seen,and, like a child, he must possess it. And so he began a series ofpersecutions. He followed her everywhere; he fastened himself uponher at the theater; he showered all sorts of gifts on her; and, whenhe found she returned his presents, and that she refused or resistedall his advances, he grew so desperate that he at last offered tomarry her, although with a consciousness that he was making a mostheroic and extraordinary sacrifice of himself in doing so. But eventhis condescension--to his unbounded astonishment--she declined withthanks. And then the silly little fool grew more desperate than ever,and battered up his poor brains with strong drink, and wept inmaudlin fashion to his acquaintances. At last one of these--a fellowof the same kidney, but with more enterprise than himself--said tohim: 'Why don't you carry her off?' Nathan opened his eyes very wide,stopped his sniffling and blubbering, and made up his mind to followthis sage advice. To obtain the necessary nerve for such a prodigiousundertaking he fired up with still more whisky; and when the nightcame he was crazy with drink. Obtaining a carriage and anotherdrunken fool to help him, he stationed himself beside the pavement,in the quiet street where Christina lived, and but a few doorsdistant from her house; and then, as she came along with her mother,he seized upon her, while his companion grasped Mrs. Jansen. He beganto drag Christina toward the carriage; but the young girl wasstronger than he was, and not only resisted him, but began to shriek,ably seconded by her mother, until the street rang. The door of theirhouse flew open, and Mr. Jansen, who had recognized the voices of hiswife and daughter, was hurrying to their rescue; whereupon the littlevillain cried in a tone of high tragedy, 'Then die!' and stabbed herin the throat with a little dagger he carried. He turned and spranginto the carriage; while the poor girl, who had become suddenlysilent, staggered and fell into the arms of her father.
"It chanced that I was absent from the house that night, on somebusiness of the Brotherhood, and the next morning I breakfasted inanother part of the city, at a restaurant. I had scarcely begun mymeal when a phonograph, which, in a loud voice, was proclaiming thenews of the day before for the entertainment of the guests, cried out:
PROBABLE MURDER--A YOUNG GIRL STABBED.
Last night, at about half-past eleven, on Seward Street, near Fifty-first Avenue, a young girl was assaulted and brutally stabbed in the throat by one of two men. The girl is a singer employed in Peter Bingham's variety theater, a few blocks distant from the place of the attack. She was accompanied by her mother, and they were returning on foot from the theater, where she had been singing. The man had a carriage ready, and while one of them held her mother, the other tried to force the young girl into the
carriage; it was plainly the purpose of the men to abduct her. She resisted, however; whereupon the ruffian who had hold of her, hearing the footsteps of persons approaching, and seeing that he could not carry her off, drew a knife and stabbed her in the throat, and escaped with his companion in the carriage. The girl was carried into her father's house, No. 1252 Seward Street, and the distinguished surgeon, Dr. Hemnip, was sent for. He pronounced the wound probably fatal. The young girl is named Christina Jansen; she sings under the stage-name of Christina Carlson, and is the daughter of Carl Jansen, living at the place named. Inquiry at the theater showed her to be a girl of good character, very much esteemed by her acquaintances, and greatly admired as a very brilliant singer.
LATER.--A young man named Nathan Brederhagan, belonging to a wealthy and respectable family, and residing with his mother at No. 637 Sherman Street, was arrested this morning at one o'clock, in his bed, by police officer No. 18,333, on information furnished by the family of the unfortunate girl. A bloody dagger was found in his pocket. As the girl is likely to die he was committed to jail and bail refused. He is represented to be a dissipated, reckless young fellow, and it seems was in love with the girl, and sought her hand in marriage; and she refused him; whereupon, in his rage, he attempted to take her life. His terrible deed has plunged a large circle of relatives and friends into great shame and sorrow.
"I had started to my feet as soon as I heard the words, 'The girl isa singer in Peter Bingham's Variety Theater,' but, when her name wasmentioned and her probable death, the pangs that shot through me nowords of mine can describe.
