Chapter XVIII: In the Queen's Dungeons

by Mark Twain

　　Well, I arranged all that; and I had the man sentto his home. I had a great desire to rack theexecutioner; not because he was a good, painstakingand paingiving official, -- for surely it was not to hisdiscredit that he performed his functions well -- but topay him back for wantonly cuffing and otherwise distressing that young woman. The priests told me aboutthis, and were generously hot to have him punished.Something of this disagreeable sort was turning upevery now and then. I mean, episodes that showedthat not all priests were frauds and self-seekers, butthat many, even the great majority, of these that weredown on the ground among the common people, weresincere and right-hearted, and devoted to the alleviationof human troubles and sufferings. Well, it was a thingwhich could not be helped, so I seldom fretted aboutit, and never many minutes at a time; it has neverbeen my way to bother much about things which youcan't cure. But I did not like it, for it was just thesort of thing to keep people reconciled to an Established Church. We must have a religion -- it goeswithout saying -- but my idea is, to have it cut up intoforty free sects, so that they will police each other, ashad 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, anddoes no good which it could not better do in a split-upand scattered condition. That wasn't law; it wasn'tgospel: it was only an opinion -- my opinion, and Iwas only a man, one man: so it wasn't worth anymore than the pope's -- or any less, for that matter.Well, I couldn't rack the executioner, neither wouldI overlook the just complaint of the priests. The manmust be punished somehow or other, so I degradedhim from his office and made him leader of the band-- the new one that was to be started. He beggedhard, and said he couldn't play -- a plausible excuse,but too thin; there wasn't a musician in the countrythat could.The queen was a good deal outraged, next morningwhen she found she was going to have neither Hugo'slife nor his property. But I told her she must bearthis cross; that while by law and custom she certainlywas entitled to both the man's life and his property,there were extenuating circumstances, and so in Arthurthe king's name I had pardoned him. The deer wasravaging the man's fields, and he had killed it in sudden passion, and not for gain; and he had carried itinto the royal forest in the hope that that might makedetection of the misdoer impossible. Confound her, Icouldn't make her see that sudden passion is an extenuating circumstance in the killing of venison -- orof a person -- so I gave it up and let her sulk it outI did think I was going to make her see it by remarking that her own sudden passion in the case of thepage 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 aperson. We speak of nature; it is folly; there is nosuch thing as nature; what we call by that misleadingname is merely heredity and training. We have nothoughts of our own, no opinions of our own; theyare transmitted to us, trained into us. All that isoriginal in us, and therefore fairly creditable or discreditable to us, can be covered up and hidden by thepoint of a cambric needle, all the rest being atomscontributed by, and inherited from, a procession ofancestors that stretches back a billion years to theAdam-clam or grasshopper or monkey from whom ourrace has been so tediously and ostentatiously and unprofitably developed. And as for me, all that I thinkabout in this plodding sad pilgrimage, this patheticdrift between the eternities, is to look out and humblylive a pure and high and blameless life, and save thatone microscopic atom in me that is truly me: the restmay land in Sheol and welcome for all I care.No, confound her, her intellect was good, she hadbrains enough, but her training made her an ass -- thatis, from a many-centuries-later point of view. To killthe page was no crime -- it was her right; and uponher right she stood, serenely and unconscious ofoffense. She was a result of generations of trainingin the unexamined and unassailed belief that the lawwhich permitted her to kill a subject when she chosewas 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 payit, but the words stuck in my throat. She had a rightto kill the boy, but she was in no wise obliged to payfor him. That was law for some other people, butnot for her. She knew quite well that she was doing alarge and generous thing to pay for that lad, and thatI ought in common fairness to come out with something handsome about it, but I couldn't -- my mouthrefused. I couldn't help seeing, in my fancy, thatpoor old grandma with the broken heart, and that fairyoung creature lying butchered, his little silken pompsand vanities laced with his golden blood. How couldshe 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 