The Man Who Laughs (Estes and Lauriat 1869)/Chapter 74

by Victor Hugo

CHAPTER VIII.

LAMENTATION.

THEY began to move forward through the passage. There was no preliminary registry, no place of record. The prisons in those days were not overburdened with documents. They were content to close round you without knowing why. To be a prison, and to hold prisoners, sufficed.

The procession was obliged to lengthen itself out, by reason of the narrowness of the 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 completely blocking up the passage behind Gwynplaine. The passage narrowed. Now Gwynplaine touched the walls with both his elbows. In the roof, which was made of flints, dashed with cement, was a succession of projecting granite arches contracting the passage still more. He had to stoop to pass under them. No rapid advance was possible in that corridor. Any one trying to escape through it would have been compelled to move slowly. The passage twisted. All entrails are tortuous,—those of a prison as well as those of a man. Here and there, sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left, spaces in the wall, square and closed by large iron gratings, afforded glimpses of flights of stairs, some descending and some ascending.

They reached a closed door; it opened. They passed through, and it closed again. Then they came to a second door, which admitted them, then to a third, which also turned on its hinges. These doors seemed to open and shut of themselves. No person was visible. As the corridor contracted, the roof grew lower, until at length it was impossible to stand upright. Moisture exuded from the wall. Drops of water fell from the vaulted roof. The slabs that paved the corridor were covered with slime. The pale, wan light became more and more pall-like. Air was deficient, and what was singularly ominous, the passage seemed to be a descent. Close observation was necessary to perceive that there was such a descent. In darkness even a gentle declivity is portentous. Nothing is more fearful than the vague evils to which we are led by imperceptible degrees. It is awful to descend into unknown depths.

How long 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 had widened somewhat. Gwynplaine heard close to him a sound similar to that made by a Chinese gong. It was the wapentake striking his wand against a sheet of iron. The sheet of iron was a door,—not a door on hinges, but a door which could be raised and lowered; something like a portcullis.

There was a sound of creaking in a groove, and Gwynplaine was suddenly face to face with a bit of square light. The sheet of metal had just been 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 of Gwynplaine the pale ray struck like a flash of lightning. It was some time before he could distinguish anything. To see with dazzled eyes is as difficult as it is to see in darkness. At length, by degrees, the pupil of his eye adapted itself to the light, just as it had adapted itself to the darkness, and he was able to distinguish objects. The light, which had seemed at first too bright, settled into its proper hue and became livid. He cast a glance into the yawning space before him, and what he saw was terrible.

At his feet were about twenty steps, steep, narrow, worn, almost perpendicular, without balustrade on either side,—a sort of stone ridge cut out from the side of a wall into stairs, and leading into a very deep cell, into which one gazed down as into a well. The cell was large, and if it was really the bottom of a well, it must have been a cyclopean one. The idea that the old word "cul-de-basse-fosse" awakens in the mind could only be applied to it if it was supposed to be a den of wild beasts. 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 sustained a deeply arched canopy, the four mouldings of which united in the interior of the canopy, something like the inside of a mitre. This covering, similar to those under which sarcophagi were formerly placed, rose nearly to the top of the vault, and made a sort of central chamber in the cave, if that can be styled a chamber which has only pillars in place of walls. From the centre of the arch hung a brass lamp, round and barred like the window of a prison. This lamp threw around it—on the pillars, on the vault, on the circular wall which was seen dimly behind the pillars—a wan light, cut by bars of shadow. This was the light which had at first dazzled Gwynplaine; now it seemed only a confused redness. There was no other light in the cell,—neither window, nor door, nor loop-hole.

 

In the Torture Chamber.

Photo-Etching.—From Drawing by G. Rochegrosse.

 

Between the four pillars, exactly under the lamp, in the spot where there was most light, a pale and terrible form lay extended on the ground. It was lying on its back; a head was visible, the eyes of which were shut; also a body, the chest of which was a shapeless mass. The four limbs belonging to the body were drawn towards the four pillars by four chains fastened to each foot and each hand in the position of the cross of Saint Andrew. These chains were fastened to an iron ring at the base of each column. The form was thus held immovable, in the horrible position of being quartered, and had the icy look of a livid corpse. It was naked. It was a man.

Gwynplaine stood at the top of the stairs as if petrified, looking down. Suddenly he heard a rattle in the throat. The corpse was alive.

Close to the spectre, in one of the arches, on each side of a tall chair placed on a large flat stone, stood two men enveloped in long black cloaks; and in the chair sat an old man, dressed in a red robe, pale, motionless, and austere, holding a bunch of roses in his hand. The bunch of roses would have enlightened any one less ignorant than Gwynplaine. The right of judging with a nosegay in his hand implied the holder to be both a royal and municipal magistrate. The Lord Mayor of London still keeps up the custom. To assist the deliberations of the judges was the function of the earliest roses of the season.

