Фредерик Марриет
Phantom Ship
Chapter Thirty Five
Amine had just returned from an afternoon’s walk through the streets of Goa: she had made some purchases at different shops in the bazaar, and had brought them home under her mantilla. “Here, at last, thank Heaven, I am alone and not watched,” thought Amine, as she threw herself on the couch. “Philip, Philip, where are you?” exclaimed she. “I have now the means, and I soon will know.” Little Pedro, the son of the widow, entered the room, ran up to Amine and kissed her. “Tell me, Pedro, where is your mother.”
“She is gone out to see her friends this evening, and we are alone. I will stay with you.”
“Do so, dearest. Tell me, Pedro, can you keep a secret?”
“Yes, I will — tell it me.”
“Nay, I have nothing to tell, but I wish to do something: I wish to make a play, and you shall see things in your hand.”
“Oh! yes, show me, do show me.”
“If you promise not to tell.”
“No, by the Holy Virgin, I will not.”
“Then you shall see.”
Amine lighted some charcoal in a chafing-dish, and put it at her feet; she then took a reed pen, some ink from a small bottle, and a pair of scissors, and wrote down several characters on a paper singing, or rather chanting, words which were not intelligible to her young companion. Amine then threw frankincense and coriander seed into the chafing-dish, which threw out a strong aromatic smoke; and desiring Pedro to sit down by her on a small stool, she took the boy’s right hand and held it in her own. She then drew upon the palm of his hand a square figure with characters on each side of it, and in the centre poured a small quantity of the ink, so as to form a black mirror of the size of half a crown.
“Now all is ready,” said Amine; “look, Pedro, what see you in the ink?”
“My own face,” replied the boy.
She threw more frankincense upon the chafing-dish, until the room was full of smoke, and then chaunted: —
“Turshoon, turyo-shoon — come down, come down.
“Be present, ye servants of these names.
“Remove the veil, and be correct.”
The characters she had drawn upon the paper, she had divided with the scissors, and now taking one of the pieces, she dropped it into the chafing-dish still holding the boy’s hand.
“Tell me now, Pedro, what do you see?”
“I see a man sweeping,” replied Pedro, alarmed.
“Fear not, Pedro, you shall see more. Has he done sweeping?”
“Yes, he has.”
And Amine muttered words, which were unintelligible, and threw into the chafing-dish the other half of the paper with the characters she had written down. “Say now, Pedro, ‘Philip Vanderdecken, appear.’”
“Philip Vanderdecken appear!” responded the boy, trembling.
“Tell me what thou seest, Pedro — tell me true?” said Amine anxiously.
“I see a man lying down on the white sand — (I don’t like this play).”
“Be not alarmed, Pedro, you shall have sweetmeats directly. Tell me what thou seest, how the man is dressed?”
“He has a short coat — he has white trowsers — he looks about him — he takes something out of his breast and kisses it.”
“’Tis he, ’tis he! and he lives! Heaven, I thank thee. Look again, boy.”
“He gets up — (I don’t like this play; I am frightened; indeed I am).”
“Fear not.”
“Oh, yes, I am — I cannot,” replied Pedro, falling on his knees; “pray let me go.”
Pedro had turned his hand, and spilt the ink, the charm was broken, and Amine could learn no more. She soothed the boy with presents, made him repeat his promise that he would not tell, and postponed further search into fate until the boy should appear to have recovered from his terror, and be willing to resume the ceremonies.
“My Philip lives — mother, dear mother, I thank you.”
Amine did not allow Pedro to leave the room until he appeared to have quite recovered from his fright; for some days she did not say anything to him, except to remind him of his promise not to tell his mother, or any one else, and she loaded him with presents.
One afternoon when his mother was gone out Pedro came in and asked Amine “whether they should not have the play ever again!”
Amine, who was anxious to know more, was glad of the boy’s request, and soon had everything prepared. Again was her chamber filled with the smoke of the frankincense: again was she muttering her incantations: the magic mirror was on the boy’s hand, and once more had Pedro cried out, “Philip Vanderdecken, appear!” when the door burst open, and Father Mathias, the widow, and several other people made their appearance. Amine started up — Pedro screamed and ran to his mother.
