PUMPENHEIM.
When Adolf Hans Pumpenheim, farmer, was brought up for trial as a civil offender it is not too much to say that a shudder passed through the members of the Summary Court, which consisted of Major Blenkin and myself. This emotion was due not so much to the unprepossessing appearance of the prisoner as to the enormity of his offence.
He was charged upon two different counts: firstly, with being in illegal possession of two tins of corned beef and one cake of soap, the property of the British Government; secondly, with having offered a bribe of fifty marks to Second-Lieutenant Robinson in order to escape arrest.
The charge was translated to the prisoner by an interpreter, who in his turn appeared to feel the gravity of the occasion. He alluded with bated breath to the topic of corned beef; he slid, so to speak, over the soap; only in the mention of the fifty marks did his voice ring out confidently, as though righteous indignation had overcome the baser sentiment of pity. Pumpenheim listened in silence. When invited to plead Guilty or Not Guilty he made no reply.
Judges are only human. I cannot state that his innocence was presumed.
The evidence was brief. A corporal of foot police, after examining the articles produced in court, pronounced them to be indubitably two tins of corned beef and a cake of soap, and further declared that he had found them in the prisoner's house, no troops being at that time billeted upon him. Second-Lieutenant Robinson deposed that upon his arrival the prisoner had thrust a fifty-mark note into his hand, accompanying the action with gestures and grimaces suggestive of bribery.
Here we all looked at Pumpenheim. His features afforded no sign of intelligence or even of interest. For his particular benefit the evidence was translated. He was further invited to question the witnesses or to call testimony on his own behalf. To these offers he responded with a shrug indicating that he waived all rights.
The court was therefore cleared, and Major Blenkin and I proceeded to consider our verdict, with no other company than the dozen empty stools which had faced us during the trial, and which represented the inalienable right of the civil population to attend the court if they pleased. Custom forbids me to divulge the finding or the sentence. It will suffice to say that justice was tempered with mercy. We were about to readmit the prisoner, his escort and the imaginary public when my partner in the suppression of crime was struck by an idea.
"Look here," asked Major Blenkin, "what about the moral aspect?"
I hesitate to argue with Blenkin about moral questions, on which he speaks with authority. I therefore awaited his next remark.
"The moral aspect," Blenkin went on, "is most important. I intend to impress this fellow. I shall tell him that if he had been a French peasant and had offered a bribe to a German officer he would have been put against a wall and shot. Do you agree?"
I considered the proposition.
"No," I said, "I don't."
Blenkin threw me a suspicious glance. "Why not?" he asked.
"Too many assumptions," I said.
Blenkin bridled indignantly. It was on the tip of his tongue to charge me with being a pro-German. He controlled himself and rang a bell. "I shall hold to my own opinion," he remarked with some asperity.
The prisoner, his escort and the interpreter were marched in. Adolf Hans Pumpenheim created the customary diversion by turning to the right on the command, "Left turn," and the sergeant-major made the customary comments, undeterred by the prisoner's ignorance of English. The imaginary public filed in and occupied the vacant stools.
When this bustle had subsided, the finding and the sentence were read by Blenkin and duly translated by the interpreter. Pumpenheim was quite impassive, and maintained his composure throughout the small financial transaction which followed. He counted out his notes with an air of fatalism. Having obtained a receipt for the fine he made us a little bow and turned to leave the court.
"One moment," said Major Blenkin.
"Einen Augenblick," echoed the interpreter. Pumpenheim faced about and stood to attention.
Blenkin cleared his throat. "I will not dwell upon the moral aspect of your case," he said. The prisoner's features expressed neither relief nor surprise, but polite inquiry. Blenkin, slightly ruffled, enlarged upon the heinous nature of the crime and the leniency of the sentence. Finally he produced his masterpiece of comparison—the French peasant, the German officer, the attempted bribe, the execution. When the last grim lines of the imaginary history had been translated for him, Pumpenheim felt some observation on his part to be called for.
"So-o?" he said, "so-o?"
But I heard incredulity in his voice. Blenkin read it in his face. The prisoner did not believe a word of the tale. He was indifferent to the homily.
Blenkin, defeated, leaned back in his chair. "I give it up," he said. "You have a try at him."
I looked at Pumpenheim. His narrow eyes turned to me.
"If you had offered the money to a German officer," I said, and the interpreter repeated the words—"if you had offered the money to a German officer he—might—have—taken—it."
Slowly a look of comprehension crossed the face of Adolf Hans Pumpenheim. It was like sunrise upon his grey and stubbly countenance, where three days' growth of beard had thriven in the soil of the guard-room. He was not altogether happy, for he had been found guilty and had paid a fine. But in the course of this ceremony, which appeared to him mystical and obscure, he had encountered one familiar idea, one thought within his power of understanding. Rectitude was a stranger to him, but corruption an old friend: He was not abashed; rather, on the contrary, he was cheered and encouraged. I could see that his heart warmed to me in particular, and I believe that but for his respect for the Court he would have paid me the compliment of a wink.
"Let him go," said Blenkin; and the Court adjourned for lunch.
"SETTLED PEACE! I TELL YOU THERE'S NO SUCH THING. I BURIED THE HATCHET WITH MY STEP-MOTHER AFTER TEN YEARS, AND NEXT MORNING SHE WROTE, 'I'M GLAD YOU'VE SEEN THE ERROR OF YOUR WAYS.'"
"At Newcastle, this afternoon, the airmen, had a great reception. The Lord Mayor handed each a book of views of Newcastle and a box of cigarettes."—Pall Mall Gazette.
Who says England is not a land for heroes to live in?