Chapter LII

by Charles Dickens

　　Fagin's Last Night AliveThe court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces.Inquisitive and eager eyes peered from every inch of space. Fromthe rail before the dock, away into the sharpest angle of thesmallest corner in the galleries, all looks were fixed upon oneman--Fagin. Before him and behind: above, below, on the rightand on the left: he seemed to stand surrounded by a firmament,all bright with gleaming eyes.He stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one handresting on the wooden slab before him, the other held to his ear,and his head thrust forward to enable him to catch with greaterdistinctness every word that fell from the presiding judge, whowas delivering his charge to the jury. At times, he turned hiseyes sharply upon them to observe the effect of the slightestfeatherweight in his favour; and when the points against him werestated with terrible distinctness, looked towards his counsel, inmute appeal that he would, even then, urge something in hisbehalf. Beyond these manifestations of anxiety, he stirred nothand or foot. He had scarcely moved since the trial began; andnow that the judge ceased to speak, he still remained in the samestrained attitude of close attention, with his gaze ben on him,as though he listened still.A slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself. Lookinground, he saw that the juryman had turned together, to considertheir verdict. As his eyes wandered to the gallery, he could seethe people rising above each other to see his face: some hastilyapplying their glasses to their eyes: and others whisperingtheir neighbours with looks expressive of abhorrence. A fewthere were, who seemed unmindful of him, and looked only to thejury, in impatient wonder how they could delay. But in no oneface--not even among the women, of whom there were manythere--could he read the faintest sympathy with himself, or anyfeeling but one of all-absorbing interest that he should becondemned.As he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the deathlikestillness came again, and looking back he saw that the jurymenhad turned towards the judge. Hush!They only sought permission to retire.He looked, wistfully, into their faces, one by one when theypassed out, as though to see which way the greater number leant;but that was fruitless. The jailed touched him on the shoulder.He followed mechanically to the end of the dock, and sat down ona chair. The man pointed it out, or he would not have seen it.He looked up into the gallery again. Some of the people wereeating, and some fanning themselves with handkerchiefs; for thecrowded place was very hot. There was one young man sketchinghis face in a little note-book. He wondered whether it was like,and looked on when the artist broke his pencil-point, and madeanother with his knife, as any idle spectator might have done.In the same way, when he turned his eyes towards the judge, hismind began to busy itself with the fashion of his dress, and whatit cost, and how he put it on. There was an old fat gentleman onthe bench, too, who had gone out, some half an hour before, andnow come back. He wondered within himself whether this man hadbeen to get his dinner, what he had had, and where he had had it;and pursued this train of careless thought until some new objectcaught his eye and roused another.Not that, all this time, his mind was, for an instant, free fromone oppressive overwhelming sense of the grave that opened at hisfeet; it was ever present to him, but in a vague and general way,and he could not fix his thoughts upon it. Thus, even while hetrembled, and turned burning hot at the idea of speedy death, hefell to counting the iron spikes before him, and wondering howthe head of one had been broken off, and whether they would mendit, or leave it as it was. Then, he thought of all the horrorsof the gallows and the scaffold--and stopped to watch a mansprinkling the floor to cool it--and then went on to think again.At length there was a cry of silence, and a breathless look fromall towards the door. The jury returned, and passed him close.He could glean nothing from their faces; they might as well havebeen of stone. Perfect stillness ensued--not a rustle--not abreath--Guilty.The building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, andanother, and then it echoed loud groans, that gathered strengthas they swelled out, like angry thunder. It was a peal of joyfrom the populace outside, greeting the news that he would die onMonday.The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to saywhy sentence of death should not be passed upon him. He hadresumed his listening attitude, and looked intently at hisquestioner while the demand was made; but it was twice repeatedbefore he seemed to hear it, and then he only muttered that hewas an old man--an old man--and so, dropping into a whisper, wassilent again.The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stoodwith the same air and gesture. A woman in the gallery, utteredsome exclamation, called forth by this dread solemnity; he lookedhastily up as if angry at the interruption, and bent forward yetmore attentively. The address was solemn and impressive; thesentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like a marble figure,without the motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still thrustforward, his under-jaw hanging down, and his eyes staring outbefore him, when the jailer put his hand upon his arm, andbeckoned him away. He gazed stupidly about him for an instant,and obeyed.They led him through a paved room under the court, where someprisoners were waiting till their turns came, and others weretalking to their friends, who crowded round a grate which lookedinto the open yard. There was nobody there to speak to him; but,as he passed, the prisoners fell back to render him more visibleto the people who were clinging to the bars: and they assailedhim with opprobrious names, and screeched and hissed. He shookhis