CHAPTER VIII.
LAMENTATION.
They began to move forward.
They advanced through the passage.
There was no preliminary registry, no place of record. The prisons inthose times were not overburdened with documents. They were content toclose round you without knowing why. To be a prison, and to holdprisoners, sufficed.
The procession was obliged to lengthen itself out, taking the form ofthe corridor. They walked almost in single file; first the wapentake,then Gwynplaine, then the justice of the quorum, then the constables,advancing in a group, and blocking up the passage behind Gwynplaine aswith a bung. The passage narrowed. Now Gwynplaine touched the walls withboth his elbows. In the roof, which was made of flints, dashed withcement, was a succession of granite arches jutting out, and still morecontracting the passage. He had to stoop to pass under them. No speedwas possible in that corridor. Any one trying to escape through it wouldhave been compelled to move slowly. The passage twisted. All entrailsare tortuous; those of a prison as well as those of a man. Here andthere, sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left, spaces in thewall, square and closed by large iron gratings, gave glimpses of flightsof stairs, some descending and some ascending.
They reached a closed door; it opened. They passed through, and itclosed again. Then they came to a second door, which admitted them; thento a third, which also turned on its hinges. These doors seemed to openand shut of themselves. No one was to be seen. While the corridorcontracted, the roof grew lower, until at length it was impossible tostand upright. Moisture exuded from the wall. Drops of water fell fromthe vault. The slabs that paved the corridor were clammy as anintestine. The diffused pallor that served as light became more andmore a pall. Air was deficient, and, what was singularly ominous, thepassage was a descent.
Close observation was necessary to perceive that there was such adescent. In darkness a gentle declivity is portentous. Nothing is morefearful than the vague evils to which we are led by imperceptibledegrees.
It is awful to descend into unknown depths.
How long had they proceeded thus? Gwynplaine could not tell.
Moments passed under such crushing agony seem immeasurably prolonged.
Suddenly they halted.
The darkness was intense.
The corridor widened somewhat. Gwynplaine heard close to him a noise ofwhich only a Chinese gong could give an idea; something like a blowstruck against the diaphragm of the abyss. It was the wapentake strikinghis wand against a sheet of iron.
That sheet of iron was a door.
Not a door on hinges, but a door which was raised and let down.
Something like a portcullis.
There was a sound of creaking in a groove, and Gwynplaine was suddenlyface to face with a bit of square light. The sheet of metal had justbeen raised into a slit in the vault, like the door of a mouse-trap.
An opening had appeared.
The light was not daylight, but glimmer; but on the dilated eyeballs ofGwynplaine the pale and sudden ray struck like a flash of lightning.
It was some time before he could see anything. To see with dazzled eyesis as difficult as to see in darkness.
At length, by degrees, the pupil of his eye became proportioned to thelight, just as it had been proportioned to the darkness, and he was ableto distinguish objects. The light, which at first had seemed too bright,settled into its proper hue and became livid. He cast a glance into theyawning space before him, and what he saw was terrible.
At his feet were about twenty steps, steep, narrow, worn, almostperpendicular, without balustrade on either side, a sort of stone ridgecut out from the side of a wall into stairs, entering and leading intoa very deep cell. They reached to the bottom.
The cell was round, roofed by an ogee vault with a low arch, from thefault of level in the top stone of the frieze, a displacement common tocells under heavy edifices.
The kind of hole acting as a door, which the sheet of iron had justrevealed, and on which the stairs abutted, was formed in the vault, sothat the eye looked down from it as into a well.
The cell was large, and if it was the bottom of a well, it must havebeen a cyclopean one. The idea that the old word "_cul-de-basse-fosse_"awakens in the mind can only be applied to it if it were a lair of wildbeasts.
The cell was neither flagged nor paved. The bottom was of that cold,moist earth peculiar to deep places.
