Karl Ludwig Sand

A >> Alexandre Dumas, Pere >> Karl Ludwig Sand


After the departure of this last visitor, Sand sent for Mr. G----, the
governor of the prison, and told him that he should like to talk to the
executioner before the execution, since he wished to ask for instructions
as to how he should hold himself so as to render the operation most
certain and easy. Mr. G----made some objections, but Sand insisted with
his usual gentleness, and Mr. G----at last promised that the man in
question should be asked to call at the prison as soon as he arrived from
Heidelberg, where he lived.

The rest of the day was spent in seeing more visitors and in
philosophical and moral talks, in which Sand developed his social and
religious theories with a lucidity of expression and an elevation of
thought such as he had, perhaps, never before shown. The governor of the
prison from whom I heard these details, told me that he should all his
life regret that he did not know shorthand, so that he might have noted
all these thoughts, which would have formed a pendant to the Phaedo.

Night came. Sand spent part of the evening writing; it is thought that
he was composing a poem; but no doubt he burned it, for no trace of it
was found. At eleven he went to bed, and slept until six in the morning.
Next day he bore the dressing of his wound, which was always very
painful, with extraordinary courage, without fainting, as he sometimes
did, and without suffering a single complaint to escape him: he had
spoken the truth; in the presence of death God gave him the grace of
allowing his strength to return. The operation was over; Sand was lying
down as usual, and Mr. G----was sitting on the foot of his bed, when the
door opened and a man came in and bowed to Sand and to Mr. G----. The
governor of the prison immediately stood up, and said to Sand in a voice
the emotion of which he could not conceal, "The person who is bowing to
you is Mr. Widemann of Heidelberg, to whom you wished to speak."

Then Sand's face was lighted up by a strange joy; he sat up and said,
"Sir, you are welcome." Then, making his visitor sit down by his bed,
and taking his hand, he began to thank him for being so obliging, and
spoke in so intense a tone and so gentle a voice, that Mr. Widemann,
deeply moved, could not answer. Sand encouraged him to speak and to give
him the details for which he wished, and in order to reassure him, said,
"Be firm, sir; for I, on my part, will not fail you: I will not move; and
even if you should need two or three strokes to separate my head from my
body, as I am told is sometimes the case, do not be troubled on that
account."

Then Sand rose, leaning on Mr. G----, to go through with the executioner
the strange and terrible rehearsal of the drama in which he was to play
the leading part on the morrow. Mr. Widemann made him sit in a chair and
take the required position, and went into all the details of the
execution with him. Then Sand, perfectly instructed, begged him not to
hurry and to take his time. Then he thanked him beforehand; "for," added
he, "afterwards I shall not be able." Then Sand returned to his bed,
leaving the executioner paler and more trembling than himself. All these
details have been preserved by Mr. G----; for as to the executioner, his
emotion was so great that he could remember nothing.

After Mr. Widemann, three clergymen were introduced, with whom Sand
conversed upon religious matters: one of them stayed six hours with him,
and on leaving him told him that he was commissioned to obtain from him a
promise of not speaking to the people at the place of execution. Sand
gave the promise, and added, "Even if I desired to do so, my voice has
become so weak that people could not hear it."

Meanwhile the scaffold was being erected in the meadow that extends on
the left of the road to Heidelberg. It was a platform five to six feet
high and ten feet wide each way. As it was expected that, thanks to the
interest inspired by the prisoner and to the nearness to Whitsuntide, the
crowd would be immense, and as some movement from the universities was
apprehended, the prison guards had been trebled, and General Neustein had
been ordered to Mannheim from Carlsruhe, with twelve hundred infantry,
three hundred and fifty cavalry, and a company of artillery with guns.

On, the afternoon of the 19th there arrived, as had been foreseen, so
many students, who took up their abode in the neighbouring villages, that
it was decided to put forward the hour of the execution, and to let it
take place at five in the morning instead of at eleven, as had been
arranged. But Sand's consent was necessary for this; for he could not be
executed until three full days after the reading of his sentence, and as
the sentence had not been read to him till half-past ten Sand had a right
to live till eleven o'clock.