fist, and would have spat upon them; but his conductorshurried him on, through a gloomy passage lighted by a few dimlamps, into the interior of the prison.Here, he was searched, that he might not have about him the meansof anticipating the law; this ceremony performed, they led him toone of the condemned cells, and left him there--alone.He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served forseat and bedstead; and casting his blood-shot eyes upon theground, tried to collect his thoughts. After awhile, he began toremember a few disjointed fragments of what the judge had said:though it had seemed to him, at the time, that he could not heara word. These gradually fell into their proper places, and bydegrees suggested more: so that in a little time he had thewhole, almost as it was delivered. To be hanged by the neck,till he was dead--that was the end. To be hanged by the necktill he was dead.As it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he hadknown who had died upon the scaffold; some of them through hismeans. They rose up, in such quick succession, that he couldhardly count them. He had seen some of them die,--and had jokedtoo, because they died with prayers upon their lips. With what arattling noise the drop went down; and how suddenly they changed,from strong and vigorous men to dangling heaps of clothes!Some of them might have inhabited that very cell--sat upon thatvery spot. It was very dark; why didn't they bring a light? Thecell had been built for many years. Scores of men must havepassed their last hours there. It was like sitting in a vaultstrewn with dead bodies--the cap, the noose, the pinioned arms,the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil.--Light,light!At length, when his hands were raw with beating against the heavydoor and walls, two men appeared: one bearing a candle, which hethrust into an iron candlestick fixed against the wall: theother dragging in a mattress on which to pass the night; for theprisoner was to be left alone no more.Then came the night--dark, dismal, silent night. Other watchersare glad to hear this church-clock strike, for they tell of lifeand coming day. To him they brought despair. The boom of everyiron bell came laden with the one, deep, hollow sound--Death.What availed the noise and bustle of cheerful morning, whichpenetrated even there, to him? It was another form of knell,with mockery added to the warning.The day passed off. Day? There was no day; it was gone as soonas come--and night came on again; night so long, and yet soshort; long in its dreadful silence, and short in its fleetinghours. At one time he raved and blasphemed; and at anotherhowled and tore his hair. Venerable men of his own persuasionhad come to pray beside him, but he had driven them away withcurses. They renewed their charitable efforts, and he beat themoff.Saturday night. He had only one night more to live. And as hethought of this, the day broke--Sunday.It was not until the night of this last awful day, that awithering sense of his helpless, desperate state came in its fullintensity upon his blighted soul; not that he had ever held anydefined or positive hope of mercy, but that he had never beenable to consider more than the dim probability of dying so soon.He had spoken little to either of the two men, who relieved eachother in their attendance upon him; and they, for their parts,made no effort to rouse his attention. He had sat there, awake,but dreaming. Now, he started up, every minute, and with gaspingmouth and burning skin, hurried to and fro, in such a paroxysm offear and wrath that even they--used to such sights--recoiled fromhim with horror. He grew so terrible, at last, in all thetortures of his evil conscience, that one man could not bear tosit there, eyeing him alone; and so the two kept watch together.He cowered down upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. Hehad been wounded with some missiles from the crowd on the day ofhis capture, and his head was bandaged with a linen cloth. Hisred hair hung down upon his bloodless face; his beard was torn,and twisted into knots; his eyes shone with a terrible light; hisunwashed flesh crackled with the fever that burnt him up.Eight--nine--then. If it was not a trick to frighten him, andthose were the real hours treading on each other's heels, wherewould he be, when they came round again! Eleven! Anotherstruck, before the voice of the previous hour had ceased tovibrate. At eight, he would be the only mourner in his ownfuneral train; at eleven--Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hidden so much miseryand such unspeakable anguish, not only from the eyes, but, toooften, and too long, from the thoughts, of men, never held sodread a spectacle as that. The few who lingered as they passed,and wondered what the man was doing who was to be hangedto-morrow, would have slept but ill that night, if they couldhave seen him.From early in the evening until nearly midnight, little groups oftwo and three presented themselves at the lodge-gate, andinquired, with anxious faces, whether any reprieve had beenreceived. These being answered in the negative, communicated thewelcome intelligence to clusters in the street, who pointed outto one another the door from which he must come out, and showedwhere the scaffold would be built, and, walking with unwillingsteps away, turned back to conjure up the scene. By degrees theyfell off, one by one; and, for an hour, in the dead of night, thestreet was left to solitude and darkness.The space before the prison was cleared, and a few strongbarriers, painted black, had been already thrown across the roadto break the pressure of the expected crowd, when Mr. Brownlowand Oliver appeared at the wicket, and presented an order ofadmission to the prisoner, signed by one of the sheriffs. Theywere immediately admitted into the lodge.'Is the young gentleman to come too, sir?' said the man whoseduty it was to conduct them. 