toutter it, trained as I had been. The best I could dowas 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 dayif I lived. Some of those laws were too bad, altogethertoo bad. A master might kill his slave for nothing --for mere spite, malice, or to pass the time -- just aswe have seen that the crowned head could do it withhis slave, that is to say, anybody. A gentleman couldkill a free commoner, and pay for him -- cash orgarden-truck. A noble could kill a noble without expense, as far as the law was concerned, but reprisals inkind were to be expected. Anybody could kill somebody, except the commoner and the slave; these hadno privileges. If they killed, it was murder, and thelaw wouldn't stand murder. It made short work ofthe experimenter -- and of his family, too, if he murdered somebody who belonged up among the ornamental ranks. If a commoner gave a noble even somuch as a Damiens-scratch which didn't kill or evenhurt, he got Damiens' dose for it just the same; theypulled him to rags and tatters with horses, and all theworld came to see the show, and crack jokes, and havea good time; and some of the performances of thebest people present were as tough, and as properlyunprintable, as any that have been printed by thepleasant 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 hadsomething on my mind that my conscience kept prodding me about, and wouldn't let me forget. If I hadthe remaking of man, he wouldn't have any conscience.It is one of the most disagreeable things connectedwith a person; and although it certainly does a greatdeal of good, it cannot be said to pay, in the long run;it would be much better to have less good and morecomfort. Still, this is only my opinion, and I am onlyone man; others, with less experience, may thinkdifferently. They have a right to their view. I onlystand to this: I have noticed my conscience for manyyears, and I know it is more trouble and bother to methan anything else I started with. I suppose that inthe beginning I prized it, because we prize anythingthat is ours; and yet how foolish it was to think so.If we look at it in another way, we see how absurd itis: if I had an anvil in me would I prize it? Of coursenot. And yet when you come to think, there is noreal difference between a conscience and an anvil -- Imean for comfort. I have noticed it a thousand times.And you could dissolve an anvil with acids, when youcouldn't stand it any longer; but there isn't any waythat you can work off a conscience -- at least so it willstay 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 atit. Well, it bothered me all the morning. I couldhave mentioned it to the old king, but what would bethe use? -- he was but an extinct volcano; he hadbeen active in his time, but his fire was out, this goodwhile, he was only a stately ash-pile now; gentleenough, and kindly enough for my purpose, withoutdoubt, but not usable. He was nothing, this so-calledking: the queen was the only power there. And shewas a Vesuvius. As a favor, she might consent towarm a flock of sparrows for you, but then she mighttake that very opportunity to turn herself loose andbury a city. However, I reflected that as often as anyother way, when you are expecting the worst, you getsomething that is not so bad, after all.So I braced up and placed my matter before herroyal Highness. I said I had been having a generaljail-delivery at Camelot and among neighboring castles,and with her permission I would like to examine hercollection, her bric-a-brac -- that is to say, her prisoners. She resisted; but I was expecting that. But shefinally consented. I was expecting that, too, but notso soon. That about ended my discomfort. Shecalled her guards and torches, and we went down intothe dungeons. These were down under the castle'sfoundations, and mainly were small cells hollowed outof the living rock. Some of these cells had no light atall. In one of them was a woman, in foul rags, whosat on the ground, and would not answer a question orspeak a word, but only looked up at us once or twice,through a cobweb of tangled hair, as if to see whatcasual thing it might be that was disturbing with soundand light the meaningless dull dream that was becomeher life; after that, she sat bowed, with her dirt-cakedfingers idly interlocked in her lap, and gave no furthersign. This poor rack of bones was a woman of middleage, apparently; but only apparently; she had beenthere nine years, and was eighteen when she entered.She was a commoner, and had been sent here on herbridal night by Sir Breuse Sance Pite, a neighboringlord whose vassal her father was, and to which saidlord she had refused what has since been called le droitdu seigneur, and, moreover, had opposed violence toviolence 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 thenoble out