“Then I was not mistaken at what I saw in the cottage at Terneuse,” cried Father Mathias, with his arms folded over his breast, and with looks of indignation; “accursed sorceress! you are detected.”
Amine returned his gaze with scorn, and coolly replied, “I am not of your creed — you know it. Eaves-dropping appears to be a portion of your religion. This is my chamber — it is not the first time I have had to request you to leave it — I do so now — you — and those who have come in with you.”
“Take up all those implements of sorcery first,” said Father Mathias to his companions. The chafing-dish, and other articles used by Amine, were taken away; and Father Mathias and the others quitting the room: Amine was left alone.
Amine had a foreboding that she was lost; she knew that magic was a crime of the highest degree in Catholic countries, and that she had been detected in the very act. “Well, well,” thought Amine: “it is my destiny, and I can brave the worst.”
To account for the appearance of Father Mathias and the witnesses, it must be observed, that the little boy Pedro had, the day after Amine’s first attempt, forgotten his promise, and narrated to his mother all that had passed. The widow, frightened at what the boy had told her, thought it right to go to Father Mathias, and confide to him what her son had told her, as it was, in her opinion, sorcery. Father Mathias questioned Pedro closely, and, convinced that such was the case, determined to have witnesses to confront Amine. He, therefore, proposed that the boy should appear to be willing to try again, and had instructed him for the purpose, having previously arranged that they should break in upon Amine, as we have described.
About half an hour afterwards, two men dressed in black gowns came into Amine’s room, and requested that she would follow them, or that force would be used. Amine made no resistance: they crossed the square: the gate of a large building was opened, they desired her to walk in, and, in a few seconds, Amine found herself in one of the dungeons of the Inquisition.
Chapter Thirty Six
Previous to continuing our narrative, it may be as well to give our readers some little insight into the nature, ceremonies, and regulations of the Inquisition, and in describing that of Goa, we may be said to describe all others, with very trifling, if any, variation.
The Santa Casa, or Inquisition of Goa, is situated on one side of a large square, called the Terra di Sabaio. It is a massy handsome pile of stone buildings, with three doors in the front: the centre one is larger than the two lateral, and it is through the centre door that you go into the Hall of Judgment. The side-doors lead to spacious and handsome apartments for the Inquisitors, and officers attached to the establishment.
Behind these apartments are the cells and dungeons of the Inquisition; they are in two long galleries, with double doors to each, and are about ten feet square. There are about two hundred of them; some are much more comfortable than the others, as light and air are admitted into them: the others are wholly dark. In the galleries the keepers watch, and not a word or a sound can proceed from any cell without their being able to overhear it. The treatment of those confined is, as far as respects their food, very good: great care is taken that the nourishment is of that nature that the prisoners may not suffer from the indigestion arising from want of exercise. Surgical attendance is also permitted them; but unless on very particular occasions no priests are allowed to enter. Any consolation to be derived from religion, even the office of confessor and extreme unction, in case of dissolution, are denied them. Should they die during their confinement, whether proved guilty or not of the crime of which they are accused, they are buried without any funeral ceremony, and tried afterwards; if then found guilty, their bones are disinterred, and the execution of their sentence is passed upon their remains.
There are two Inquisitors at Goa: one the Grand Inquisitor, and the other his second, who are invariably chosen from the order of St. Dominique; these two are assisted in their judgment and examinations by a large number selected from the religious orders, who are termed deputies of the Holy Office, but who only attend when summoned: they have other officers, whose duty it is to examine all published books, and ascertain if there is anything in their pages contrary to the holy religion. There is also a public accuser, a procureur of the Inquisition, and lawyers, who are permitted to plead the case of the prisoners, but whose chief business and interest it is to obtain their secrets and betray them. What are termed Familiars of the Inquisition, are in fact, nothing but this description of people: but this disgraceful office is taken upon themselves by the highest nobility, who think it an honour, as well as a security, to be enrolled among the Familiars of the Inquisition, who are thus to be found dispersed throughout society; and every careless word, or expression, is certain to be repeated to the Holy Office. A summons to attend at the Inquisition is never opposed; if it were, the whole populace would rise and enforce it. Those who are confined in the dungeons of the Inquisition are kept separate; it is a very uncommon thing to put two together: it is only done when it is considered that the prolonged solitude of the dungeon has created such a depression of spirits as to endanger the life of the party. Perpetual silence is enjoined and strictly kept. Those who wail or weep, or even pray, in their utter darkness, are forced by blows to be quiet. The cries and shrieks of those who suffer from this chastisement, or from the torture, are carried along the whole length of the corridors, terrifying those who, in solitude and darkness, are anticipating the same fate.