In the midst of the cell, four low and disproportioned columns sustaineda porch heavily ogival, of which the four mouldings united in theinterior of the porch, something like the inside of a mitre. This porch,similar to the pinnacles under which sarcophagi were formerly placed,rose nearly to the top of the vault, and made a sort of central chamberin the cavern, if that could be called a chamber which had only pillarsin place of walls.
From the key of the arch hung a brass lamp, round and barred like thewindow of a prison. This lamp threw around it--on the pillars, on thevault, on the circular wall which was seen dimly behind the pillars--awan light, cut by bars of shadow.
This was the light which had at first dazzled Gwynplaine; now it threwout only a confused redness.
There was no other light in the cell--neither window, nor door, norloophole.
Between the four pillars, exactly below the lamp, in the spot wherethere was most light, a pale and terrible form lay on the ground.
It was lying on its back; a head was visible, of which the eyes wereshut; a body, of which the chest was a shapeless mass; four limbsbelonging to the body, in the position of the cross of Saint Andrew,were drawn towards the four pillars by four chains fastened to each footand each hand.
These chains were fastened to an iron ring at the base of each column.The form was held immovable, in the horrible position of beingquartered, and had the icy look of a livid corpse.
It was naked. It was a man.
Gwynplaine, as if petrified, stood at the top of the stairs, lookingdown. Suddenly he heard a rattle in the throat.
The corpse was alive.
Close to the spectre, in one of the ogives of the door, on each side ofa great seat, which stood on a large flat stone, stood two men swathedin long black cloaks; and on the seat an old man was sitting, dressed ina red robe--wan, motionless, and ominous, holding a bunch of roses inhis hand.
The bunch of roses would have enlightened any one less ignorant thatGwynplaine. The right of judging with a nosegay in his hand implied theholder to be a magistrate, at once royal and municipal. The Lord Mayorof London still keeps up the custom. To assist the deliberations of thejudges was the function of the earliest roses of the season.
The old man seated on the bench was the sheriff of the county of Surrey.
His was the majestic rigidity of a Roman dignitary.
The bench was the only seat in the cell.
By the side of it was a table covered with papers and books, on whichlay the long, white wand of the sheriff. The men standing by the side ofthe sheriff were two doctors, one of medicine, the other of law; thelatter recognizable by the Serjeant's coif over his wig. Both wore blackrobes--one of the shape worn by judges, the other by doctors.
Men of these kinds wear mourning for the deaths of which they are thecause.
Behind the sheriff, at the edge of the flat stone under the seat, wascrouched--with a writing-table near to him, a bundle of papers on hisknees, and a sheet of parchment on the bundle--a secretary, in a roundwig, with a pen in his hand, in the attitude of a man ready to write.
This secretary was of the class called keeper of the bag, as was shownby a bag at his feet.
These bags, in former times employed in law processes, were termed bagsof justice.
With folded arms, leaning against a pillar, was a man entirely dressedin leather, the hangman's assistant.
These men seemed as if they had been fixed by enchantment in theirfunereal postures round the chained man. None of them spoke or moved.
There brooded over all a fearful calm.
What Gwynplaine saw was a torture chamber. There were many such inEngland.
The crypt of Beauchamp Tower long served this purpose, as did also thecell in the Lollards' prison. A place of this nature is still to be seenin London, called "the Vaults of Lady Place." In this last-mentionedchamber there is a grate for the purpose of heating the irons.
All the prisons of King John's time (and Southwark Jail was one) hadtheir chambers of torture.
The scene which is about to follow was in those days a frequent one inEngland, and might even, by criminal process, be carried out to-day,since the same laws are still unrepealed. England offers the curioussight of a barbarous code living on the best terms with liberty. Weconfess that they make an excellent family party.
Some distrust, however, might not be undesirable. In the case of acrisis, a return to the penal code would not be impossible. Englishlegislation is a tamed tiger with a velvet paw, but the claws are stillthere. Cut the claws of the law, and you will do well. Law almostignores right. On one side is penalty, on the other humanity.Philosophers protest; but it will take some time yet before the justiceof man is assimilated to the justice of God.