The old man seated in the chair was the sheriff of the county of Surrey. His was the majestic rigidity of a Roman dignitary. The chair was the only seat in the cell. Beside it was a table covered with papers and books, on which lay the long white wand of the sheriff. The men standing by the side of the sheriff were two doctors, one of medicine, the other of law; the latter recognizable by the serjeant's coif over his wig. Both wore black robes,—one of the shape worn by judges, the other by doctors. Men of these professions wear mourning for the deaths which they cause.

Behind the sheriff, on the edge of the flat stone under the seat,—with a writing-table near him, a bundle of papers on his knees, and a sheet of parchment on the bundle,—crouched a secretary, in a round wig, 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 shown by a bag at his feet. These bags, employed in former times in law-suits were termed bags of justice. Leaning against a pillar with folded arms was a man clothed entirely in leather,—the hangman's assistant. These men seemed as if they had been fixed by enchantment in their funereal postures round the chained man. No one of them either spoke or moved. A fearful silence brooded over all.

What Gwynplaine saw was a torture chamber. There were many such in England. The crypt of Beauchamp Tower long served this purpose, as did also a cell in the Lollards' prison. A place of this nature is still to be seen in London, called "the Vaults of Lady Place." In this last-mentioned chamber there is a grate for the purpose of heating the irons. All the prisons of King John's time (and Southwark Jail was one) had their chambers of torture.

The scene which is about to follow was in those days a frequent occurrence in England, and might even be repeated to-day, since the same laws are still unrepealed. England presents the curious spectacle of a barbarous code of laws living on the best of terms with liberty. We confess that they make an excellent family party. Some distrust, however, might not be undesirable. In the case of a crisis, a return to the penal code would not be impossible. English legislation is a tamed tiger with a velvet paw, but the claws are still there. Cut the claws of the law, and you will do well. Law almost ignores right. On one side is penalty, on the other hu- manity. Philosophers protest; but it will take some time yet before the justice of man is assimilated to the justice of God.

Respect for the law,—that is the English phrase. In England they venerate the laws so much that they never repeal any; but they save themselves from the consequences of this veneration by never putting these laws into execution. An old law falls into disuse like an old woman, and they never think of killing either one or the other. They cease to make use of them,—that is all. Both are at liberty to consider themselves still young and beautiful. They allow them to suppose that they still exist. This politeness is called respect. Norman custom is very wrinkled, but that does not prevent many an English judge from casting sheep's eyes at her. They stick amorously to an antiquated atrocity, so long as it is Norman. What can be more savage than the gibbet? In 1867 a man was sentenced to be cut into quarters and offered to a woman,—the queen.

Still, torture was never practised in England; history asserts this as a fact. The assurance of history is wonderful. Matthew of Westminster mentions that the "Saxon law, very clement and kind," did not punish criminals by death; and adds that "it limited itself to cutting off the nose and scooping out the eyes." That was all!

Gwynplaine, scared and haggard, stood at the top of the steps, trembling in every limb. He shuddered from head to foot. He tried to think what crime he could have committed. To the silence of the wapentake succeeded the vision of torture to be endured. It was a step forward; but a tragic one. The grim enigma of his seizure was becoming more and more obscure. The human form lying on the earth rattled in its throat again. Gwynplaine felt some one touch him gently on the 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 eight or nine inches in height. There was no hand-rail. The descent required caution. Two steps behind Gwynplaine followed the wapentake, holding up his iron weapon; and at the same distance behind the wapentake, the justice of the quorum.

As he descended the steps, Gwynplaine felt an indescribable extinction of hope. There was death in every step. With each one that he descended a ray of the light within him died. Growing paler and paler, he reached the bottom of the stairs. The spectre 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 gravely that there was solemnity in the whisper: "You are before the sheriff of the county of Surrey."

Gwynplaine advanced towards the victim extended in the centre of the cell. The wapentake and the justice of the quorum remained where they were, allowing Gwynplaine to advance alone. When he reached the miserable object which he had hitherto seen only from a distance, but which was a living man, his fear increased to terror. The man who was chained there was quite naked, except for that hideously modest rag which might be called the vineleaf of punishment, the succingulum of the Eomans, and the christipannus of the Goths, which the old Gallic jargon converted into cripagne. Christ wore only that shred upon the cross.

The terror-stricken sufferer, whom Gwynplaine now saw distinctly, seemed a man about fifty or sixty years of age. He was bald. A few grizzly hairs bristled on his chin. His eyes were closed; his mouth open. Every tooth could be seen. His thin and bony face was like a death's-head. His arms and legs were fastened by chains to the four stone pillars in the shape of the letter X. He had on his breast and belly an iron plate, on which five or six large stones were laid. His rattle was at times a sigh, at times a roar.

