WELL, I arranged all that; and
I had the man sent to his home.
I had a great desire to rack
the executioner; not because
he was a good, painstaking and
paingiving official, -- for surely
it was not to his discredit that
he performed his functions well
-- but to pay him back for wantonly
cuffing and otherwise distressing
that young woman. The priests
told me about this, and were
generously hot to have him punished.
Something of this disagreeable
sort was turning up every now
and then. I mean, episodes that
showed that not all priests were
frauds and self-seekers, but
that many, even the great majority,
of these that were down on the
ground among the common people,
were sincere and right-hearted,
and devoted to the alleviation
of human troubles and sufferings.
Well, it was a thing which could
not be helped, so I seldom fretted
about it, and never many minutes
at a time; it has never been
my way to bother much about things
which you can't cure. But I did
not like it, for it was just
the sort of thing to keep people
reconciled to an Established
Church. We MUST have a religion
-- it goes without saying --
but my idea is, to have it cut
up into forty free sects, so
that they will police each other,
as had been the case in the United
States in my time. Concentration
of power in a political machine
is bad; and and an Established
Church is only a political machine;
it was invented for that; it
is nursed, cradled, preserved
for that; it is an enemy to human
liberty, and does no good which
it could not better do in a split-up
and scattered condition. That
wasn't law; it wasn't gospel:
it was only an opinion -- my
opinion, and I was only a man,
one man: so it wasn't worth any
more than the pope's -- or any
less, for that matter.
Well, I couldn't rack the executioner,
neither would I overlook the
just complaint of the priests.
The man must be punished somehow
or other, so I degraded him from
his office and made him leader
of the band -- the new one that
was to be started. He begged
hard, and said he couldn't play
-- a plausible excuse, but too
thin; there wasn't a musician
in the country that could.
The queen was a good deal outraged,
next morning when she found she
was going to have neither Hugo's
life nor his property. But I
told her she must bear this cross;
that while by law and custom
she certainly was entitled to
both the man's life and his property,
there were extenuating circumstances,
and so in Arthur the king's name
I had pardoned him. The deer
was ravaging the man's fields,
and he had killed it in sudden
passion, and not for gain; and
he had carried it into the royal
forest in the hope that that
might make detection of the misdoer
impossible. Confound her, I couldn't
make her see that sudden passion
is an extenuating circumstance
in the killing of venison --
or of a person -- so I gave it
up and let her sulk it out I
DID think I was going to make
her see it by remarking that
her own sudden passion in the
case of the page modified that
crime.
"Crime!" she exclaimed. "How
thou talkest! Crime, forsooth!
Man, I am going to PAY for him!"
Oh, it was no use to waste
sense on her. Training -- training
is everything; training is all
there is TO a person. We speak
of nature; it is folly; there
is no such thing as nature; what
we call by that misleading name
is merely heredity and training.
We have no thoughts of our own,
no opinions of our own; they
are transmitted to us, trained
into us. All that is original
in us, and therefore fairly creditable
or discreditable to us, can be
covered up and hidden by the
point of a cambric needle, all
the rest being atoms contributed
by, and inherited from, a procession
of ancestors that stretches back
a billion years to the Adam-clam
or grasshopper or monkey from
whom our race has been so tediously
and ostentatiously and unprofitably
developed. And as for me, all
that I think about in this plodding
sad pilgrimage, this pathetic
drift between the eternities,
is to look out and humbly live
a pure and high and blameless
life, and save that one microscopic
atom in me that is truly ME:
the rest may land in Sheol and
welcome for all I care.
No, confound her, her intellect
was good, she had brains enough,
but her training made her an
ass -- that is, from a many-centuries-later
point of view. To kill the page
was no crime -- it was her right;
and upon her right she stood,
serenely and unconscious of offense.
She was a result of generations
of training in the unexamined
and unassailed belief that the
law which permitted her to kill
a subject when she chose was
a perfectly right and righteous
one.
Well, we must give even Satan
his due. She deserved a compliment
for one thing; and I tried to
pay it, but the words stuck in
my throat. She had a right to
kill the boy, but she was in
no wise obliged to pay for him.
That was law for some other people,
but not for her. She knew quite
well that she was doing a large
and generous thing to pay for
that lad, and that I ought in
common fairness to come out with
something handsome about it,
but I couldn't -- my mouth refused.
I couldn't help seeing, in my
fancy, that poor old grandma
with the broken heart, and that
fair young creature lying butchered,
his little silken pomps and vanities
laced with his golden blood.
