Kohlhaas, who in the meantime had already arrived in Berlin, was taken on the express orders of the Elector to a lordly prison where he and his five children were lodged as comfortably as possible. Immediately following the arrival of the imperial prosecutor from Vienna, he was brought before the dock of the State Supreme Court to face charges of violation of imperial peace; and whereas, according to the terms of the amnesty agreement issued by the Elector of Saxony at Lützen, he had already been freed of any responsibility for acts of violence perpetrated during his armed incursion into Saxony, he learned, to his surprise, that His Imperial Majesty, whose legal counselor argued the case against him here, could not take that agreement into consideration; he also soon learned, from an elaboration and explanation of Saxon court proceedings, that the Dresden court granted him full redress for damages and injuries in his case against Junker Wenzel von Tronka. It came to pass thereafter, on the very day the Lord Chamberlain arrived in Berlin, that judgment was passed and the verdict declared, and that Kohlhaas was condemned to be executed by beheading; which sentence, its relative mildness notwithstanding, no one believed would be enforced, given the knotty nature of the case, for all Berlin hoped that since the Elector was favorably disposed toward the accused, His Lordship would intercede and commute the sentence, at the very worst into a long and hard prison term. Still, the Lord Chamberlain, who immediately realized that there was no time to lose if he hoped to fulfill the charge given him by his liege lord, promptly got down to business, the following morning showing himself clearly in his courtly attire before the prison at the window of which Kohlhaas stood peering out at the passersby, making sure the prisoner took notice; and since, from a sudden head movement, the Lord Chamberlain concluded that the horse trader had indeed seen him, and moreover had, with a look of great satisfaction, instinctively made a motion with his hand to the place on his breast where the tube dangled, Lord Kunz presumed that the sentiments harbored at that moment in the heart of the prisoner were preparation enough for him to advance with his planned attempt to acquire the slip of paper. He called to his chambers an old woman on crutches, a peddler of second-hand clothes whom he had seen in the company of others, haggling with the crowd over the price of rags, and who, by her age and attire, appeared to bear a striking resemblance to the gypsy woman the Elector had described; and presuming that Kohlhaas could not possibly have retained a clear impression of the face of the person who had in passing handed him the slip of paper, he decided to pass her off as the gypsy, and, if all went well, to have her impersonate her before the prisoner. To that end, to fully prepare her, he described in detail everything that had transpired between the Elector and said gypsy woman in Jüterbock, and, seeing as he did not know just how much the gypsy had revealed to Kohlhaas concerning that scrap of paper, he did not fail to impress upon her the nature of the three secrets contained in the message; and after taking pains to explain, in an awkward and abrupt fashion – this on account of the urgency to get hold of that paper by any means necessary, whether by deceit or violence, the acquisition of which was of exteme importance to the Saxon Court – just what she was to let slip to the prisoner, he suggested that she insist the prisoner let her take charge of the paper for a few fateful days, since it was no longer safe in his hands. Enticed by the promise of a sizable payment, part of which she demanded be paid in advance, the rag woman promptly accepted the task; and since the mother of Kohlhaas’ trusted servant Herse, the man who had fallen in battle at Mühlberg, occasionally visited the prisoner, with the permission of the authorities, and the two women had in recent months struck up an acquaintance, the rag woman managed within a few days, having bribed the turnkey, to gain entry to the horse trader’s cell. As soon as the prisoner set eyes on the signet ring she wore on her hand and a coral necklace dangling from her neck, he was convinced that she was the old gypsy woman who had passed him the slip of paper in Jüterbock; and since probability is not always on the side of truth, it so happened that something occurred here which we will report, but which we are duty-bound to permit any reader so inclined to doubt: the Lord Chamberlain had made the most momentous mistake, for the rag woman whom he had dug up in the streets of Berlin to play the part of the gypsy was none other than the mysterious gypsy herself, the very person he wished to have impersonated. Leaning on