Volume 2 — XLVII.
Reading edition
Is it a man or an infernal spirit that speaks thus? What mischievous spirit torments thee thus? Show me the relentless foe who inhabits thy heart.—Maturin.
HANS of Iceland and Schumacker were in the same cell in the Schleswig tower. The acquitted ex-chancellor paced slowly to and fro, his eyes heavy with bitter tears; the condemned brigand laughed at his chains, though surrounded by guards.
The two prisoners studied each other long and silently; it seemed as if both felt themselves and mutually recognized each other as enemies of mankind.
“Who are you?” at length asked the ex-chancellor.
“I will tell you my name,” replied the bandit, “to make you shun me. I am Hans of Iceland.”
Schumacker advanced toward him.
“Take my hand,” said he.
“Do you wish me to devour it?”
“Hans of Iceland,” rejoined Schumacker, “I like you because you hate mankind.”
“And for that reason I hate you.”
“Hark ye, I hate men, as you do, because they have returned me evil for good.”
“You do not hate them as I do; I hate them because they have returned me good for evil.”
Schumacker shuddered at the monster’s expression. In vain he conquered his natural disposition; he could not sympathize with this fiend.
“Yes,” he exclaimed, “I abhor men because they are false, ungrateful, cruel. I owe to them all the misery of my life.”
“So much the better! I owe them all the pleasure of mine.”
“What pleasure?”
“The pleasure of feeling their quivering flesh throb beneath my teeth, their hot blood moisten my parched throat; the rapture of crushing living beings against sharp rocks, and hearing the shriek of my victims mingle with the sound of their breaking limbs. These are the pleasures which I owe to men.”
Schumacker shrank in horror from the monster whom he had approached with something like pride in his resemblance to him. Pierced with shame, he hid his wrinkled face in his hands; for his eyes were full of tears of anger, not against mankind, but against himself. His great and noble heart began to revolt at the hatred he had so long cherished, when he saw it reflected in Hans of Iceland’s heart as in a fearful mirror.
“Well,” said the monster, with a sneer,—“well, enemy of man, dare you boast your likeness to me?”
The old man shuddered. “Oh, God! Rather than hate mankind as you do, let me love them.”
Guards came to remove the monster to a more secure cell. Schumacker was left alone in his dungeon to dream; but he was no longer the enemy of mankind.