The Man in the Green Hat
"Alas, monsieur, in spite of our fine courtesies, the conceptionof justice by one race must always seem outlandish to another!"It was on the terrace of Sir Henry Marquis' villa at Cannes. Themembers of the little party were in conversation over theirtobacco - the Englishman, with his brier-root pipe; the AmericanJustice, with a Havana cigar; and the aged Italian, with hiscigarette. The last was speaking.He was a very old man, but he gave one the impression ofincredible, preposterous age. He was bald; he had neithereyebrows nor eyelashes. A wiry mustache, yellow with nicotine,alone remained. Great wrinkles lay below the eyes and along thejaw, under a skin stretched like parchment over the bonyprotuberances of the face.These things established the aspect of old age; but it was theman's expression and manner that gave one the sense ofincalculable antiquity. The eyes seemed to look out from awindow, where the man behind them had sat watching the human racefrom the beginning. And his manners had the completion of onewhose experience of life is comprehensive and finished."It seems strange to you, monsieur" - he was addressing, inFrench, the American Justice - "that we should put our prisonersinto an iron cage, as beasts are exhibited in a circus. You areshocked at that. It strikes you as the crudity of a race notquite civilized."You inquire about it with perfect courtesy; but, monsieur, youinquire as one inquires about a custom that his sense of justicerejects."He paused."Your pardon, monsieur; but there are some conceptions of justicein the law of your admirable country that seem equally strange tome."The men about the Count on the exquisite terrace, looking downover Cannes into the arc of the sea, felt that the great age ofthis man gave him a right of frankness, a privilege of directexpression, they could not resent. Somehow, at the extremity oflife, he seemed beyond pretenses; and he had the right to omitthe digressions by which younger men are accustomed to approachthe truth."What is this strange thing in our law, Count?" said theAmerican.The old man made a vague gesture, as one who puts away artinquiry until the answer appears."Many years ago," he continued, "I read a story about the redIndians by your author, Cooper. It was named `The Oak Openings,'and was included, I think, in a volume entitled Stories of thePrairie. I believe I have the names quite right, since theauthor impressed me as an inferior comer with an abundance ofgold about him. In the story Corporal Flint was captured by theIndians under the leadership of Bough of Oak, a cruel andbloodthirsty savage."This hideous beast determined to put his prisoner to the tortureof the saplings, a barbarity rivaling the crucifixion of theRomans. Two small trees standing near each other were selected,the tops lopped off and the branches removed; they were bent andthe tops were lashed together. One of the victim's wrists wasbound to the top of each of the young trees; then the saplingswere released and the victim, his arms wrenched and dislocated,hung suspended in excruciating agony, like a man nailed to across."It was fearful torture. The strain on the limbs was hideous,yet the victim might live for days. Nothing short of crucifixion- that beauty of the Roman law-ever equaled it."He paused and flicked the ashes from his cigarette."Corporal Flint, who seemed to have a knowledge of the Indiancharacter, had endeavored so to anger the Indians by taunt andinvective that some brave would put an arrow into his heart, ordash his brains out with a stone ax."In this he failed. Bough of Oak controlled his braves andCorporal Flint was lashed to the saplings. But, as the treessprang apart, wrenching the man's arms out of their sockets, afriendly Indian, Pigeonwing, concealed in a neighboring thicket,unable to rescue his friend and wishing to save him from the longhours of awful torture, shot Corporal Flint through the forehead."Now," continued the Count, "if there was no question about thesefacts, and Bough of Oak stood for trial before any civilizedtribunal on this earth, do you think the laws of any countrywould acquit him of the murder of Corporal Flint?"The whole company laughed."I am entirely serious," continued the Count. "What do youthink? There are three great nations represented here.""The exigencies of war," said Sir Henry Marquis, "mightdifferentiate a barbarity from a crime.""But let us assume," replied the Count, "that no state of warexisted; that it was a time of peace; that Corporal Flint wasinnocent of wrong; and that Bough of Oak was acting entirely froma depraved instinct bent on murder. In other words, suppose thisthing had occurred yesterday in one of the Middle States of theAmerican Republic?"The American felt that this question was directed primarily tohimself. He put down his cigar and indicated the Englishman by agesture."Your great jurist, Sir James Stephen," he began, "constantlyreminds us that the criminal law is a machine so rough anddangerous that we can use it only with every safety deviceattached."And so, Count," he continued, to the Italian, "theadministration of the criminal law in our country may seem to yousubject to delays and indirections that are not justified. Theseabuses could be generally corrected by an intelligent presidingjudge; but, in part, they are incidental to a fair and fullinvestigation of the charge against