Before four in the morning the officials went into the condemned man's
room; he was sleeping so soundly that they were obliged to awaken him.
He opened his eyes with a smile, as was his custom, and guessing why they
came, asked, "Can I have slept so well that it is already eleven in the
morning?" They told him that it was not, but that they had come to ask
his permission to put forward the time; for, they told him, same
collision between the students and the soldiers was feared, and as the
military preparations were very thorough, such a collision could not be
otherwise than fatal to his friends. Sand answered that he was ready
that very moment, and only asked time enough to take a bath, as the
ancients were accustomed to do before going into battle. But as the
verbal authorisation which he had given was not sufficient, a pen and
paper were given to Sand, and he wrote, with a steady hand and in his
usual writing:

"I thank the authorities of Mannheim for anticipating my most eager
wishes by making my execution six hours earlier.

"Sit nomen Domini benedictum.

"From the prison room, May 20th, day of my deliverance.

"KARL-LUDWIG SAND."


When Sand had given these two lines to the recorder, the physician came
to him to dress his wound, as usual. Sand looked at him with a smile,
and then asked, "Is it really worth the trouble?"

"You will be stronger for it," answered the physician.

"Then do it," said Sand.

A bath was brought. Sand lay down in it, and had his long and beautiful
hair arranged with the greatest care; then his toilet being completed, he
put on a frock-coat of the German shape--that is to say, short and with
the shirt collar turned back aver the shoulders, close white trousers,
and high boots. Then Sand seated himself on his bed and prayed some time
in a low voice with the clergy; then, when he had finished, he said these
two lines of Korner's:

"All that is earthly is ended,
And the life of heaven begins."

He next took leave of the physician and the priests, saying to them, "Do
not attribute the emotion of my voice to weakness but to gratitude."
Then, upon these gentlemen offering to accompany him to the scaffold, he
said, "There is no need; I am perfectly prepared, at peace with God and
with my conscience. Besides, am I not almost a Churchman myself?" And
when one of them asked whether he was not going out of life in a spirit
of hatred, he returned, "Why, good heavens! have I ever felt any?"

An increasing noise was audible from the street, and Sand said again that
he was at their disposal and that he was ready. At this moment the
executioner came in with his two assistants; he was dressed in a long
wadded black coat, beneath which he hid his sword. Sand offered him his
hand affectionately; and as Mr. Widemann, embarrassed by the sword which
he wished to keep Sand from seeing, did not venture to come forward, Sand
said to him, "Come along and show me your sword; I have never seen one of
the kind, and am curious to know what it is like."

Mr. Widemann, pale and trembling, presented the weapon to him; Sand
examined it attentively, and tried the edge with his finger.

"Come," said he, "the blade is good; do not tremble, and all will go
well." Then, turning to Mr. G----, who was weeping, he said to him, "You
will be good enough, will you not, to do me the service of leading me to
the scaffold?"

Mr. G----made a sign of assent with his head, for he could not answer.
Sand took his arm, and spoke for the third time, saying once more, "Well,
what are you waiting for, gentlemen? I am ready."

When they reached the courtyard, Sand saw all the prisoners weeping at
their windows. Although he had never seen them, they were old friends of
his; for every time they passed his door, knowing that the student who
had killed Kotzebue lay within, they used to lift their chain, that he
might not be disturbed by the noise.

All Mannheim was in the streets that led to the place of execution, and
many patrols were passing up and down. On the day when the sentence was
announced the whole town had been sought through for a chaise in which to
convey Sand to the scaffold, but no one, not even the coach-builders,
would either let one out or sell one; and it had been necessary,
therefore, to buy one at Heidelberg without saying for what purpose.

Sand found this chaise in the courtyard, and got into it with Mr. G----.
Turning to him, he whispered in his ear, "Sir, if you see me turn pale,
speak my name to me, my name only, do you hear? That will be enough."

The prison gate was opened, and Sand was seen; then every voice cried
with one impulse, "Farewell, Sand, farewell!"

And at the same time flowers, some of which fell into the carriage, were
thrown by the crowd that thronged the street, and from the windows. At
these friendly cries and at this spectacle, Sand, who until then had
shown no moment of weakness, felt tears rising in spite of himself, and
while he returned the greetings made to him on all sides, he murmured in
a low voice, "O my God, give me courage!"