The sheriff, still holding his bunch of roses, took from the table with the hand which was free his white wand, and standing up said, "Obedience to her Majesty." Then he replaced the wand upon the table. Then in words long-drawn as a knell, without a gesture, and immovable as the sufferer, the sheriff, raising his voice, said:—

"Man, who liest here bound in chains, listen for the last time to the voice of justice! You have been taken from your dungeon and brought to this jail. Legally summoned in the usual forms, formaliis verbis pressus; not regarding lectures and communications which have been made, and which will now be repeated, to you; inspired by a bad and perverse spirit of obstinacy, you have preserved silence, and refused to answer the judge. This is a detestable offence, which constitutes, among deeds 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 which was 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 woods where the hinds bear young."

Like one clock striking after another, the serjeant said, "Qui faciunt vastum in foresta ubi damæ solent founinare."

"He who refuses to answer the magistrate," said the sheriff, "is suspected of every vice. He is supposed 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 confesses nothing confesses everything. He who holds his peace before the questions of the judge is in fact a liar and a parricide."

"Mendax et parricida," said the serjeant.

The sheriff said: "Man, it is not permissible to protect one's self by silence. To pretend contumaciousness is a wound given to the law; it is like Diomede wounding a goddess. Taciturnity before a judge is one form of rebellion. Treason to justice is high treason. Nothing is more hateful or rash. He who resists interrogation hides the 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 same mechanical gravity, he added: "Ferrum, et fossam, et furcas cum aliis libertatibus."

The sheriff continued: "Man! Inasmuch as you have not chosen to break silence, though of sound mind and having full knowledge in respect to the subject concerning which justice demands an answer, and inasmuch as you are diabolically refractory, you have necessarily been put to torture; and you have been, by the terms of the criminal statutes, tried by the 'Peine forte et dure.' This is what has been done to you, for the law requires that I should fully inform you. You have been brought to this dungeon; you have been stripped of your clothes; you have been laid on your back naked on the ground; your limbs have been stretched and tied to the four pillars of the law; a sheet of iron has been placed on your chest, and as many stones as you can bear have been heaped on your belly, 'and more,' says the law."

"Plusque," affirmed the serjeant.

The sheriff continued: "In this situation, and before prolonging the torture, a second summons to answer and to speak has been made to you by me, sheriff of the county of Surrey, and you have satanically kept silent, though under torture, chains, shackles, fetters, and irons."

"Attachiamenta legalia," said the serjeant.

"On your continued refusal and contumacy," said the sheriff, "it being right that the obstinacy of the law should equal the obstinacy of the criminal, the test has been continued according to the edicts and texts. The first day you were given nothing to eat or drink."

"Hoc est superjejunare," said the serjeant.

In the silence, the awful hiss of a man's breathing was distinctly audible from under the heap of stones.

The serjeant-at-law completed his quotation: "Adde augmentum abstinentiæ ciborum diminutione. Consuetudo brittanica, art. 504."

The two men, the sheriff and the serjeant, alternated. Nothing could be more dreary than their imperturbable monotony. The mournful voice responded to the ominous voice; it might be said that the priest and the deacon of punishment were celebrating the high mass of the law.

The sheriff resumed: "On the first day you were given nothing to eat or drink. On the second day you were given food, but nothing to drink. Between your teeth were thrust three mouthfuls of barley bread. On the third day they gave you drink, but nothing to eat. They poured into your mouth at three different times, and from three different glasses, a pint of water taken from the common sewer of the prison. The fourth day is come. It is to-day. Now, if you do not answer, you will be left here till you die. Justice wills it."

"Mors rei homagium est bonæ legi," promptly reiterated the serjeant.

"And when you feel yourself dying miserably," resumed the sheriff, "no one will attend you, even when the blood rushes from your throat, your chin, and your armpits, and from every pore, from your mouth to your loins."

"A throtabolla," said the serjeant, "et pabus et subhircis et a grugno usque ad crupponum."

The sheriff continued: "Man, listen to me, because the consequences deeply concern you. If you renounce your execrable silence, and confess, you will only be hanged, and you will have a right to the meldefeoh, which is a sum of money."

"Damnum confitens," said the serjeant, "habeat le meldefeoh. Leges Inæ, chapter the twentieth."

"Which sum," insisted the sheriff, "shall be paid in doitkins, suskins, and galihalpens, according to the provisions of Death Statute III. of Henry V., and you will have the right and enjoyment of scortum ante mortem, and then be hanged on the gibbet. Such are the advantages of confession. Does it please you to respond 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. The obstinate man is damnable and vicious. He who is silent before the authorities is 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 to you, answer her; be a loyal subject."

The victim rattled in the throat.

The sheriff continued: "So, after seventy-two hours of the test, here we are come to the fourth day. Man, this is the decisive day. The fourth day has been fixed by the law for the confrontation."