How could she PAY for him! WHOM
could she pay? And so, well knowing
that this woman, trained as she
had been, deserved praise, even
adulation, I was yet not able
to utter it, trained as I had
been. The best I could do was
to fish up a compliment from
outside, so to speak -- and the
pity of it was, that it was true:
"Madame, your
people will adore you for this."
Quite true, but I meant to
hang her for it some day if I
lived. Some of those laws were
too bad, altogether too bad.
A master might kill his slave
for nothing -- for mere spite,
malice, or to pass the time --
just as we have seen that the
crowned head could do it with
HIS slave, that is to say, anybody.
A gentleman could kill a free
commoner, and pay for him --
cash or garden-truck. A noble
could kill a noble without expense,
as far as the law was concerned,
but reprisals in kind were to
be expected. ANYbody could kill
SOME- body, except the commoner
and the slave; these had no privileges.
If they killed, it was murder,
and the law wouldn't stand murder.
It made short work of the experimenter
-- and of his family, too, if
he murdered somebody who belonged
up among the ornamental ranks.
If a commoner gave a noble even
so much as a Damiens-scratch
which didn't kill or even hurt,
he got Damiens' dose for it just
the same; they pulled him to
rags and tatters with horses,
and all the world came to see
the show, and crack jokes, and
have a good time; and some of
the performances of the best
people present were as tough,
and as properly unprintable,
as any that have been printed
by the pleasant Casanova in his
chapter about the dismemberment
of Louis XV.'s poor awkward enemy.
I had had enough of this grisly
place by this time, and wanted
to leave, but I couldn't, because
I had something on my mind that
my conscience kept prodding me
about, and wouldn't let me forget.
If I had the remaking of man,
he wouldn't have any conscience.
It is one of the most disagreeable
things connected with a person;
and although it certainly does
a great deal of good, it cannot
be said to pay, in the long run;
it would be much better to have
less good and more comfort. Still,
this is only my opinion, and
I am only one man; others, with
less experience, may think differently.
They have a right to their view.
I only stand to this: I have
noticed my conscience for many
years, and I know it is more
trouble and bother to me than
anything else I started with.
I suppose that in the beginning
I prized it, because we prize
anything that is ours; and yet
how foolish it was to think so.
If we look at it in another way,
we see how absurd it is: if I
had an anvil in me would I prize
it? Of course not. And yet when
you come to think, there is no
real difference between a conscience
and an anvil -- I mean for comfort.
I have noticed it a thousand
times. And you could dissolve
an anvil with acids, when you
couldn't stand it any longer;
but there isn't any way that
you can work off a conscience
-- at least so it will stay worked
off; not that I know of, anyway.
There was something I wanted
to do before leaving, but it
was a disagreeable matter, and
I hated to go at it. Well, it
bothered me all the morning.
I could have mentioned it to
the old king, but what would
be the use? -- he was but an
extinct volcano; he had been
active in his time, but his fire
was out, this good while, he
was only a stately ash-pile now;
gentle enough, and kindly enough
for my purpose, without doubt,
but not usable. He was nothing,
this so-called king: the queen
was the only power there. And
she was a Vesuvius. As a favor,
she might consent to warm a flock
of sparrows for you, but then
she might take that very opportunity
to turn herself loose and bury
a city. However, I reflected
that as often as any other way,
when you are expecting the worst,
you get something that is not
so bad, after all.
So I braced
up and placed my matter before
her royal Highness.
I said I had been having a general
jail-delivery at Camelot and
among neighboring castles, and
with her permission I would like
to examine her collection, her
bric-a-brac -- that is to say,
her prisoners. She resisted;
but I was expecting that. But
she finally consented. I was
expecting that, too, but not
so soon. That about ended my
discomfort. She called her guards
and torches, and we went down
into the dungeons. These were
down under the castle's foundations,
and mainly were small cells hollowed
out of the living rock. Some
of these cells had no light at
all. In one of them was a woman,
in foul rags, who sat on the
ground, and would not answer
a question or speak a word, but
only looked up at us once or
twice, through a cobweb of tangled
hair, as if to see what casual
thing it might be that was disturbing
with sound and light the meaningless
dull dream that was become her
life; after that, she sat bowed,
with her dirt-caked fingers idly
interlocked in her lap, and gave
no further sign. This poor rack
of bones was a woman of middle
age, apparently; but only apparently;
she had been there nine years,
and was eighteen when she entered.
She was a commoner, and had been
sent here on her bridal night
by Sir Breuse Sance Pite, a neighboring
lord whose vassal her father
was, and to which said lord she
had refused what has since been
called le droit du seigneur,
and, moreover, had opposed violence
to violence and spilt half a
gill of his almost sacred blood.
