“It is the Ascension,” replied the lady; “the music is very fine there; we will go and hear it to-morrow, if you please.”
“And that massive building in face of us?”
“That is the Holy Inquisition,” said the widow, crossing herself.
Amine again started, she knew not why. “Is that your child?” said Amine, as a boy of about twelve years old entered the room.
“Yes,” replied the widow, “the only one that is left me. May God preserve him.” The boy was handsome and intelligent, and Amine, for her own reasons, did everything she could to make friends with him, and was successful.
* * *
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.