This first outburst over, the procession set out amid deep silence; only
now and again same single voice would call out, "Farewell, Sand!" and a
handkerchief waved by some hand that rose out of the crowd would show
from what paint the last call came. On each side of the chaise walked
two of the prison officials, and behind the chaise came a second
conveyance with the municipal authorities.

The air was very cold: it had rained all night, and the dark and cloudy
sky seemed to share in the general sadness. Sand, too weak to remain
sitting up, was half lying upon the shoulder of Mr. G-----, his
companion; his face was gentle, calm and full of pain; his brow free and
open, his features, interesting though without regular beauty, seemed to
have aged by several years during the fourteen months of suffering that
had just elapsed. The chaise at last reached the place of execution,
which was surrounded by a battalion of infantry; Sand lowered his eyes
from heaven to earth and saw the scaffold. At this sight he smiled
gently, and as he left the carriage he said, "Well, God has given me
strength so far."

The governor of the prison and the chief officials lifted him that he
might go up the steps. During that short ascent pain kept him bowed, but
when he had reached the top he stood erect again, saying, "Here then is
the place where I am to die!"

Then before he came to the chair on which he was to be seated for the
execution, he turned his eyes towards Mannheim, and his gaze travelled
over all the throng that surrounded him; at that moment a ray of sunshine
broke through the clouds. Sand greeted it with a smile and sat down.

Then, as, according to the orders given, his sentence was to be read to
him a second time, he was asked whether he felt strong enough to hear it
standing. Sand answered that he would try, and that if his physical
strength failed him, his moral strength would uphold him. He rose
immediately from the fatal chair, begging Mr. G----to stand near enough
to support him if he should chance to stagger. The precaution was
unnecessary, Sand did not stagger.

After the judgment had been read, he sat down again and said in a laud
voice, "I die trusting in God."

But at these words Mr. G------interrupted him.

"Sand," said he, "what did you promise?"

"True," he answered; "I had forgotten." He was silent, therefore, to the
crowd; but, raising his right hand and extending it solemnly in the air,
he said in a low voice, so that he might be heard only by those who were
around him, "I take God to witness that I die for the freedom of
Germany."

Then, with these words, he did as Conradin did with his glove; he threw
his rolled-up handkerchief over the line of soldiers around him, into the
midst of the people.

Then the executioner came to cut off his hair; but Sand at first
objected.

"It is for your mother," said Mr. Widemann.

"On your honour, sir?" asked Sand.

"On my honour."

"Then do it," said Sand, offering his hair to the executioner.

Only a few curls were cut off, those only which fell at the back, the
others were tied with a ribbon on the top of the head. The executioner
then tied his hands on his breast, but as that position was oppressive to
him and compelled him an account of his wound to bend his head, his hands
were laid flat on his thighs and fixed in that position with ropes.
Then, when his eyes were about to be bound, he begged Mr. Widemann to
place the bandage in such a manner that he could see the light to his
last moment. His wish was fulfilled.

Then a profound and mortal stillness hovered over the whole crowd and
surrounded the scaffold. The executioner drew his sword, which flashed
like lightning and fell. Instantly a terrible cry rose at once from
twenty thousand bosoms; the head had not fallen, and though it had sunk
towards the breast still held to the neck. The executioner struck a
second time, and struck off at the same blow the head and a part of the
hand.

In the same moment, notwithstanding the efforts of the soldiers, their
line was broken through; men and women rushed upon the scaffold, the
blood was wiped up to the last drop with handkerchiefs; the chair upon
which Sand had sat was broken and divided into pieces, and those who
could not obtain one, cut fragments of bloodstained wood from the
scaffold itself.

The head and body were placed in a coffin draped with black, and carried
back, with a large military escort, to the prison. At midnight the body
was borne silently, without torches or lights, to the Protestant
cemetery, in which Kotzebue had been buried fourteen months previously.
A grave had been mysteriously dug; the coffin was lowered into it, and
those who were present at the burial were sworn upon the New Testament
not to reveal the spot where Sand was buried until such time as they were
freed from their oath. Then the grave was covered again with the turf,
that had been skilfully taken off, and that was relaid on the same spat,
so that no new grave could be perceived; then the nocturnal gravediggers
departed, leaving guards at the entrance.

