There was a considerate side to my friend’s character, which showed
itself when the warder had left us.
He was especially anxious to be careful of what he said to a woman in
the Prisoner’s terrible situation; especially in the event of her having
been really subjected to the influence of religious belief. On the
Minister’s own authority, I declared that there was every reason to
adopt this conclusion; and in support of what I had said I showed him
the confession. It only contained a few lines, acknowledging that she
had committed the murder and that she deserved her sentence. “From the
planning of the crime to the commission of the crime, I was in my
right senses throughout. I knew what I was doing.” With that remarkable
disavowal of the defense set up by her advocate, the confession ended.
My colleague read the paper, and handed it back to me without making any
remark. I asked if he suspected the Prisoner of feigning conversion to
please the Minister.
“She shall not discover it,” he answered, gravely, “if I do.”
It would not be true to say that the Doctor’s obstinacy had shaken
my belief in the good result of the Minister’s interference. I may,
however, acknowledge that I felt some misgivings, which were not
dispelled when I found myself in the presence of the Prisoner.
I had expected to see her employed in reading the Bible. The good book
was closed and was not even placed within her reach. The occupation to
which she was devoting herself astonished and repelled me.
Some carelessness on the part of the attendant had left on the table the
writing materials that had been needed for her confession. She was using
them now--when death on the scaffold was literally within a few hours
of her--to sketch a portrait of the female warder, who was on the watch!
The Doctor and I looked at each other; and now the sincerity of her
repentance was something that I began to question, too.
She laid down the pen, and proceeded quietly to explain herself.
“Even the little time that is left to me proves to be a weary time
to get through,” she said. “I am making a last use of the talent for
drawing and catching a likeness, which has been one of my gifts since I
was a girl. You look as if you didn’t approve of such employment as this
for a woman who is going to be hanged. Well, sir, I have no doubt you
are right.” She paused, and tore up the portrait. “If I have misbehaved
myself,” she resumed, “I make amends. To find you in an indulgent frame
of mind is of importance to me just now. I have a favor to ask of you.
May the warder leave the cell for a few minutes?”
Giving the woman permission to withdraw for a while, I waited with some
anxiety to hear what the Prisoner wanted of me.
“I have something to say to you,” she proceeded, “on the subject of
executions. The face of a person who is going to be hanged is hidden, as
I have been told, by a white cap drawn over it. Is that true?”
How another man might have felt, in my place, I cannot, of course,
say. To my mind, such a question--on _her_ lips--was too shocking to be
answered in words. I bowed.
“And the body is buried,” she went on, “in the prison?”
I could remain silent no longer. “Is there no human feeling left in
you?” I burst out. “What do these horrid questions mean?”
“Don’t be angry with me, sir; you shall hear directly. I want to know
first if I am to be buried in the prison?”
I replied as before, by a bow.
“Now,” she said, “I may tell you what I mean. In the autumn of last
year I was taken to see some waxworks. Portraits of criminals were
among them. There was one portrait--” She hesitated; her infernal
self-possession failed her at last. The color left her face; she was no
longer able to look at me firmly. “There was one portrait,” she resumed,
“that had been taken after the execution. The face was so hideous; it
was swollen to such a size in its frightful deformity--oh, sir, don’t
let me be seen in that state, even by the strangers who bury me! Use
your influence--forbid them to take the cap off my face when I am
dead--order them to bury me in it, and I swear to you I’ll meet death
tomorrow as coolly as the boldest man that ever mounted the scaffold!”
Before I could stop her, she seized me by the hand, and wrung it with
a furious power that left the mark of her grasp on me, in a bruise, for
days afterward. “Will you do it?” she cried. “You’re an honorable man;
you will keep your word. Give me your promise!”
I gave her my promise.
The relief to her tortured spirit expressed itself horribly in a burst
of frantic laughter. “I can’t help it,” she gasped; “I’m so happy.”
My enemies said of me, when I got my appointment, that I was too
excitable a man to be governor of a prison. Perhaps they were not
altogether wrong. Anyhow, the quick-witted Doctor saw some change in me,
which I was not aware of myself. He took my arm and led me out of the
cell. “Leave her to me,” he whispered. “The fine edge of my nerves was
worn off long ago in the hospital.”
When we met again, I asked what had passed between the Prisoner and
himself.
“I gave her time to recover,” he told me; “and, except that she looked a
little paler than usual, there was no trace left of the frenzy that you
remember. ‘I ought to apologize for troubling you,’ she said; ‘but it is
perhaps natural that I should think, now and then, of what is to happen
to me to-morrow morning. As a medical man, you will be able to enlighten
me. Is death by hanging a painful death?’ She had put it so politely
that I felt bound to answer her. ‘If the neck happens to be broken,’ I
said, ‘hanging is a sudden death; fright and pain (if there is any pain)
are both over in an instant. As to the other form of death which is also
possible (I mean death by suffocation), I must own as an honest man that
I know no more about it than you do.’ After considering a little, she
made a sensible remark, and followed it by an embarrassing request. ‘A
great deal,’ she said, ‘must depend on the executioner. I am not afraid
of death, Doctor. Why should I be? My anxiety about my little girl is
set at rest; I have nothing left to live for. But I don’t like pain.
Would you mind telling the executioner to be careful? Or would it be
better if I spoke to him myself?’ I said I thought it would come with
a better grace from herself. She understood me directly; and we dropped
the subject. Are you surprised at her coolness, after your experience of
her?”
I confessed that I was surprised.
“Think a little,” the Doctor said. “The one sensitive place in that
woman’s nature is the place occupied by her self-esteem.”
I objected to this that she had shown fondness for her child.
My friend disposed of the objection with his customary readiness.
“The maternal instinct,” he said. “A cat is fond of her kittens; a cow
is fond of her calf. No, sir, the one cause of that outbreak of passion
which so shocked you--a genuine outbreak, beyond all doubt--is to be
found in the vanity of a fine feminine creature, overpowered by a horror
of looking hideous, even after her death. Do you know I rather like that
woman?”
“Is it possible that you are in earnest?” I asked.
“I know as well as you do,” he answered, “that this is neither a time
nor a place for jesting. The fact is, the Prisoner carries out an idea
of mine. It is my positive conviction that the worst murders--I mean
murders deliberately planned--are committed by persons absolutely
deficient in that part of the moral organization which _feels_. The
night before they are hanged they sleep. On their last morning they
eat a breakfast. Incapable of realizing the horror of murder, they are
incapable of realizing the horror of death. Do you remember the last
murderer who was hanged here--a gentleman’s coachman who killed his
wife? He had but two anxieties while he was waiting for execution. One
was to get his allowance of beer doubled, and the other was to be hanged
in his coachman’s livery. No! no! these wretches are all alike; they are
human creatures born with the temperaments of tigers. Take my word for
it, we need feel no anxiety about to-morrow. The Prisoner will face the
crowd round the scaffold with composure; and the people will say, ‘She
died game.’”