Respect for the law: that is the English phrase. In England theyvenerate so many laws, that they never repeal any. They save themselvesfrom the consequences of their veneration by never putting them intoexecution. An old law falls into disuse like an old woman, and theynever think of killing either one or the other. They cease to make useof them; that is all. Both are at liberty to consider themselves stillyoung and beautiful. They may fancy that they are as they were. Thispoliteness is called respect.
Norman custom is very wrinkled. That does not prevent many an Englishjudge casting sheep's eyes at her. They stick amorously to an antiquatedatrocity, so long as it is Norman. What can be more savage than thegibbet? In 1867 a man was sentenced to be cut into four quarters andoffered to a woman--the Queen.[18]
Still, torture was never practised in England. History asserts this asa fact. The assurance of history is wonderful.
Matthew of Westminster mentions that the "Saxon law, very clement andkind," did not punish criminals by death; and adds that "it limiteditself to cutting off the nose and scooping out the eyes." That was all!
Gwynplaine, scared and haggard, stood at the top of the steps, tremblingin every limb. He shuddered from head to foot. He tried to remember whatcrime he had committed. To the silence of the wapentake had succeededthe vision of torture to be endured. It was a step, indeed, forward; buta tragic one. He saw the dark enigma of the law under the power of whichhe felt himself increasing in obscurity.
The human form lying on the earth rattled in its throat again.
Gwynplaine felt some one touching him gently on his shoulder.
It was the wapentake.
Gwynplaine knew that meant that he was to descend.
He obeyed.
He descended the stairs step by step. They were very narrow, each eightor nine inches in height. There was no hand-rail. The descent requiredcaution. Two steps behind Gwynplaine followed the wapentake, holding uphis iron weapon; and at the same interval behind the wapentake, thejustice of the quorum.
As he descended the steps, Gwynplaine felt an indescribable extinctionof hope. There was death in each step. In each one that he descendedthere died a ray of the light within him. Growing paler and paler, hereached the bottom of the stairs.
The larva lying chained to the four pillars still rattled in its throat.
A voice in the shadow said,--
"Approach!"
It was the sheriff addressing Gwynplaine.
Gwynplaine took a step forward.
"Closer," said the sheriff.
The justice of the quorum murmured in the ear of Gwynplaine, so gravelythat there was solemnity in the whisper, "You are before the sheriff ofthe county of Surrey."
Gwynplaine advanced towards the victim extended in the centre of thecell. The wapentake and the justice of the quorum remained where theywere, allowing Gwynplaine to advance alone.
When Gwynplaine reached the spot under the porch, close to thatmiserable thing which he had hitherto perceived only from a distance,but which was a living man, his fear rose to terror. The man who waschained there was quite naked, except for that rag so hideously modest,which might be called the vineleaf of punishment, the _succingulum_ ofthe Romans, and the _christipannus_ of the Goths, of which the oldGallic jargon made _cripagne_. Christ wore but that shred on the cross.
The terror-stricken sufferer whom Gwynplaine now saw seemed a man ofabout fifty or sixty years of age. He was bald. Grizzly hairs of beardbristled on his chin. His eyes were closed, his mouth open. Every toothwas to be seen. His thin and bony face was like a death's-head. His armsand legs were fastened by chains to the four stone pillars in the shapeof the letter X. He had on his breast and belly a plate of iron, and onthis iron five or six large stones were laid. His rattle was at times asigh, at times a roar.
The sheriff, still holding his bunch of roses, took from the table withthe hand which was free his white wand, and standing up said, "Obedienceto her Majesty."
Then he replaced the wand upon the table.
Then in words long-drawn as a knell, without a gesture, and immovable asthe sufferer, the sheriff, raising his voice, said,--
"Man, who liest here bound in chains, listen for the last time to thevoice of justice; you have been taken from your dungeon and brought tothis jail. Legally summoned in the usual forms, _formaliis verbispressus_; not regarding to lectures and communications which have beenmade, and which will now be repeated, to you; inspired by a bad andperverse spirit of tenacity, you have preserved silence, and refused toanswer the judge. This is a detestable licence, which constitutes, amongdeeds punishable by cashlit, the crime and misdemeanour of overseness."