There, twenty paces apart, Sand and Kotzebue rest: Kotzebue opposite the
gate in the most conspicuous spot of the cemetery, and beneath a tomb
upon which is engraved this inscription:

"The world persecuted him without pity, Calumny was his sad portion, He
found no happiness save in the arms of his wife, And no repose save in
the bosom of death. Envy dogged him to cover his path with thorns, Love
bade his roses blossom; May Heaven pardon him As he pardons earth!"

In contrast with this tall and showy monument, standing, as we have said,
in the most conspicuous spot of the cemetery, Sand's grave must be looked
far in the corner to the extreme left of the entrance gate; and a wild
plum tree, some leaves of which every passing traveller carries away,
rises alone upon the grave, which is devoid of any inscription.

As far the meadow in which Sand was executed, it is still called by the
people "Sand's Himmelsfartsweise," which signifies "The manner of Sand's
ascension."

Toward the end of September, 1838, we were at Mannheim, where I had
stayed three days in order to collect all the details I could find about
the life and death of Karl-Ludwig Sand. But at the end of these three
days, in spite of my active investigations, these details still remained
extremely incomplete, either because I applied in the wrong quarters, or
because, being a foreigner, I inspired same distrust in those to whom I
applied. I was leaving Mannheim, therefore, somewhat disappointed, and
after having visited the little Protestant cemetery where Sand and
Kotzebue are buried at twenty paces from each other, I had ordered my
driver to take the road to Heidelberg, when, after going a few yards, he,
who knew the object of my inquiries, stopped of himself and asked me
whether I should not like to see the place where Sand was executed. At
the same time he pointed to a little mound situated in the middle of a
meadow and a few steps from a brook. I assented eagerly, and although
the driver remained on the highroad with my travelling companions, I soon
recognised the spot indicated, by means of some relics of cypress
branches, immortelles, and forget-me-nots scattered upon the earth. It
will readily be understood that this sight, instead of diminishing my
desire for information, increased it. I was feeling, then, more than
ever dissatisfied at going away, knowing so little, when I saw a man of
some five-and-forty to fifty years old, who was walking a little distance
from the place where I myself was, and who, guessing the cause that drew
me thither, was looking at me with curiosity. I determined to make a last
effort, and going up to him, I said, "Oh, sir, I am a stranger; I am
travelling to collect all the rich and poetic traditions of your Germany.
By the way in which you look at me, I guess that you know which of them
attracts me to this meadow. Could you give me any information about the
life and death of Sand?"

"With what object, sir?" the person to whom I spoke asked me in almost
unintelligible French.

"With a very German object, be assured, sir," I replied. "From the
little I have learned, Sand seems to me to be one of those ghosts that
appear only the greater and the more poetic for being wrapped in a shroud
stained with blood. But he is not known in France; he might be put on
the same level there with a Fieschi or a Meunier, and I wish, to the best
of my ability, to enlighten the minds of my countrymen about him."

"It would be a great pleasure to me, sir, to assist in such an
undertaking; but you see that I can scarcely speak French; you do not
speak German at all; so that we shall find it difficult to understand
each other."

"If that is all," I returned, "I have in my carriage yonder an
interpreter, or rather an interpretress, with whom you will, I hope, be
quite satisfied, who speaks German like Goethe, and to whom, when you
have once begun to speak to her, I defy you not to tell everything."

"Let us go, then, sir," answered the pedestrian. "I ask no better than
to be agreeable to you."

We walked toward the carriage, which was still waiting on the highroad,
and I presented to my travelling companion the new recruit whom I had
just gained. The usual greetings were exchanged, and the dialogue began
in the purest Saxon. Though I did not understand a word that was said,
it was easy for me to see, by the rapidity of the questions and the
length of the answers, that the conversation was most interesting. At
last, at the end of half an hours growing desirous of knowing to what
point they had come, I said, "Well?"

"Well," answered my interpreter, "you are in luck's way, and you could
not have asked a better person."

"The gentleman knew Sand, then?"

"The gentleman is the governor of the prison in which Sand was confined."

"Indeed?"

"For nine months--that is to say, from the day he left the hospital--
this gentleman saw him every day."

"Excellent!"

