outwardly. But he had confessed. Not only had he answered the two first questions in the affirmative, and the last in the negative, but he had delivered a full and free confession of the whole affair. He was exhausted now, and a chair had to be brought for him or he would have fallen to the floor. But for all that he looked happy and content. At that moment he bore no ill will to any living soul. He was cleansed and freed from sin. He had not felt such comfort since his first communion.
In addition to the judge, there were present in the cell a warder, a constable, the clerk, and Julia Lamprecht, and Sven Elversson. The prisoner loved them all, and most of all his daughter, to whom he had just given the sum of five thousand kronor. He found her beautiful to look at. Handsome, fair, with curly hair, and a queer shyness of manner. He had not yet spoken with her alone, but the judge had promised she should be allowed to sit in his cell as long as he pleased.
Now and again the murderer turned his eyes toward the man who had forced him to confess, and he could not help feeling a certain sympathy with him.
The very look of the man, as he stood there leaning against the cell wall, with his eyes cast down and his brow gloomily furrowed, was enough to inspire sympathy. The murderer felt he understood him better than any other. He, Lamprecht, a murderer, could confess his crime and atone for it, but this man would never be able to wipe away the stain that clung to his name.
The murderer had seen how the judge and all the other servants of the law had shaken hands with Sven Elversson and thanked him. The judge, especially, had been profoundly grateful. It was a great relief to him now to be able to give his decision without hesitation.
But Sven Elversson looked as humble and sad as ever—only more humble, if anything, than before. He looked like a man utterly weary of himself.
When Julia Lamprecht entered the cell to receive the five thousand kronor, Sven Elversson had stepped forward and declared that he had promised the prisoner to make his daughter an offer of marriage. But the girl had refused at once. She would not marry that man—never. And she had told him plainly what manner of man he was.
Sven Elversson had been deeply hurt at her refusal. It seemed to torture him. He drew back without a word, and stood leaning unsteadily against the cell wall. And the prisoner himself felt that he was revenged.
His daughter, whom he had never seen until that day, had taken vengeance on the man who had conquered her father. He felt she was of his blood, and he loved her.
Not that he repented of his confession. He felt clean and easy in mind, happy and respected, almost like a decent man. And he had seen his daughter, whom he would love now all his life, and who would always love him, since he had given up his freedom for her sake.
As for the true confession, the murderer passed it over, erased it from his memory. He was a man who always needed to look at himself in a good light. He was already busy in his mind with a beautiful and touching story of how it was for this daughter’s sake alone he had confessed, and prayed to God and man for forgiveness. As long as he lived, he would be able to weave that story over and over again, and he would believe it, and it would serve to maintain his self-respect during the long, hard years that awaited him.