"Quarta die, frontem ad frontem adduce," growled the serjeant.

"The wisdom of the law," continued the sheriff, "has chosen this last hour to hold what our ancestors called 'judgment in mortal cold,' seeing that 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 et per suum no. Charter of King Adelstan, volume the first, page one hundred and sixty-three."

There was a moment's pause; then the sheriff bent his stern face towards the 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, make your diagnosis."

"Probe, da diagnosticum," said the serjeant.

The doctor stepped down with magisterial dignity, approached the man, leaned over him, put his ear close to the mouth of the sufferer, felt the pulse 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."

At a sign from the sheriff, the justice of the quorum and the wapentake advanced. The wapentake placed himself near the head of the patient. The justice of the quorum stood just behind Gwynplaine. The doctor retired a step behind the pillars.

Then the sheriff, raising the bunch of roses like a priest about to sprinkle holy water, called to the prisoner in a loud and solemn voice,—

"O wretched man, speak! The law supplicates before she exterminates you. You, who feign to be mute, remember how mute is the tomb. You, who appear deaf, remember that damnation is more deaf. Think of the death which is far worse than your present state. Repent: you are about to be left alone in this cell. Listen, you who are my likeness; for I too am a man! Listen, my brother, because I am a Christian! Listen, my son, because I am an old man! Look at me; for I am the master of your sufferings, and I am about to become terrible. The terrors of the law constitute the majesty of the judge. Believe that I myself tremble before myself. My own power alarms me. Do not drive me to extremities. I am filled with the holy power of chastisement. Feel, then, wretched man, a salutary and honest fear of justice, and obey me. The hour of confrontation is come, and you must answer. Do not harden yourself in resistance. Do not do that which will be irrevocable. Think that your end depends upon me. Half man, half corpse, listen! At least, let it not be your determination to expire here, exhausted for hours, days, and weeks by frightful agonies of hunger and foulness; under the weight of those stones; alone in this cell, deserted, forgotten, annihilated; left as food for the rats and weasels, gnawed by creatures of darkness while the world outside comes and goes, buys and sells, and while carriages roll along in the streets above your head,—unless you would continue to draw painful breath without remission in the depths of 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, if only that you may not feel the frightful froth of the sepulchre ooze slowly from your lips, I adjure and conjure you to hear me! Have compassion on yourself; do what is asked of you. Submit to the demands of 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 at the wapentake. The justice of the quorum, removing Gwynplaine's hat and mantle, put his hands on his shoulders and placed him in the light beside the chained man. The face of Gwynplaine stood out in bold relief from the surrounding shadow. At the same time the wapentake bent down, took the man's temples between his hands, turned the inert head towards Gwynplaine, and with his thumbs and his first fingers lifted the closed eyelids.

The prisoner saw Gwynplaine. Then, raising his head voluntarily, and opening his eyes wide, he looked at him. He quivered as much as a man can quiver with a mountain on his breast, and then cried out,—

"'Tis he! Yes, 'tis he!" and he burst into a horrible laugh. "'T is 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 calm exterior. The cry of the prisoner, "'Tis he!" overwhelmed him completely. The words, "Registrar, take that down!" froze him with horror. It seemed to him that a scoundrel had dragged him to his fate without his being able to guess why, and that the man's unintelligible confession was closing round him like the clasp of an iron collar. He fancied himself side by side with him in the posts of the same pillory. Gwynplaine lost his footing in his terror, and protested. He began to stammer incoherent words in the deep distress of an innocent man, and quivering, terrified, uttered the first frantic protests that occurred to him:

"It is not true! It was not me! I do not know this man. He cannot know me, since I do not know him. I have my part to play this evening. What do you want of me? I demand my liberty. Nor is that all. Why have I been brought into this dungeon? Are there no longer any laws in the land? You may as well admit at once that there are no laws. My Lord Judge, I repeat that I am not the man. I am innocent of any crime; I know I am. I want to go away. This is not justice. There is nothing between this man and me. You can find out. My life is no secret. They came and arrested me like a thief. Why did they come like that? How could I know the man? I am a travelling mountebank, who plays farces at fairs and markets. I am the Laughing Man. Plenty of people have been to see me. We are staying now in the Tarrinzeau Fields. I have been earning an honest livelihood these fifteen years. I am five-and-twenty. I lodge at the Tadcaster Inn. I am called Gwynplaine. My lord, let me out. You should not take advantage of the low estate of the unfortunate. Have compassion on a man who has done no harm, who is without protection, and without defence. You have before you only a poor mountebank."

"I have before me," said the sheriff, "Lord Fermain Clancharlie, Baron Clancharlie and Hunkerville, Marquis of Corleone in Sicily, and a peer of England." And rising, and offering his chair to Gwynplaine, the sheriff added, "My lord, will your lordship deign to seat yourself?"