The young husband had interfered
at that point. believing the
bride's life in danger, and had
flung the noble out into the
midst of the humble and trembling
wedding guests, in the parlor,
and left him there astonished
at this strange treatment, and
implacably embittered against
both bride and groom. The said
lord being cramped for dungeon-room
had asked the queen to accommodate
his two criminals, and here in
her bastile they had been ever
since; hither, indeed, they had
come before their crime was an
hour old, and had never seen
each other since. Here they were,
kenneled like toads in the same
rock; they had passed nine pitch
dark years within fifty feet
of each other, yet neither knew
whether the other was alive or
not. All the first years, their
only question had been -- asked
with beseechings and tears that
might have moved stones, in time,
perhaps, but hearts are not stones: "Is
he alive?" "Is she alive?" But
they had never got an answer;
and at last that question was
not asked any more -- or any
other.
I wanted to see the man, after
hearing all this. He was thirty-four
years old, and looked sixty.
He sat upon a squared block of
stone, with his head bent down,
his forearms resting on his knees,
his long hair hanging like a
fringe before his face, and he
was muttering to himself. He
raised his chin and looked us
slowly over, in a listless dull
way, blinking with the distress
of the torchlight, then dropped
his head and fell to muttering
again and took no further notice
of us. There were some pathetically
suggestive dumb witnesses present.
On his wrists and ankles were
cicatrices, old smooth scars,
and fastened to the stone on
which he sat was a chain with
manacles and fetters attached;
but this apparatus lay idle on
the ground, and was thick with
rust. Chains cease to be needed
after the spirit has gone out
of a prisoner.
I could not rouse the man;
so I said we would take him to
her, and see -- to the bride
who was the fairest thing in
the earth to him, once -- roses,
pearls, and dew made flesh, for
him; a wonder-work, the master-work
of nature: with eyes like no
other eyes, and voice like no
other voice, and a freshness,
and lithe young grace, and beauty,
that belonged properly to the
creatures of dreams -- as he
thought -- and to no other. The
sight of her would set his stagnant
blood leaping; the sight of her
--
But it was a disappointment.
They sat together on the ground
and looked dimly wondering into
each other's faces a while, with
a sort of weak animal curiosity;
then forgot each other's presence,
and dropped their eyes, and you
saw that they were away again
and wandering in some far land
of dreams and shadows that we
know nothing about.
I had them taken out and sent
to their friends. The queen did
not like it much. Not that she
felt any personal interest in
the matter, but she thought it
disrespectful to Sir Breuse Sance
Pite. However, I assured her
that if he found he couldn't
stand it I would fix him so that
he could.
I set forty-seven prisoners
loose out of those awful rat-holes,
and left only one in captivity.
He was a lord, and had killed
another lord, a sort of kinsman
of the queen. That other lord
had ambushed him to assassinate
him, but this fellow had got
the best of him and cut his throat.
However, it was not for that
that I left him jailed, but for
maliciously destroying the only
public well in one of his wretched
villages. The queen was bound
to hang him for killing her kinsman,
but I would not allow it: it
was no crime to kill an assassin.
But I said I was willing to let
her hang him for destroying the
well; so she concluded to put
up with that, as it was better
than nothing.
Dear me, for what trifling
offenses the most of those forty-seven
men and women were shut up there!
Indeed, some were there for no
distinct offense at all, but
only to gratify somebody's spite;
and not always the queen's by
any means, but a friend's. The
newest prisoner's crime was a
mere remark which he had made.
He said he believed that men
were about all alike, and one
man as good as another, barring
clothes. He said he believed
that if you were to strip the
nation naked and send a stranger
through the crowd, he couldn't
tell the king from a quack doctor,
nor a duke from a hotel clerk.
Apparently here was a man whose
brains had not been reduced to
an ineffectual mush by idiotic
training. I set him loose and
sent him to the Factory.