"But that is not all: this gentleman was with him in the carriage that
took him to execution; this gentleman was with him on the scaffold;
there's only one portrait of Sand in all Mannheim, and this gentleman has
it."

I was devouring every word; a mental alchemist, I was opening my crucible
and finding gold in it.

"Just ask," I resumed eagerly, "whether the gentleman will allow us to
take down in writing the particulars that he can give me."

My interpreter put another question, then, turning towards me, said,
"Granted."

Mr. G----got into the carriage with us, and instead of going on to
Heidelberg, we returned to Mannheim, and alighted at the prison.

Mr. G---did not once depart from the ready kindness that he had shown.
In the most obliging manner, patient over the minutest trifles, and
remembering most happily, he went over every circumstance, putting
himself at my disposal like a professional guide. At last, when every
particular about Sand had been sucked dry, I began to ask him about the
manner in which executions were performed. "As to that," said he, "I can
offer you an introduction to someone at Heidelberg who can give you all
the information you can wish for upon the subject."

I accepted gratefully, and as I was taking leave of Mr. G----, after
thanking him a thousand times, he handed me the offered letter. It bore
this superscription: "To Herr-doctor Widemann, No. III High Street,
Heidelberg."

I turned to Mr. G----once more.

"Is he, by chance, a relation of the man who executed Sand?" I asked.

"He is his son, and was standing by when the head fell.".

"What is his calling, then?"

"The same as that of his father, whom he succeeded."

"But you call him 'doctor'?"

"Certainly; with us, executioners have that title."

"But, then, doctors of what?"

"Of surgery."

"Really?" said I. "With us it is just the contrary; surgeons are called
executioners."

"You will find him, moreover," added Mr. G----, "a very distinguished
young man, who, although he was very young at that time, has retained a
vivid recollection of that event. As for his poor father, I think he
would as willingly have cut off his own right hand as have executed Sand;
but if he had refused, someone else would have been found. So he had to
do what he was ordered to do, and he did his best."

I thanked Mr. G----, fully resolving to make use of his letter, and we
left for Heidelberg, where we arrived at eleven in the evening.

My first visit next day was to Dr. Widernann. It was not without some
emotion, which, moreover, I saw reflected upon, the faces of my
travelling companions, that I rang at the door of the last judge, as the
Germans call him. An old woman opened the door to us, and ushered us
into a pretty little study, on the left of a passage and at the foot of a
staircase, where we waited while Mr. Widemann finished dressing. This
little room was full of curiosities, madrepores, shells, stuffed birds,
and dried plants; a double-barrelled gun, a powder-flask, and a game-bag
showed that Mr. Widemann was a hunter.

After a moment we heard his footstep, and the door opened. Mr. Widemann
was a very handsome young man, of thirty or thirty-two, with black
whiskers entirely surrounding his manly and expressive face; his morning
dress showed a certain rural elegance. He seemed at first not only
embarrassed but pained by our visit. The aimless curiosity of which he
seemed to be the object was indeed odd. I hastened to give him Mr.
G----'s letter and to tell him what reason brought me. Then he gradually
recovered himself, and at last showed himself no less hospitable and
obliging towards us than he to whom we owed the introduction had been,
the day before.

Mr. Widemann then gathered together all his remembrances; he, too, had
retained a vivid recollection of Sand, and he told us among other things
that his father, at the risk of bringing himself into ill odour, had
asked leave to have a new scaffold made at his own expense, so that no
other criminal might be executed upon the altar of the martyr's death.
Permission had been given, and Mr. Widemann had used the wood of the
scaffold for the doors and windows of a little country house standing in
a vineyard. Then for three or four years this cottage became a shrine
for pilgrims; but after a time, little by little, the crowd grew less,
and at the present day, when some of those who wiped the blood from the
scaffold with their handkerchiefs have became public functionaries,
receiving salaries from Government, only foreigners ask, now and again,
to see these strange relics.

Mr. Widemann gave me a guide; for, after hearing everything, I wanted to
see everything. The house stands half a league away from Heidelberg, on
the left of the road to Carlsruhe, and half-way up the mountain-side. It
is perhaps the only monument of the kind that exists in the world.

Our readers will judge better from this anecdote than from anything more
we could say, what sort of man he was who left such a memory in the
hearts of his gaoler and his executioner.