The first question put to a person arrested by the Inquisition, is a demand, “What is his property?” He is desired to make an exact declaration of everything that he is worth, and swear to the truth of his assertions; being informed that, if there is any reservation on his part, (although he may be at that time innocent of the charges produced against him) he will, by his concealment, have incurred the wrath of the Inquisition; and that, if discharged for the crime he is accused of, he will again be arrested for having taken a false oath to the Inquisition; that, if innocent, his property will be safe, and not interfered with. It is not without reason that this demand is made. If a person accused confesses his crime, he is, in most cases, eventually allowed to go free, but all his property becomes confiscated.
By the rules of the Inquisition it is made to appear as if those condemned have the show of justice; for, although two witnesses are sufficient to warrant the apprehension of any individual, seven are necessary to convict him; but as the witnesses are never confronted with the prisoners, and torture is often applied to the witnesses, it is not difficult to obtain the number required. Many a life is falsely sworn away by the witness, that he may save his own. The chief crimes which are noticed by the Inquisition are those of sorcery, heresy, blasphemy, and what is called Judaism.
To comprehend the meaning of this last crime, for which more people have suffered from the Inquisition than for any other, the reader must be informed, that when Ferdinand and Isabella of Castile drove all the Jews out of Spain, they fled to Portugal, where they were received on the sole condition that they should embrace Christianity: this they consented, or appeared to consent, to do; but these converts were despised by the Portuguese people, who did not believe them to be sincere. They obtained the title of New Christians, in contradistinction to that of Old Christians. After a time the two were occasionally intermingled in marriage; but when so, it was always a reproach to the old families; and descendants from these alliances were long termed, by way of reproach, as having a portion of the New Christians in them.
The descendants of the old families thus intermingled, not only lost caste, but, as the genealogy of every family was well known, they were looked upon with suspicion, and were always at the mercy of the Holy Office, when denounced for Judaism, — that is, for returning to the old Jewish practices of keeping the Passover, and the other ceremonies enforced by Moses.
Let us see how an accusation of this kind works in the hands of the Inquisition. A really sincere Catholic, descended from one of these unhappy families, is accused and arrested by the orders of the Inquisition; he is ordered to declare his property, which, — convinced of his innocence, and expecting soon to be released, he does without reservation. But hardly has the key of the dungeon turned upon him, when all his effects are seized and sold by public auction, it being well understood that they never will be restored to him. After some months’ confinement, he is called into the Hall of Justice, and asked if he knows why he is in prison; they advise him earnestly to confess and to conceal nothing, as it is the only way by which he can obtain his liberty. He declares his ignorance and being sent for several times, persists in it. The period of the auto-da-fé, or act of faith, which takes place every two or three years, (that is, the public execution of those who have been found guilty by the Inquisition,) approaches. The public accuser then comes forward, stating that the prisoner has been accused by a number of witnesses of Judaism. They persuade him to acknowledge his guilt. He persists in his innocence; they then pass a sentence on him, which they term Convicte Invotivo, which means “found guilty, but will not confess his crime;” and he is sentenced to be burnt at the approaching celebration. After this they follow him to his cell, and exhort him to confess his guilt, and promise that if he does confess he shall be pardoned; and these appeals are continued until the evening of the day before his execution. Terrified at the idea of a painful death, the wretch, at last, to save his life, consents. He is called into the Hall of Judgment, confesses the crime that he has not committed, and imagines that he is now saved. — Alas! now he has entangled himself, and cannot escape.