her crutches and stroking the cheeks of the children who, frightened by her strange appearance, sought refuge in their father’s arms, she told him how for quite a while now she had been back in Brandenburg, and how, overhearing the Lord Chamberlain incautiously asking in the streets of Berlin after the gypsy who had plied her trade in Jüterbock the previous spring, she immediately approached him, and giving a false name, had accepted the task he sought to have carried out. The horse trader detected an uncanny resemblance between her and his late wife Lisbeth, so much so that he was tempted to ask if she were her grandmother: for not only did the features of her face remind him of his wife, but so did her hands, still lovely in their angular shape, of which, just like Lisbeth, she made animated use when speaking; and noticing the necklace, just like the one his wife wore round her neck, consumed by a jumble of thoughts swirling round his brain, the horse trader bid her be seated on a stool, and asked what in the world had brought her to him on the Lord Chamberlain’s business. And while Kohlhaas’ old dog sniffed at her knees, wagging his tail, contented at the touch of her hand, she replied: “The task the Lord Chamberlain gave me was to find out for him the three mysterious answers on the slip of paper, answers to questions of interest to the Saxon Court; to warn you of an emissary sent to Berlin to get the paper, under the pretense that it was no longer safe on your breast where you wear it. But my real intention was to tell you that the supposed threat to snatch it by guile or by force is an absurd and empty lie; that being under the protection of the Elector of Brandenburg, in whose safe custody you are, you have no cause to fear for that paper; indeed, that it is much safer in your care than in mine, and that you should take heed not to let anyone convince you to hand it over, for whatever reason. Nevertheless,” she concluded, “I deem it wise for you to make use of that paper for the same purpose I passed it to you at the marketplace in Jüterbock, and urge you to consider the proposition made by Junker von Stein at the Brandenburg border, to give it to the Elector of Saxony in exchange for your freedom and your life.” “Not for anything in this world, little mother, not for anything in this world!” Kohlhaas replied, pressing her old hand in his, exalting at the power he’d been given to strike his enemy in the heel and inflict a mortal wound at the very moment when they trampled him underfoot. “But tell me, if I may know, the answers to those terrible questions that the paper contains!” To which, after lifting onto her lap the youngest child who had knelt down at her feet, the woman laughed: “Not for anything in this world, Kohlhaas the horse trader; but for the sake of this handsome little blond boy!” The child peered at her with his big eyes, whereupon she smiled back, cuddled and kissed him, and with her haggard hands gave him an apple she pulled out of her pocket. Flustered, Kohlhaas said that the children would honor him for his resolve when they grew up and that he could do nothing more beneficial for them and their grandchildren than to keep that slip of paper. Furthermore, he asked, who could assure him against another swindle, who could swear that he’d come out with nothing in the end for the slip of paper, just as he had for dissolving his army in Lützen. “Whoever breaks his word once,” he said, “won’t have another word from me; and only if you demanded it outright and in no uncertain terms, my good little mother, would I ever part with that paper, the sole redress granted me in such a wondrous way for all that I have suffered.” Setting the child back on the floor, the woman allowed that in some ways he was right and that he should do as he saw fit. Whereupon she reached for her crutches and got up to leave. Kohlhaas repeated his question as to the gist of the message on that wondrous slip of paper; and after she replied in haste: “Go ahead and open it for yourself, if you’re so curious!” He pressed her to revea
l a thousand other things before leaving: who she really was, how she came to know the things she knew, why she refused to give the Elector the paper since it was after all written for him, and why among the thousands present at the marketplace that day did she hand it to him of all people who had never sought her out? Now it so happened that at that very moment they heard the sound of several police officers climbing the steps; such that, afraid of being found here with him, the woman hastily replied: “Fare thee well, Kohlhaas, fare thee well! You will have all your answers when next we meet!” And turning to the door, she cried: “Goodbye, my little ones, goodbye!” kissed them all one after another, and rushed off.