'It's not a sight for children,sir.''It is not indeed, my friend,' rejoined Mr. Brownlow; 'but mybusiness with this man is intimately connected with him; and asthis child has seen him in the full career of his success andvillainy, I think it as well--even at the cost of some pain andfear--that he should see him now.'These few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible toOliver. The man touched his hat; and glancing at Oliver withsome curiousity, opened another gate, opposite to that by whichthey had entered, and led them on, through dark and winding ways,towards the cells.'This,' said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage where a coupleof workmen were making some preparations in profoundsilence--'this is the place he passes through. If you step thisway, you can see the door he goes out at.'He led them into a stone kitchen, fitted with coppers fordressing the prison food, and pointed to a door. There was anopen grating above it, throught which came the sound of men'svoices, mingled with the noise of hammering, and the throwingdown of boards. There were putting up the scaffold.From this place, they passed through several strong gates, openedby other turnkeys from the inner side; and, having entered anopen yard, ascended a flight of narrow steps, and came into apassage with a row of strong doors on the left hand. Motioningthem to remain where they were, the turnkey knocked at one ofthese with his bunch of keys. The two attendants, after a littlewhispering, came out into the passage, stretching themselves asif glad of the temporary relief, and motioned the visitors tofollow the jailer into the cell. They did so.The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himselffrom side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snaredbeast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wanderingto his old life, for he continued to mutter, without appearingconscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of hisvision.'Good boy, Charley--well done--' he mumbled. 'Oliver, too, ha!ha! ha! Oliver too--quite the gentleman now--quite the--takethat boy away to bed!'The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver; and, whisperinghim not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking.'Take him away to bed!' cried Fagin. 'Do you hear me, some ofyou? He has been the--the--somehow the cause of all this. It'sworth the money to bring him up to it--Bolter's throat, Bill;never mind the girl--Bolter's throat as deep as you can cut. Sawhis head off!''Fagin,' said the jailer.'That's me!' cried the Jew, falling instantly, into the attitudeof listening he had assumed upon his trial. 'An old man, myLord; a very old, old man!''Here,' said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keephim down. 'Here's somebody wants to see you, to ask you somequestions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?''I shan't be one long,' he replied, looking up with a faceretaining no human expression but rage and terror. 'Strike themall dead! What right have they to butcher me?'As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinkingto the furthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what theywanted there.'Steady,' said the turnkey, still holding him down. 'Now, sir,tell him what you want. Quick, if you please, for he grows worseas the time gets on.''You have some papers,' said Mr. Brownlow advancing, 'which wereplaced in your hands, for better security, by a man calledMonks.''It's all a lie together,' replied Fagin. 'I haven't one--notone.''For the love of God,' said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, 'do not saythat now, upon the very verge of death; but tell me where theyare. You know that Sikes is dead; that Monks has confessed; thatthere is no hope of any further gain. Where are those papers?''Oliver,' cried Fagin, beckoning to him. 'Here, here! Let mewhisper to you.''I am not afraid,' said Oliver in a low voice, as he relinquishedMr. Brownlow's hand.'The papers,' said Fagin, drawing Oliver towards him, 'are in acanvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the topfront-room. I want to talk to you, my dear. I want to talk toyou.''Yes, yes,' returned Oliver. 'Let me say a prayer. Do! Let mesay one prayer. Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and wewill talk till morning.''Outside, outside,' replied Fagin, pushing the boy before himtowards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. 'Say I'vegone to sleep--they'll believe you. You can get me out, if youtake me so. Now then, now then!''Oh! God forgive this wretched man!' cried the boy with a burstof tears.'That's right, that's right,' said Fagin. 'That'll help us on.This door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows,don't you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!''Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?' inquired the turnkey.'No other question,' replied Mr. Brownlow. 'If I hoped we couldrecall him to a sense of his position--''Nothing will do that, sir,' replied the man, shaking his head.'You had better leave him.'The door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.'Press on, press on,' cried Fagin. 'Softly, but not so slow.Faster, faster!'The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from hisgrasp, held him back. He struggled with the power ofdesperation, for an instant; and then sent up cry upon cry thatpenetrated even those massive walls, and rang in their ears untilthey reached the open yard.It was some time before they left the prison. Oliver nearlyswooned after this frightful scene, and was so weak that for anhour or more, he had not the strength to walk.Day was dawning when they again emerged. A great multitude hadalready assembled; the windows were filled with people, smokingand playing cards to beguile the time; the crowd were pushing,quarrelling, joking. Everything told of life and animation, butone dark cluster of objects in the centre of all--the black stage,the cross-beam, the rope, and all the hideous apparatus of death.