The serjeant of the coif on the right of the sheriff interrupted him,and said, with an indifference indescribably lugubrious in its effect,"_Overhernessa_. Laws of Alfred and of Godrun, chapter the sixth."
The sheriff resumed.
"The law is respected by all except by scoundrels who infest the woodswhere the hinds bear young."
Like one clock striking after another, the serjeant said,--
"_Qui faciunt vastum in foresta ubi damoe solent founinare_."
"He who refuses to answer the magistrate," said the sheriff, "issuspected of every vice. He is reputed capable of every evil."
The serjeant interposed.
"_Prodigus, devorator, profusus, salax, ruffianus, ebriosus, luxuriosus,simulator, consumptor patrimonii, elluo, ambro, et gluto_."
"Every vice," said the sheriff, "means every crime. He who confessesnothing, confesses everything. He who holds his peace before thequestions of the judge is in fact a liar and a parricide."
"_Mendax et parricida_," said the serjeant.
The sheriff said,--
"Man, it is not permitted to absent oneself by silence. To pretendcontumaciousness is a wound given to the law. It is like Diomedewounding a goddess. Taciturnity before a judge is a form of rebellion.Treason to justice is high treason. Nothing is more hateful or rash. Hewho resists interrogation steals truth. The law has provided for this.For such cases, the English have always enjoyed the right of the foss,the fork, and chains."
"_Anglica Charta_, year 1088," said the serjeant. Then with the samemechanical gravity he added, "_Ferrum, et fossam, et furcas cum aliislibertatibus_."
The sheriff continued,--
"Man! Forasmuch as you have not chosen to break silence, though of soundmind and having full knowledge in respect of the subject concerningwhich justice demands an answer, and forasmuch as you are diabolicallyrefractory, you have necessarily been put to torture, and you have been,by the terms of the criminal statutes, tried by the '_Peine forte etdure_.' This is what has been done to you, for the law requires that Ishould fully inform you. You have been brought to this dungeon. You havebeen stripped of your clothes. You have been laid on your back naked onthe ground, your limbs have been
stretched and tied to the four pillarsof the law; a sheet of iron has been placed on your chest, and as manystones as you can bear have been heaped on your belly, 'and more,' saysthe law."
"_Plusque_," affirmed the serjeant.
The sheriff continued,--
"In this situation, and before prolonging the torture, a second summonsto answer and to speak has been made you by me, sheriff of the county ofSurrey, and you have satanically kept silent, though under torture,chains, shackles, fetters, and irons."
"_Attachiamenta legalia_," said the serjeant.
"On your refusal and contumacy," said the sheriff, "it being right thatthe obstinacy of the law should equal the obstinacy of the criminal, theproof has been continued according to the edicts and texts. The firstday you were given nothing to eat or drink."
"_Hoc est superjejunare_," said the serjeant.
There was silence, the awful hiss of the man's breathing was heard fromunder the heap of stones.
The serjeant-at-law completed his quotation.
"_Adde augmentum abstinentiae ciborum diminutione. Consuetudobrittanica_, art. 504."
The two men, the sheriff and the serjeant, alternated. Nothing could bemore dreary than their imperturbable monotony. The mournful voiceresponded to the ominous voice; it might be said that the priest and thedeacon of punishment were celebrating the savage mass of the law.
The sheriff resumed,--
"On the first day you were given nothing to eat or drink. On the secondday you were given food, but nothing to drink. Between your teeth werethrust three mouthfuls of barley bread. On the third day they gave youto drink, but nothing to eat. They poured into your mouth at threedifferent times, and in three different glasses, a pint of water takenfrom the common sewer of the prison. The fourth day is come. It isto-day. Now, if you do not answer, you will be left here till you die.Justice wills it."