In the meantime, the Elector of Saxony, still prey to his obsessive thoughts, called for two astrologers, Oldenholm and Olearius, at the time highly respected in Saxony, and asked them to advise him concerning the secret contents of that slip of paper that mattered so much to him and to future generations of his line; and since, after several days of concerted stargazing in the tower of his Dresden castle, the two could not come to a consensus as to whether the prophecy applied to his distant descendants in centuries to come or to the present moment, concluding that it perhaps referred to his still quite bellicose relations with the Polish Crown, instead of easing His Lordship’s malaise, not to mention his despair, all this learned disputation merely served to aggravate his frenzied state of mind to an almost unbearable degree. To make matters worse, at around the same time, the Lord High Chamberlain instructed his wife, who was preparing to follow him to Berlin, to inform the Elector prior to her departure in as delicate a manner as possible of his failed attempt to do His Lordship’s bidding, due to the disappearance of an old woman he’d entrusted with the task, and consequently, that there was little hope left of his acquiring the slip of paper in Kohlhaas’ possession, insofar as, at this late date, following a thorough scrutiny of the case, the death sentence had already been signed by the Elector of Brandenburg and the date of execution had been set for the Monday following Palm Sunday. The news tore at the Elector’s heart, and like a lost soul he locked himself in his room for two days, taking no meals, tired of living, and, on the third day, after abruptly informing the government officials at court that he was going on a hunting trip with the Prince of Dessau, suddenly disappeared from Dresden. Where he was actually headed, and if Dessau was indeed his destination, we cannot confirm, since, curiously enough, the various chronicles upon which we have drawn for our account contradict and nullify each other in this regard. The one thing we know for certain is that at this time the Prince of Dessau lay sick in bed, in no shape to hunt, at the castle of his uncle, Duke Heinrich, and that on the following evening Lady Heloise turned up at the door of her husband, the Lord Chamberlain, accompanied by a certain Duke von Königstein, whom she gave out to be her cousin. In the meantime, on the orders of the Elector of Brandenburg, the death sentence was read to Kohlhaas, his chains were removed and the documents concerning his holdings that had been taken from him in Dresden were returned; and since the legal counselors assigned to him by the court asked how he wished to have his property dispersed following his death, he drafted a last will and testament with the aid of a solicitor, naming his children as benefactors and designating his faithful old friend, the Magistrate of Kohlhaasenbrück, their legal guardian. Thus his last days were the very picture of peace and contentment; following a special edict by the Elector, the Zwinger Castle, where he was imprisoned, was opened, and all his friends, of which there were many in Berlin, were granted free access to visit with him day and night. Indeed, he had the satisfaction of seeing the theologian Jakob Freising, an emissary sent by Dr. Luther, enter his cell carrying a doubtless quite extraordinary letter, which, alas, has since been lost, and from this man of the cloth, accompanied by two Brandenburg deacons, receiving the blessing of Holy Communion. Thereupon, notwithstanding public sentiment that never stopped hoping and praying for a pardon, came the fateful Monday following Palm Sunday on which he was to be reconciled with the world on account of his rash attempt to seek justice for himself. Thus did he step out the prison gates, surrounded by a heavy detail of armed guards, with his two boys in his arms (which special dispensation he had expressly requested and been granted by the court), lead by the theologian Jakob Freising, when the majordomo of the Elector’s palace pushed his way toward him through a mournful crowd of well-wishers who pressed his hands and took their leave, and with a troubled look the official passed him a message, which, as he said, came from an old woman. Staring, astonished, at the man he hardly knew, Kohlhaas unfolded the paper, which had been sealed in lacquer with a signet ring, whose mark he immediately recognized as that of the old gypsy woman. But who could describe the emotion that gripped his heart upon reading the following message: “Kohlhaas, the Elector of Saxony is in Berlin; he has already pushed his way forward to the executioner’s block, and is recognizable, should you be interested, by a hat festooned with blue and white feathers. I hardly need tell you his intention; as soon as you’ve been beheaded, he means to grab the tube and open the message rolled up in it. Your Elisabeth.” Profoundly agitated, Kohlhaas turned to the majordomo and asked if he knew the strange woman who gave him the message. To which the latter replied: “Kohlhaas, the woman . . .” and suddenly stopped mid-sentence, so that, dragged along by the crowd that now