into the midst of the humble and tremblingwedding guests, in the parlor, and left him there astonished at this strange treatment, and implacably embittered against both bride and groom. The said lordbeing cramped for dungeon-room had asked the queento accommodate his two criminals, and here in herbastile they had been ever since; hither, indeed, theyhad come before their crime was an hour old, and hadnever seen each other since. Here they were, kenneled like toads in the same rock; they had passednine 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 havemoved stones, in time, perhaps, but hearts are notstones: "Is he alive?" "Is she alive?" But theyhad never got an answer; and at last that question wasnot asked any more -- or any other.I wanted to see the man, after hearing all this. Hewas thirty-four years old, and looked sixty. He satupon a squared block of stone, with his head bentdown, his forearms resting on his knees, his long hairhanging like a fringe before his face, and he wasmuttering to himself. He raised his chin and lookedus slowly over, in a listless dull way, blinking with thedistress of the torchlight, then dropped his head andfell to muttering again and took no further notice ofus. There were some pathetically suggestive dumbwitnesses present. On his wrists and ankles werecicatrices, old smooth scars, and fastened to the stoneon which he sat was a chain with manacles and fettersattached; but this apparatus lay idle on the ground,and was thick with rust. Chains cease to be neededafter the spirit has gone out of a prisoner.I could not rouse the man; so I said we would takehim to her, and see -- to the bride who was the fairestthing in the earth to him, once -- roses, pearls, and dewmade flesh, for him; a wonder-work, the master-workof nature: with eyes like no other eyes, and voice likeno other voice, and a freshness, and lithe young grace,and beauty, that belonged properly to the creatures ofdreams -- as he thought -- and to no other. The sightof her would set his stagnant blood leaping; the sightof her --But it was a disappointment. They sat together onthe ground and looked dimly wondering into eachother's faces a while, with a sort of weak animal curiosity; then forgot each other's presence, and droppedtheir eyes, and you saw that they were away again andwandering in some far land of dreams and shadowsthat we know nothing about.I had them taken out and sent to their friends. Thequeen did not like it much. Not that she felt anypersonal interest in the matter, but she thought it disrespectful to Sir Breuse Sance Pite. However, Iassured her that if he found he couldn't stand it Iwould fix him so that he could.I set forty-seven prisoners loose out of those awfulrat-holes, and left only one in captivity. He was alord, and had killed another lord, a sort of kinsman ofthe queen. That other lord had ambushed him toassassinate him, but this fellow had got the best of himand cut his throat. However, it was not for that thatI left him jailed, but for maliciously destroying theonly public well in one of his wretched villages. Thequeen was bound to hang him for killing her kinsman,but I would not allow it: it was no crime to kill anassassin. But I said I was willing to let her hang himfor destroying the well; so she concluded to put upwith that, as it was better than nothing.Dear me, for what trifling offenses the most of thoseforty-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 alwaysthe queen's by any means, but a friend's. The newestprisoner's crime was a mere remark which he hadmade. He said he believed that men were about allalike, and one man as good as another, barring clothes.He said he believed that if you were to strip the nationnaked and send a stranger through the crowd, hecouldn't tell the king from a quack doctor, nor a dukefrom a hotel clerk. Apparently here was a man whosebrains had not been reduced to an ineffectual mush byidiotic training. I set him loose and sent him to theFactory.Some of the cells carved in the living rock were justbehind the face of the precipice, and in each of thesean arrow-slit had been pierced outward to the daylight,and so the captive had a thin ray from the blessed sunfor his comfort. The case of one of these poor fellows was particularly hard. From his dusky swallow'shole high up in that vast wall of native rock he couldpeer out through the arrow-slit and see his own homeoff yonder in the valley; and for twenty-two years hehad watched it, with heartache and longing, throughthat crack. He could see the lights shine there atnight, and in the daytime he could see figures go inand 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 festivitiesthere, and tried to rejoice, and wondered if they wereweddings or what they might be. And he notedfunerals; and they wrung his heart. He could