the prisoner. I think,however, that our conception of justice does not differ from thatof other nations."The old Count shrugged his shoulders at the digression."I beg your pardon," he said. "I do not refer to the mereadministration of the criminal law in your country; though,monsieur, we have been interested in observing its peculiaritiesin such notable examples as the Thaw trials in New York, and theAnarchist cases in Chicago some years ago. I believe the judgein the latter trial gave about one hundred instructions on thesubject of reasonable doubt - quite intelligible, I dare say, toan American jury; but, I must confess, somewhat beyond me intheir metaphysical refinements."I should understand reasonable doubt if I were uninstructed, butI do not think I could explain it. I should be, concerning it,somewhat as Saint Augustine was with a certain doctrine of theChurch when he said: `I do not know if you ask me; but if you donot ask me I know very well.' "He paused and blew a tiny ring or smoke out over the terracetoward the sea."There was a certain poetic justice finally in that case," headded."The prisoners were properly convicted of the Haymarket murders,"said the American Justice."Ah, no doubt," returned the Count; "but I was not thinking ofthat. Following a custom of your courts, I believe, the judge atthe end of the trial put the formal inquiry as to whether theprisoners had anything to say. Whereupon they rose and addressedhim for six days!"He bowed."After that, monsieur, I am glad to add, they were all veryproperly hanged."But, monsieur, permit me to return to my question: Do you thinkany intelligent tribunal on this earth would acquit Bough of Oakof the murder of Corporal Flint under the conditions I haveindicated?""No," said the American. "It would be a cold-blooded murder; andin the end the creature would be executed."The old Count turned suddenly in his chair."Yes," he said, "in a Continental court, it is certain; but inAmerica, monsieur, under your admirable law, founded on thecommon law of England?""I am sure we should hang him," replied the American."Monsieur," cried the old Count, "you have me profoundlypuzzled."It seemed to the little group on the terrace that they, and notthe Count, were indicated by that remark. He had stated a caseabout which there could be no two opinions under any civilizedconception of justice. Sir Henry Marquis had pointed out theonly element - a state of war - which could distinguish the casefrom plain premeditated murder in its highest degree. Theylooked to him for an explanation; but it did not immediatelyarrive.The Count noticed it and offered a word of apology."Presently - presently," he said. "We have these two words inItalian - sparate! and aspetate! Monsieur."He turned to the American:"You do not know our language, I believe. Suppose I shouldsuddenly call out one of these words and afterward it shouldprove that a life hung on your being able to say which word itwas I uttered. Do you think, monsieur, you could be certain?"No, monsieur; and so courts are wise to require a fullexplanation of every extraordinary fact. George Goykovich, anAustrian, having no knowledge of the Italian language, swore inthe court of an American state that he heard a prisoner use theItalian word sparate! and that he could not be mistaken."I would not believe him, monsieur, on that statement; but heexplained that he was a coal miner, that the mines were worked byItalians, and that this word was called out when the coal wasabout to be shot down with powder."Ah, monsieur, the explanation is complete. George Goykovichmust know this word; it was a danger signal. I would believe nowhis extraordinary statement."The Count stopped a moment and lighted another cigarette."Pardon me if I seem to proceed obliquely. The incident isrelated to the case I approach; and it makes clear, monsieur, whythe courts of France, for example, permit every variety ofexplanation in a criminal trial, while your country and the greatEnglish nation limit explanations."You do not permit hearsay evidence to save a man's life; with afine distinction you permit it to save only his character!""The rule," replied the American justice, "everywhere amongEnglish-speaking people is that the best evidence of which thesubject is capable shall be produced. We permit a witness totestify only to what he actually knows. That is the rule. It istrue there are exceptions to it. In some instances he maytestify as to what he has heard.""Ah, yes," replied the Count; "you will not permit such evidenceto take away a man's horse, but you will permit it to take away awoman's reputation! I shall never be able to understand thesedelicate refinements of the English law!""But, Count," suggested Sir Henry Marquis, "reputation isprecisely that what the neighborhood says about one.""Pardon, monsieur," returned the Count. "I do not criticize yourcustoms. They are doubtless excellent in every variety of way.I deplore only my inability to comprehend them. For example,monsieur, why should you hold a citizen responsible in all othercases only for what he does, but in the case of his own characterturn about and try him for what people say he does?"Thus, monsieur, as I understand it, the men of an Englishvillage could not take away my pig by merely proving thateverybody said it was stolen; but they could brand me as a liarby merely proving what the villagers