“You acknowledge that you have been guilty of observing the laws of Moses. These ceremonies cannot be performed alone; you cannot have eaten the Paschal lamb alone; tell us immediately, who were those who assisted at those ceremonies, or your life is still forfeited, and the stake is prepared for you.”
Thus has he accused himself without gaining anything, and if he wishes to save his life, he must accuse others; and who can be accused but his own friends and acquaintances? nay, in all probability, his own relations — his brothers, sisters, wife, sons, or daughters — for it is natural to suppose that, in all such practices, a man will trust only his own family. Whether a man confesses his guilt, or dies asserting his innocence, his worldly property is in either case confiscated; but it is of great consequence to the Inquisition that he should confess, as his act of confession, with his signature annexed, is publicly read, and serves to prove to the world that the Inquisition is impartial and just; nay, more, even merciful, as it pardons those who have been proved to be guilty.
At Goa the accusations of sorcery and magic were much more frequent than at the Inquisitions at other places, arising from the customs and ceremonies of the Hindoos being very much mixed up with absurd superstitions. These people, and the slaves from other parts, very often embraced Christianity to please their masters; but since, if they had been baptised and were afterwards convicted of any crime, they were sentenced to the punishment by fire; whereas if they had not been baptised, they were only punished by whipping, imprisonment, or the galleys; upon this ground alone many refused to embrace Christianity.
We have now detailed all that we consider, up to the present, necessary for the information of the reader; all that is omitted he will gather as we proceed with our history.
Chapter Thirty Seven
A few hours after Amine had been in the dungeon, the jailors entered: without speaking to her they let down her soft silky hair, and cut it close off. Amine, with her lip curled in contempt, and without resistance and expostulation, allowed them to do their work. They finished, and she was again left to her solitude.
The next day the jailors entered her cell, and ordered her to bare her feet, and follow them. She looked at them, and they at her. “If you do not, we must,” observed one of the men, who was moved by her youth and beauty. Amine did as she was desired, and was led into the Hall of Justice, where she found only the Grand Inquisitor and the Secretary.
The Hall of Justice was a long room with lofty windows on each side, and also at the end opposite to the door through which she had been led in. In the centre, on a raised daïs, was a long table covered with a cloth of alternate blue and fawn coloured stripes; and at the end opposite to where Amine was brought in, was raised an enormous crucifix, with a carved image of our Saviour. The jailor pointed to a small bench, and intimated to Amine that she was to sit down.
After a scrutiny of some moments, the secretary spoke: —
“What is your name?”
“Amine Vanderdecken.”
“Of what country?”
“My husband is of the Low Countries; I am from the East.”
“What is your husband?”
“The captain of a Dutch Indiaman.”
“How came you here?”
“His vessel was wrecked, and we were separated.”
“Whom do you know here?”
“Father Mathias.”
“What property have you?”
“None; it is my husband’s.”
“Where is it?”
“In the custody of Father Mathias.”
“Are you aware why you are brought here?”
“How should I be?” replied Amine, evasively; “tell me what I am accused of?”
“You must know whether you have done wrong or not. You had better confess all your conscience accuses you of.”
“My conscience does not accuse me of doing anything.”
“Then you will confess nothing?”
“By your own showing, I have nothing to confess.”
“You say you are from the East: are you a Christian?”
“I reject your creed.”
“You are married to a Catholic?”
“Yes a true Catholic.”
“Who married you?”
“Father Seysen, a Catholic, priest.”
“Did you enter into the bosom of the Church? — did he venture to marry you without your being baptised?”
“Some ceremony did take place which I consented to.”
“It was baptism, was it not?”
“I believe it was so termed.”
“And now you say that you reject the creed?”
“Since I have witnessed the conduct of those who profess it, I do. At the time of my marriage I was disposed towards it.”
“What is the amount of your property in the Father Mathias’s hands.”
“Some hundreds of dollars — he knows exactly.”
The Grand Inquisitor rang a bell; the jailors entered, and Amine was led back to her dungeon.