once again swarmed around him, the prisoner did not manage to decipher what the man, who started trembling all over, had uttered. Arriving at the place of execution, he found the Elector of Brandenburg already waiting there with his retinue, among whom he recognized the Arch-Chancellor Sir Heinrich von Geusau seated on horseback amidst an immense crowd of onlookers. To his right stood the Court Assessor Franz Müller with a copy of the death sentence in hand; to his left, his own counsel, the legal scholar Anton Zäuner, holding the verdict of the Dresden High Court; a herald standing before him in the center of the half-open circle of the crowd grasped a bundle and gripped the reins of his two hale and hardy nags, which stamped their feet with pleasure. For the Arch-Chancellor Sir Heinrich had, in the name of his liege, the Elector of Brandenburg, pursued and won his legal case against Junker Wenzel von Tronka point for point and without the slightest accommodation; consequently, after having a flag waved over their heads to denote their official restitution, the horses, which had been retrieved from the horse skinner and fed their fill and properly groomed by the Junker’s men, were returned, in the presence of a commission assembled for this express purpose, to Kohlhaas’ lawyer at the marketplace in Dresden. Whereupon, as Kohlhaas was led forward by the guards, the Elector of Brandenburg declared: “Well, Kohlhaas, today is the day you have gotten your just due! See here, I am delivering back to you all that you forfeited by force at Tronkenburg Castle, and what I, as your liege lord, was duty-bound to retrieve: horses, scarf, guldens, linen, including the cost of caring for your man Herse who fell at Mühlberg. Are you satisfied with me?” And upon reading through the entire decision of the Dresden court which the Arch-Chancellor handed him, his eyes aflutter, the horse trader set the two children he’d been holding in his arms on the ground beside him; and after finding in the decision a paragraph condemning Junker Wenzel to two years in prison, overcome with emotion, and with his hands crossed over his breast, he knelt down before the Elector. Smiling up at the Arch-Chancellor, rising then and placing a hand on the Elector’s lap, he assured him with heartfelt emotion that his greatest wish on earth had been fulfilled; he stepped toward the horses, looked them over and clapped a hand on their fat necks; and cheerfully declared to the Arch-Chancellor, stepping back to him: “I bequeath these horses to my sons Heinrich and Leopold!” Dismounting, the Arch-Chancellor, Sir Heinrich von Geusau, assured him, in the name of the Elector, that his last wishes would be faithfully followed, and urged him to distribute the other things gathered in the bundle as he saw fit. Hereupon, Kohlhaas called forth Herse’s old mother whom he spied in the crowd, and handing her his last possessions, said: “Here, little mother, they’re yours!” This i
ncluded the sum of money for damages, which, he added, ought to help pay for her care and comfort in her old days. The Elector cried out: “Now then, Kohlhaas, the horse trader, you to whom justice has been done, prepare yourself to give your due to His Imperial Majesty, whose legal counselor stands here, and to pay the price for your cross-border disruptions of the peace!” Removing his hat and flinging it to the ground, Kohlhaas said he was ready, and, after once again picking up his children and pressing them to his breast, he handed them to the magistrate of Kohlhaasenbrück; and while the latter led them away, quietly weeping, he strode toward the execution block. No sooner had he unwound the kerchief from his neck and opened the pouch, than, with a fleeting glance at the circle of people that surrounded him, he spotted, in close proximity, the gentleman with the blue and white feathers in his hat standing between two knights who half-hid him from view. Taking a sudden stride forward, in a manner alarming to the guards, Kohlhaas untied the tube from around his neck; he removed the slip of paper, unsealed it, and read it through; and with his steady gaze glued to the man with the blue and white feathers in his hat, the latter looking on hopefully, he stuffed the paper in his mouth and swallowed it. At that very moment the man with the blue-and-white-feathered hat trembled and collapsed unconscious. But as his stunned companions bent down to him and lifted him up off the ground, Kohlhaas leaned over the block, where his head fell to the executioner’s axe. Here ends the story of Kohlhaas. Amidst a murmuring crowd, his body was laid in a coffin; and while they carried him for proper burial to the churchyard outside town, the Elector called for the sons of the deceased, and, turning to the Arch-Chancellor, proclaimed that they were to be raised in his page school at court and dubbed them knights. Soon thereafter, torn in body and soul, the Elector of Saxony returned to Dresden, where chronicles can be found that relate the rest of his story. But in Mecklenburg, in the previous century, there still lived a few happy and stouthearted descendants of Michael Kohlhaas.
Selected Prose of Heinrich Von Kleist Page 22