The Serjeant, ready with his reply, appeared.
"_Mors rei homagium est bonae legi_."
"And while you feel yourself dying miserably," resumed the sheriff, "noone will attend to you, even when the blood rushes from your throat,your chin, and your armpits, and every pore, from the mouth to theloins."
"_A throtabolla_," said the Serjeant, "_et pabu et subhircis et agrugno usque ad crupponum_."
The sheriff continued,--
"Man, attend to me, because the consequences concern you. If yourenounce your execrable silence, and if you confess, you will only behanged, and you will have a right to the meldefeoh, which is a sum ofmoney."
"_Damnum confitens_," said the Serjeant, "_habeat le meldefeoh. LegesInae_, chapter the twentieth."
"Which sum," insisted the sheriff, "shall be paid in doitkins, suskins,and galihalpens, the only case in which this money is to pass, accordingto the terms of the statute of abolition, in the third of Henry V., andyou will have the right and enjoyment of _scortum ante mortem_, and thenbe hanged on the gibbet. Such are the advantages of confession. Does itplease you to answer to justice?"
The sheriff ceased and waited.
The prisoner lay motionless.
The sheriff resumed,--
"Man, silence is a refuge in which there is more risk than safety. Theobstinate man is damnable and vicious. He who is silent before justiceis a felon to the crown. Do not persist in this unfilial disobedience.Think of her Majesty. Do not oppose our gracious queen. When I speak toyou, answer her; be a loyal subject."
The patient rattled in the throat.
The sheriff continued,--
"So, after the seventy-two hours of the proof, here we are at the fourthday. Man, this is the decisive day. The fourth day has been fixed by thelaw for the confrontation."
"_Quarta die, frontem ad frontem adduce_," growled the Serjeant.
"The wisdom of the law," continued the sheriff, "has chosen this lasthour to hold what our ancestors called 'judgment by mortal cold,' seeingthat it is the moment when men are believed on their yes or their no."
The serjeant on the right confirmed his words.
"_Judicium pro frodmortell, quod homines credendi sint per suum ya etper suum no_. Charter of King Adelstan, volume the first, page onehundred and sixty-three."
There was a moment's pause; then the sheriff bent his stern face towardsthe prisoner.
"Man, who art lying there on the ground--"
He paused.
"Man," he cried, "do you hear me?"
The man did not move.
"In the name of the law," said the sheriff, "open your eyes."
The man's lids remained closed.
The sheriff turned to the doctor, who was standing on his left.
"Doctor, give your diagnostic."
"_Probe, da diagnosticum_," said the serjeant.
The doctor came down with magisterial stiffness, approached the man,leant over him, put his ear close to the mouth of the sufferer, felt thepulse at the wrist, the armpit, and the thigh, then rose again.
"Well?" said the sheriff.
"He can still hear," said the doctor.
"Can he see?" inquired the sheriff.
The doctor answered, "He can see."
On a sign from the sheriff, the justice of the quorum and the wapentakeadvanced. The wapentake placed himself near the head of the patient. Thejustice of the quorum stood behind Gwynplaine.
The doctor retired a step behind the pillars.
Then the sheriff, raising the bunch of roses as a priest about tosprinkle holy water, called to the prisoner in a loud voice, and becameawful.