Some of the cells carved in
the living rock were just behind
the face of the precipice, and
in each of these an arrow-slit
had been pierced outward to the
daylight, and so the captive
had a thin ray from the blessed
sun for his comfort. The case
of one of these poor fellows
was particularly hard. From his
dusky swallow's hole high up
in that vast wall of native rock
he could peer out through the
arrow-slit and see his own home
off yonder in the valley; and
for twenty-two years he had watched
it, with heartache and longing,
through that crack. He could
see the lights shine there at
night, and in the daytime he
could see figures go in and come
out -- his wife and children,
some of them, no doubt, though
he could not make out at that
distance. In the course of years
he noted festivities there, and
tried to rejoice, and wondered
if they were weddings or what
they might be. And he noted funerals;
and they wrung his heart. He
could make out the coffin, but
he could not determine its size,
and so could not tell whether
it was wife or child. He could
see the procession form, with
priests and mourners, and move
solemnly away, bearing the secret
with them. He had left behind
him five children and a wife;
and in nineteen years he had
seen five funerals issue, and
none of them humble enough in
pomp to denote a servant. So
he had lost five of his treasures;
there must still be one remaining
-- one now infinitely, unspeakably
precious, -- but WHICH one? wife,
or child? That was the question
that tortured him, by night and
by day, asleep and awake. Well,
to have an interest, of some
sort, and half a ray of light,
when you are in a dungeon, is
a great support to the body and
preserver of the intellect. This
man was in pretty good condition
yet. By the time he had finished
telling me his distressful tale,
I was in the same state of mind
that you would have been in yourself,
if you have got average human
curiosity; that is to say, I
was as burning up as he was to
find out which member of the
family it was that was left.
So I took him over home myself;
and an amazing kind of a surprise
party it was, too -- typhoons
and cyclones of frantic joy,
and whole Niagaras of happy tears;
and by George! we found the aforetime
young matron graying toward the
imminent verge of her half century,
and the babies all men and women,
and some of them married and
experimenting familywise themselves
-- for not a soul of the tribe
was dead! Conceive of the ingenious
devilishness of that queen: she
had a special hatred for this
prisoner, and she had INVENTED
all those funerals herself, to
scorch his heart with; and the
sublimest stroke of genius of
the whole thing was leaving the
family-invoice a funeral SHORT,
so as to let him wear his poor
old soul out guessing.
But for me, he never would
have got out. Morgan le Fay hated
him with her whole heart, and
she never would have softened
toward him. And yet his crime
was committed more in thoughtlessness
than deliberate depravity. He
had said she had red hair. Well,
she had; but that was no way
to speak of it. When redheaded
people are above a certain social
grade their hair is auburn.
Consider it: among these forty-seven
captives there were five whose
names, offenses, and dates of
incarceration were no longer
known! One woman and four men
-- all bent, and wrinkled, and
mind-extinguished patriarchs.
They themselves had long ago
forgotten these details; at any
rate they had mere vague theories
about them, nothing definite
and nothing that they repeated
twice in the same way. The succession
of priests whose office it had
been to pray daily with the captives
and remind them that God had
put them there, for some wise
purpose or other, and teach them
that patience, humbleness, and
submission to oppression was
what He loved to see in parties
of a subordinate rank, had traditions
about these poor old human ruins,
but nothing more. These traditions
went but little way, for they
concerned the length of the incarceration
only, and not the names of the
offenses. And even by the help
of tradition the only thing that
could be proven was that none
of the five had seen daylight
for thirty-five years: how much
longer this privation has lasted
was not guessable. The king and
the queen knew nothing about
these poor creatures, except
that they were heirlooms, assets
inherited, along with the throne,
from the former firm. Nothing
of their history had been transmitted
with their persons, and so the
inheriting owners had considered
them of no value, and had felt
no interest in them. I said to
the queen:
"Then why in
the world didn't you set them
free?"
The question was a puzzler.
She didn't know WHY she hadn't,
the thing had never come up in
her mind. So here she was, forecasting
the veritable history of future
prisoners of the Castle d'If,
without knowing it. It seemed
plain to me now, that with her
training, those inherited prisoners
were merely property -- nothing
more, nothing less. Well, when
we inherit property, it does
not occur to us to throw it away,
even when we do not value it.
When I brought my procession
of human bats up into the open
world and the glare of the afternoon
sun -- previously blindfolding
them, in charity for eyes so
long untortured by light -- they
were a spectacle to look at.
Skeletons, scarecrows, goblins,
pathetic frights, every one;
legitimatest possible children
of Monarchy by the Grace of God
and the Established Church. I
muttered absently:
"I WISH I could
photograph them!"
You have seen that kind of
people who will never let on
that they don't know the meaning
of a new big word. The more ignorant
they are, the more pitifully
certain they are to pretend you
haven't shot over their heads.
The queen was just one of that
sort, and was always making the
stupidest blunders by reason
of it. She hesitated a moment;
then her face brightened up with
sudden comprehension, and she
said she would do it for me.
I thought to myself: She? why
what can she know about photography?
But it was a poor time to be
thinking. When I looked around,
she was moving on the procession
with an axe!
Well, she certainly was a curious
one, was Morgan le Fay. I have
seen a good many kinds of women
in my time, but she laid over
them all for variety. And how
sharply characteristic of her
this episode was. She had no
more idea than a horse of how
to photograph a procession; but
being in doubt, it was just like
her to try to do it with an axe. |