"It is customary with us all to think that our intellect is our self,and that we are only what we think; but there are in the depths ofour nature feelings, emotions, qualities of the soul, with which themere intelligence has nothing to do; and which, when they rise up,like an enraged elephant from the jungle, scatter all theconventionalities of our training, and all the smooth andautomaton-like operations of our minds to the winds. As I stoodthere, listening to the dead-level, unimpassioned, mechanical voiceof the phonograph, pouring forth those deadly sentences, I realizedfor the first time what the sunny-haired little songstress was to me.
"'Wounded! Dead!'
"I seized my hat, and, to the astonishment of the waiters, I rushedout. I called a hack. I had to alter my appearance. I grudged thetime necessary for this very necessary precaution, but, paying thedriver double fare, I went, as fast as his horses' legs could carryme, to the place, in a saloon kept by one of the Brotherhood, where Iwas in the habit of changing my disguises. I dismissed the hack,hurried to my room, and in a few minutes I was again flying along, inanother hack, to 1252 Seward Street. I rushed up the steps. Hermother met me in the hall. She was crying.
"'Is she alive?' I asked.
"'Yes, yes,' she replied.
"'What does the doctor say?' I inquired.
"'He says she will not die--but her voice is gone forever,' shereplied.
"Her tears burst forth afresh. I was shocked--inexpressibly shocked.True, it was joy to know she would live; but to think of that nobleinstrument of grace and joy and melody silenced forever! It was likethe funeral of an angel! God, in the infinite diversity of hiscreation, makes so few such voices--so few such marvelous adjustmentsof those vibrating chords to the capabilities of the air and thehuman sense and the infinite human soul that dwells behind thesense--and all to be the spoil of a ruffian's knife. Oh! if I couldhave laid my hands on the little villain! I should have butchered himwith his own dagger--sanctified, as it was, with her precious blood.The infamous little scoundrel! To think that such a vicious, shallow,drunken brute could have power to 'break into the bloody house oflife' and bring to naught such a precious and unparalleled gift ofGod. I had to clutch the railing of the stairs to keep from falling.Fortunately for me, poor Mrs. Jansen was too much absorbed in her ownsorrows to notice mine. She grieved deeply and sincerely for herdaughter's sufferings and the loss of her voice; but, worse than all,there rose before her- the future! She looked with dilated eyes intothat dreadful vista. She saw again the hard, grinding, sordid povertyfrom which they had but a little time before escaped-she saw againher husband bent down with care, and she heard her children cryingonce more for bread. I read the poor woman's thoughts. It was notselfishness--it was love for those dear to her; and I took her hand,and--scarcely knowing what I said--I told her she must not worry,that she and her family should never suffer want again. She looked atme in surprise, and thanked me, and said I was always good and kind.
"In a little while she took me to Christina's room. The poor girl wasunder the influence of morphine and sleeping a troubled sleep. Herface was very pale from loss of blood; and her head and neck were allbound up in white bandages, here and there stained with the ghastlyfluid that flowed from her wounds. It was a pitiable sight: hershort, crisp yellow curls broke here and there, rebelliously, throughthe folds of the linen bandages; and I thought how she used to shakethem, responsive to the quiverings of the cadenzas and trills thatpoured from her bird-like throat. 'Alas!' I said to myself, 'poorthroat! you will never sing again! Poor little curls, you will nevertremble again in sympathy with the dancing delight of that happyvoice.' A dead voice! Oh! it is one of the saddest things in thew
orld! I went to the window to hide the unmanly tears which streameddown my face.
"When she woke she seemed pleased to see me near her, and extendedher hand to me with a little smile. The doctor had told her she mustnot attempt to speak. I held her hand for awhile, and told howgrieved I was over her misfortune. And then I told her I would bringher a tablet and pencil, so that she might communicate her wants tous; and then I said to her that I was out of a job at my trade (Iknow that the angels in heaven do not record such lies), and that Ihad nothing to do, and could stay and wait upon her; for the otherchildren were too small, and her mother too busy to be with her allthe time, and her father and I could divide the time between us. Shesmiled again and thanked me with her eyes.
"And I was very busy and almost happy--moving
Cæsar's Column: A Story of the Twentieth Century Page 40