“Why should they ask so often about my money?” mused Amine; “if they require it, they may take it. What is their power? What would they do with me? Well, well, a few days will decide.” A few days; — no, no, Amine; years, perhaps would have passed without decision, but that in our months from the date of your incarceration, the auto-da-fé, which had not been celebrated for upwards of three years, was to take place, and there was not a sufficient number of those who were to undergo the last punishment to render the ceremony imposing. A few more were required for the stake, or you would not have escaped from those dungeons so soon. As it was, a month of anxiety and suspense, almost insupportable, had to be passed away before Amine was again summoned to the Hall of Justice.
Amine, at the time we have specified, was again introduced to the Hall of Justice, and was again asked if she would confess. Irritated at her long confinement and the injustice of the proceedings, she replied, “I have told you once for all, that I have nothing to confess; do with me as you will, but be quick.”
“Will torture oblige you to confess?”
“Try me,” replied Amine, firmly, “try me, cruel men, and if you gain but one word from me, then call me craven. I am but a woman, but I dare you — I defy you.”
It was seldom that such expressions fell upon the ears of her judges, and still more seldom that a countenance was lighted up with such determination. But the torture was never applied until after the accusation had been made and answered.
“We shall see,” said the Grand Inquisitor; “take her away.”
Amine was led back to her cell. In the mean time, Father Mathias had had several conferences with the Inquisitor. Although in his wrath he had accused Amine, and had procured the necessary witnesses against her, he now felt uneasy and perplexed. His long residence with her — her invariable kindness till the time of his dismissal — his knowledge that she had never embraced the faith — her boldness and courage — nay, her beauty and youth — all worked strongly in her favour. His only object now was to persuade her to confess that she was wrong, induce her to embrace the faiths, and save her. With this view he had obtained permission from the Holy Office to enter her dungeon and reason with her, — a special favour which, for many reasons, they could not well refuse him. It was on the third day after her second examination, that the bolts were removed at an unusual hour, and Father Mathias entered the cell, which was again barred, and he was left alone with Amine. “My child! my child!” exclaimed Father Mathias, with sorrow in his countenance.
“Nay, father, this is mockery. It is you who brought me here — leave me.”
“I brought you here, ’tis true; but I would now remove you, if you will permit me, Amine.”
“Most willingly; I’ll follow you.”
“Nay, nay; there is much to talk over, much to be done. This is not a dungeon from which people can escape so easily.”
“Then tell me what have you to say; and what is it must be done?”
“I will.”
“But stop; before you say one word, answer me one question as you hope for bliss. Have you heard aught of Philip?”
“Yes, I have. He is well.”
“And where is he?”
“He will soon be here.”
“God, I thank thee! shall I see him, father?”
“That must depend upon yourself.”
“Upon myself? Then tell me, quickly, what would they have me do?”
“Confess your sins — your crimes.”
“What sins? — what crimes?”
“Have you not dealt with evil beings, invoked the spirits, and gained the assistance of those who are not of this world?”
Amine made no reply.
“Answer me. Do you not confess?”
“I do not confess to have done anything wrong.”
“This is useless. You were seen by me and others. What will avail your denial? Are you aware of the punishment which most surely awaits you, if you do not confess, and become a member of our Church?”
“Why am I to become a member of your Church? Do you then punish those who refuse?”
“No; had you not already consented to receive baptism, you would not have been asked to become so; but, having been baptised, you must now become a member, or be supposed to fall back into heresy.”
“I knew not the nature of your baptism at that time.”
“Granted; but you consented to it.”
“Be it so. But pray, what may be the punishment, if I refuse?”
“You will be burnt alive at the stake; nothing can save you. Hear me, Amine Vanderdecken: when next summoned, you must confess all; and, asking pardon, request to be received into the Church; then will you be saved, and you will — ”
“What?”
“Again be clasped in Philip’s arms.”
“My Philip — my Philip! — you indeed press me hard; but, father, if I confess I am wrong, when I feel that I am not — ”
“Feel that you are not!”
“Yes. I invoked my mother’s assistance; she gave it me in a dream. Would a mother have assisted her daughter if it were wrong?”