"O wretched man, speak! The law supplicates before she exterminates you.You, who feign to be mute, remember how mute is the tomb. You, whoappear deaf, remember that damnation is more deaf. Think of the deathwhich is worse than your present state. Repent! You are about to be leftalone in this cell. Listen! you who are my likeness; for I am a man!Listen, my brother, because I am a Christian! Listen, my son, because Iam an old man! Look at me; for I am the master of your sufferings, and Iam about to become terrible. The terrors of the law make up the majestyof the judge. Believe that I myself tremble before myself. My own poweralarms me. Do not drive me to extremities. I am filled by the holymalice of chastisement. Feel, then, wretched man, the salutary andhonest fear of justice, and obey me. The hour of confrontation is come,and you must answer. Do not harden yourself in resistance. Do not thatwhich will be irrevocable. Think that your end belongs to me. Half man,half corpse, listen! At least, let it not be your determination toexpire here, exhausted for hours, days, and weeks, by frightful agoniesof hunger and foulness, under the weight of those stones, alone in thiscell, deserted, forgotten, annihilated, left as food for the rats andthe weasels, gnawed by creatures of darkness while the world comes andgoes, buys and sells, whilst carriages roll in the streets above yourhead. Unless you would continue to draw painful breath without remissionin the depths of this despair--grinding your teeth, weeping,blaspheming--without a doctor to appease the anguish of your wounds,without a priest to offer a divine draught of water to your soul. Oh! ifonly that you may not feel the frightful froth of the sepulchre oozeslowly from your lips, I adjure and conjure you to hear me. I call youto your own aid. Have pity on yourself. Do what is asked of you. Giveway to justice. Open your eyes, and see if you recognize this man!"
The prisoner neither turned his head nor lifted his eyelids.
The sheriff cast a glance first at the justice of the quorum and then atthe wapentake.
The justice of the quorum, taking Gwynplaine's hat and mantle, put hishands on his shoulders and placed him in the light by the side of thechained man. The face of Gwynplaine stood out clearly from thesurrounding shadow in its strange relief.
At the same time, the wapentake bent down, took the man's templesbetween his hands, turned the inert head towards Gwynplaine, and withhis thumbs and his first fingers lifted the closed eyelids.
The prisoner saw Gwynplaine. Then, raising his head voluntarily, andopening his eyes wide, he looked at him.
He quivered as much as a man can quiver w
ith a mountain on his breast,and then cried out,--
"'Tis he! Yes; 'tis he!"
And he burst into a horrible laugh.
"'Tis he!" he repeated.
Then his head fell back on the ground, and he closed his eyes again.
"Registrar, take that down," said the justice.
Gwynplaine, though terrified, had, up to that moment, preserved a calmexterior. The cry of the prisoner, "'Tis he!" overwhelmed himcompletely. The words, "Registrar, take that down!" froze him. It seemedto him that a scoundrel had dragged him to his fate without his beingable to guess why, and that the man's unintelligible confession wasclosing round him like the clasp of an iron collar. He fancied himselfside by side with him in the posts of the same pillory. Gwynplaine losthis footing in his terror, and protested. He began to stammer incoherentwords in the deep distress of an innocent man, and quivering, terrified,lost, uttered the first random outcries that rose to his mind, and wordsof agony like aimless projectiles.
"It is not true. It was not me. I do not know the man. He cannot knowme, since I do not know him. I have my part to play this evening. Whatdo you want of me? I demand my liberty. Nor is that all. Why have I beenbrought into this dungeon? Are there laws no longer? You may as well sayat once that there are no laws. My Lord Judge, I repeat that it is notI. I am innocent of all that can be said. I know I am. I wish to goaway. This is not justice. There is nothing between this man and me. Youcan find out. My life is not hidden up. They came and took me away likea thief. Why did they come like that? How could I know the man? I am atravelling mountebank, who plays farces at fairs and markets. I am theLaughing Man. Plenty of people have been to see me. We are staying inTarrinzeau Field. I have been earning an honest livelihood these fifteenyears. I am five-and-twenty. I lodge at the Tadcaster Inn. I am calledGwynplaine. My lord, let me out. You should not take advantage of thelow estate of the unfortunate. Have compassion on a man who has done noharm, who is without protection and without defence. You have before youa poor mountebank."
"I have before me," said the sheriff, "Lord Fermain Clancharlie, BaronClancharlie and Hunkerville, Marquis of Corleone in Sicily, and a peerof England."
Rising, and offering his chair to Gwynplaine, the sheriff added,--
"My lord, will your lordship deign to seat yourself?"
BOOK THE FIFTH.
_THE SEA AND FATE ARE MOVED BY THE SAME BREATH._