said! It seems incrediblethat men should put such value on a pig."Sir Henry Marquis laughed."It is not entirely a question of values, Count.""I beg you to pardon me, monsieur," the Italian went on."Doubtless, on this subject I do nothing more than reveal anintelligence lamentably inefficient; but I had the idea thatEnglish people were accustomed to regard property of greaterimportance than life.""I have never heard," replied the Englishman, smiling, "that ourcourts gave more attention to pigs than to murder.""Why, yes, monsieur," said the Count - "that is precisely whatthey have been accustomed to do. It is only, I believe, withinrecent years that one convicted of murder in England could takean appeal to a higher court; though a controversy over pigs - or,at any rate, the pasture on which they gathered acorns - couldalways be carried up."The great age of the Count - he seemed to be the representativein the world of some vanished empire - gave his irony a certainindirection. Everybody laughed. And he added: "Even your word`murder,' I believe, was originally the name of a fine imposed bythe Danes on a village unless it could be proved that the personfound dead was an Englishman!"I wonder when, precisely, the world began to regard it as acrime to kill an Englishman?"The parchment on the bones of his face wrinkled into a sort ofsmile. His greatest friend on the Riviera was this pipe-smokingBriton.Then suddenly, with a nimble gesture that one would not believepossible in the aged, he stripped back his sleeve and exhibited along, curiously twisted scar, as though a bullet had plowed alongthe arm."Alas, monsieur," he said, "I myself live in the most primitivecondition of society! I pay a tribute for life . . . . Ah! no,monsieur; it is not to the Camorra that I pay. It is quiteunromantic. I think my secretary carries it in his books as apension to an indigent relative."He turned to the American"Believe me, monsieur, my estates in Salerno are not what theywere; the olive trees are old and all drains on my income are aburden - even this gratuity. I thought I should be rid of it;but, alas, the extraordinary conception of justice in yourcountry!"He broke the cigarette in his fingers, and flung the pieces overthe terrace."In the great range of mountains," he began, "slashing across theAmerican states and beautifully named the Alleghanies, there is avast measure of coal beds. It is thither that the emigrants fromSouthern Europe journey. They mine out the coal, sometimesdescending into the earth through pits, or what in your languageare called shafts, and sometimes following the stratum of thecoal bed into the hill."This underworld, monsieur - this, sunless world, builtunderneath the mountains, is a section of Europe slipped underthe American Republic. The language spoken there is not English.The men laboring in those buried communities cry out sparate whenthey are about to shoot down the coal with powder. It is Italyunder there. There is a river called the Monongahela in thosemountains. It is an Indian name."He paused."And so, monsieur, what happened along it doubtless reminded meof Cooper's story - Bough of Oak and the case of Corporal Flint."He took another cigarette out of a box on the table, but he didnot light it."In one of the little mining villages along this river with theenchanting name there was a man physically like the people of theIliad; and with that, monsieur, he had a certain cast of mind notunHellenic. He was tall, weighed two hundred and forty pounds,lean as a gladiator, and in the vigor of golden youth."There were no wars to journey after and no adventures; but therewas danger and adventure here. This land was full of cockle,winnowed out of Italy, Austria and the whole south of Europe. Ittook courage and the iron hand of the state to keep the peace.Here was a life of danger; and this Ionian - big, powerful,muscled like the heroes of the Circus Maximus - entered thisperilous service."Monsieur, I have said his mind was Hellenic, like his big,wonderful body. Mark you how of heroic antiquity it was! It washis boast, among the perils that constantly beset him, that nocriminal should ever take his life; that, if ever he shouldreceive a mortal wound from the hand of the assassins about him,he would not wait to die in agony by it. He himself would severthe damaged thread of life and go out like a man!"Observe, monsieur, how like the great heroes of legend - likethe wounded Saul when he ordered his armor-bearer to kill him;like Brutus when he fell on his sword!"He looked intently at the American."Doubtless, monsieur," he went on, "those near this man along theMonongahela did not appreciate his attitude of grandeur; but tous, in the distance, it seemed great and noble."He looked out over the Mediterranean, where the great adventurerswho cherished these lofty pagan ideals once beat along in themorning of the world."On an afternoon of summer," he continued like one who begins asaga, "this man, alone and fearless, followed a violator of thelaw and arrested him in a house of the village. As he led theman away he noticed that an Italian followed. He was a littledegenerate, wearing a green hat, and bearing now one name and nowanother. They traversed the village toward, the municipalprison; and this creature, featured like a Parisian Apache,skulked behind."As they went along, two Austrians seated on the porch of a househeard the