“It was not your mother, but a fiend who took the likeness.”
“It was my mother. Again you ask me to say that I believe that which I cannot.”
“That which you cannot! Amine Vanderdecken, be not obstinate.”
“I am not obstinate, good father. Have you not offered me what is to me beyond all price, that I should again be in the arms of my husband? Can I degrade myself to a lie? — not for life, or liberty, or even for my Philip.”
“Amine Vanderdecken, if you will confess your crime before you are accused, you will have done much; after your accusation has been made, it will be of little avail.”
“It will not be done, either before or after, father. What I have done I have done, but a crime it is not to me and mine — with you it may be, but I am not of yours.”
“Recollect also that you peril your husband, for having wedded with a sorceress. Forget not; to-morrow I will see you again.”
“My mind is troubled,” replied Amine. “Leave me, father, it will be a kindness.”
Father Mathias quitted the cell, pleased with the last words of Amine. The idea of her husband’s danger seemed to have startled her.
Amine threw herself down on the mattress in the corner of the cell, and hid her face.
“Burnt alive!” exclaimed she after a time, sitting up and passing her hands over her forehead. “Burnt alive! and these are Christians. This, then was the cruel death foretold by that creature, Schriften — foretold — yes, and therefore must be — it is my destiny — I cannot save myself. If I confess then, I confess that Philip is wedded to a sorceress, and he will be punished too. No, never — never; I can suffer; ’tis cruel — ’tis horrible to think of, — but ’twill soon be over. God of my fathers, give me strength against these wicked men, and enable me to hear all, for my dear Philip’s sake.”
The next evening, Father Mathias again made his appearance. He found Amine calm and collected: she refused to listen to his advice or follow his injunctions. His last observation, that “her husband would be in peril if she was found guilty of sorcery,” had steeled her heart, and she had determined that neither torture nor the stake should make her confess the act. The priest left the cell, sick at heart; he now felt miserable at the idea of Amine’s perishing by so dreadful a death; accused himself of precipitation, and wished that he had never seen Amine, whose constancy and courage, although in error, excited his admiration and his pity. And then he thought of Philip, who had treated him so kindly — how could he meet him? And if he asked for his wife, what answer could he give?
Another fortnight passed, when Amine was again summoned to the Hall of Judgment, and again asked if she confessed her crimes. Upon her refusal, the accusations against her were read. She was accused by Father Mathias with practising forbidden arts, and the depositions of the boy Pedro and the other witnesses were read. In his zeal, Father Mathias also stated that he had found her guilty of the same practices at Terneuse; and, moreover, that in the violent storm, when all expected to perish, she had remained calm and courageous and told the captain that they would be saved; which could only have been known by an undue spirit of prophecy, given by evil spirits. Amine’s lip curled in derision when she heard the last accusation. She was asked if she had any defence to make.
“What defence can be offered,” replied she, “to such accusations as these? Witness the last — because I was not so craven as the Christians, I am accused of sorcery. The old dotard! but I will expose him. Tell me, if one knows that sorcery is used, and conceals or allows it, is he not a participator and equally guilty?”
“He is,” replied the Inquisitor, anxiously awaiting the result.
“Then I denounce — ” and Amine was about to reveal that Philip’s mission was known, and not forbidden by Fathers Mathias and Seysen; when, recollecting that Philip would be implicated, she stopped.
“Denounce whom?” inquired the Inquisitor.
“No one,” replied Amine, folding her arms and dropping her head.
“Speak, woman!”
Amine made no answer.
“The torture will make you speak.”
“Never!” replied Amine. “Never! Torture me to death, if you choose; I prefer it to a public execution!”
The Inquisitor and the secretary consulted a short time. Convinced that Amine would adhere to her resolution and requiring her for public execution, they abandoned the idea of the torture.
“Do you confess?” inquired the Inquisitor.
“No,” replied Amine, firmly.
“Then take her away.”
The night before the auto-da-fé, Father Mathias again entered the cell of Amine, but all his endeavours to convert her were useless.
“To-morrow will end it all, father,” replied Amine; “leave me — I would be alone.”