makeout the coffin, but he could not determine its size, andso could not tell whether it was wife or child. Hecould see the procession form, with priests and mourners, and move solemnly away, bearing the secret withthem. He had left behind him five children and awife; and in nineteen years he had seen five funeralsissue, and none of them humble enough in pomp todenote 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 andby day, asleep and awake. Well, to have an interest,of some sort, and half a ray of light, when you are ina dungeon, is a great support to the body and preserverof the intellect. This man was in pretty good condition yet. By the time he had finished telling me hisdistressful tale, I was in the same state of mind thatyou would have been in yourself, if you have gotaverage human curiosity; that is to say, I was asburning up as he was to find out which member ofthe family it was that was left. So I took him overhome myself; and an amazing kind of a surprise partyit was, too -- typhoons and cyclones of frantic joy,and whole Niagaras of happy tears; and by George!we found the aforetime young matron graying towardthe imminent verge of her half century, and the babiesall men and women, and some of them married andexperimenting familywise themselves -- for not a soulof the tribe was dead! Conceive of the ingeniousdevilishness of that queen: she had a special hatredfor this prisoner, and she had invented all those funerals herself, to scorch his heart with; and the sublimeststroke of genius of the whole thing was leaving thefamily-invoice a funeral short, so as to let him wear hispoor old soul out guessing.But for me, he never would have got out. Morganle Fay hated him with her whole heart, and she neverwould have softened toward him. And yet his crimewas committed more in thoughtlessness than deliberatedepravity. He had said she had red hair. Well, shehad; but that was no way to speak of it. When redheaded people are above a certain social grade theirhair is auburn.Consider it: among these forty-seven captives therewere five whose names, offenses, and dates of incarceration were no longer known! One woman and fourmen -- all bent, and wrinkled, and mind-extinguishedpatriarchs. They themselves had long ago forgottenthese details; at any rate they had mere vague theoriesabout them, nothing definite and nothing that they repeated twice in the same way. The succession ofpriests whose office it had been to pray daily with thecaptives and remind them that God had put themthere, for some wise purpose or other, and teach themthat patience, humbleness, and submission to oppression was what He loved to see in parties of a subordinate rank, had traditions about these poor old humanruins, but nothing more. These traditions went butlittle way, for they concerned the length of the incarceration only, and not the names of the offenses. Andeven by the help of tradition the only thing that couldbe proven was that none of the five had seen daylightfor thirty-five years: how much longer this privationhas lasted was not guessable. The king and the queenknew nothing about these poor creatures, except thatthey were heirlooms, assets inherited, along with thethrone, from the former firm. Nothing of their historyhad been transmitted with their persons, and so theinheriting 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 whyshe hadn't, the thing had never come up in her mind.So here she was, forecasting the veritable history offuture 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, evenwhen we do not value it.When I brought my procession of human bats upinto the open world and the glare of the afternoon sun-- previously blindfolding them, in charity for eyesso long untortured by light -- they were a spectacleto look at. Skeletons, scarecrows, goblins, patheticfrights, every one; legitimatest possible children ofMonarchy by the Grace of God and the EstablishedChurch. I muttered absently:"I wish I could photograph them!"You have seen that kind of people who will never leton that they don't know the meaning of a new bigword. The more ignorant they are, the more pitifullycertain they are to pretend you haven't shot over theirheads. The queen was just one of that sort, and wasalways making the stupidest blunders by reason of it.She hesitated a moment; then her face brightened upwith sudden comprehension, and she said she woulddo it for me.I thought to myself: She? why what can she knowabout photography? But it was a poor time to bethinking. When I looked around, she was moving onthe procession with an axe!Well, she certainly was a curious one, was Morganle Fay. I have seen a good many kinds of women inmy time, but she laid over them all for variety. Andhow 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 justlike her to try to do it with an axe.