little man speak to the prisoner. He used the wordsparate. They did not know what he meant, for he spoke inItalian; but they recognized the word, for it was the word usedin the mines before the coal was shot down. The prisoner madehis reply in Italian, which the Austrians did not understand."It seemed that this man who had made the arrest did not knowItalian, for he stopped and asked the one behind him whether theprisoner was his brother. The man replied in the negative."The Count paused, as though for an explanation. "What the Apachesaid was: `Shall I shoot him here or wait until we reach theravine?' And the prisoner replied: `Wait until we come to theravine.'"They went on. Presently they reached a sort of hollow, wherethe reeds grew along the road densely and to the height of aman's head. Here the Italian Apache, the degenerate with thegreen hat, following some three steps behind, suddenly drew arevolver from his pocket and shot the man twice in the back. Itwas a weapon carrying a lead bullet as large as the tip of one'slittle finger. The officer fell. The Apache and the prisonerfled."The wounded man got up. He spread out his arms; and he shouted,with a great voice, like the heroes of the Iliad. The two woundswere mortal; they were hideous, ghastly wounds, ripping up thevital organs in the man's body and severing the great arteries.The splendid pagan knew he had received his death wounds; and,true to his atavistic ideal, the ideal of the Greek, the Hebrewand the Roman, the ideal of the great pagan world to which he inspirit belonged, and of which the poets sing, he put his ownweapon to his head and blew his brains out."The old Count, his chin up, his withered, yellow face vitalized,lifted his hands like one before something elevated and noble.After some moments had passed he continued"On the following day the assassin was captured in a neighboringvillage. Feeling ran so high that it was with difficulty thatthe officers of the law saved him from being lynched. He wastaken about from one prison to another. Finally he was put ontrial for murder."There was never a clearer case before any tribunal in thisworld."Many witnesses identified the assassin - not merelyEnglish-speaking men, who might have been mistaken or prejudiced,but Austrians, Poles, Italians - the men of the mines who knewhim; who had heard him cry out the fatal Italian word; who sawhim following in the road behind his victim on that Sundayafternoon of summer; who knew his many names and every feature ofhis cruel, degenerate face. There was no doubt anywhere in thetrial. Learned surgeons showed that the two wounds in the deadman's back from the big-calibered weapon were deadly, fatalwounds that no man could have survived."There was nothing incomplete in that trial."Everything was so certain that the assassin did not evenundertake to contradict; not one statement, not one word of theevidence against him did he deny. It was a plain case ofwillful, deliberate and premeditated murder. The judge presidingat the trial instructed the jury that a man is presumed to intendthat which he does; that whoever kills a human being with maliceaforethought is guilty of murder; that murder which isperpetrated by any kind of willful, deliberate and premeditatedkilling is murder in the first degree. The jury found theassassin guilty and the judge sentenced him to be hanged."The Count paused and looked at his companions about him on theterrace."Messieurs," he said, "do you think that conviction was just?"There was a common assent. Some one said: "It was a cruel murderif ever there was one." And another: "It was wholly just; thecreature deserved to hang."The old Count bowed, putting out his hands."And so I hoped he would.""What happened?" said the American.The Count regarded him with a queer, ironical smile."Unlike the great British people, monsieur," he replied, "yourcourts have never given the pig, or the pasture on which hegathers his acorns, a consideration above the human family. Thecase was taken to your Court of Appeals of that province."He stopped and lighted his cigarette deliberately, with a matchscratched slowly on the table."Monsieur," he said, "I do not criticize your elevated court. Itis composed of learned men - wise and patriotic, I have no doubt.They cannot make the laws, monsieur; they cannot coin aconception of justice for your people. They must enforce theprecise rules of law that the conception of justice in yourcountry has established."Nevertheless, monsieur" - and his thin yellow lips curled - "forthe sake of my depleted revenues I could have wished that thedecision of this court had been other than it was.""And what did it decide?" asked the American."It decided, monsieur," replied the Count, "that my estates inSalerno must continue to be charged with the gratuity to theindigent relative."That is to say, monsieur, it decided, because the great pagandid not wait to die in agony, did not wait for the mortal woundsinflicted by the would-be assassin to kill him, that interestingperson - the man in the green hat - was not guilty of murder inthe first degree and could not be hanged!"Note - See State versus Angelina; 80 Southeastern Reporter, 141:"The intervening responsible agent who wrongfully acceleratesdeath is guilty of the murder, and not the one who inflicted thefirst injury, though in itself mortal."
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