Zhelihovsky V.P. - An Adventure in the Tower of London

VERY queer indeed this adventure of mine, when I think of it. What was it; a hallucination, or was I hypnotized? Was I simply beguiled by a dream, or can it be ... . that all that I have seen and heard, I saw and heard it in the restless and tale-telling waves, of what is called by my friends, the “astral light” . . .?

For the life of me I cannot tell! But what I do know and affirm is, that what I saw and heard, on that memorable noon, was as vivid and as real for me as life itself.

Well, hear what it was, and then judge for yourselves.

First of all, however, the reader has to get acquainted with me. Let him know, then, that I am a woman who has long since passed the prime of life, but who is nevertheless of a very inquisitive and even enterprising nature. Though a tolerably old traveller, I have never visited London before, and see it now for the first time. Add to this that my visit is to be a very short one, and my anxiety and feverish interest to see all worth seeing in the great metropolis becomes quite natural. The truth is that I have always been a fervent student of English history and literature, and even of English life, and this accounts still further for my great interest in the Modern Babylon and its ways. And so here I am, for a little over a month, wandering, “Baedecker” in hand, from early morn till dusk, often by myself – a fact I have had no opportunity of regretting. Very well satisfied with London sights and London wonders, I am no less pleased with its citizens. For, although my “Guide-Book” is of great use to me in general, still I am often compelled to ask my way of the people I meet; and I have always found them most obliging and ready to furnish me with any information I wanted.

But on the memorable day of my visit to the Tower, I had a Russian gentleman with me, who had offered a few days before to become my guide. He was a countryman of mine and seemed well acquainted with England and its metropolis. He had thus become my cicerone and companion for several consecutive days.

And very pleasant they were indeed, these few days. We made the most of them in excursions to parks, palaces, museums, picture galleries, and historical places. For a week or so we lived mostly in the Past, keeping company with British Kings and Queens, their statesmen and court ladies; poking irreverently our fingers at every great man of England and passing impudent remarks on once crowned heads, under their very 22noses. Sic transit gloria. It was a motley crowd, passed away long centuries ago, and pretty well forgotten by this time.

It so happened that with all our incessant ramblings we had not yet visited the Tower. Nor was it quite unintentional – not on my part, at any rate. Of late I had indulged in the pleasant occupation of refreshing my memory every night by reading about the places we intended to visit on the next day. I was in search of a book which I had read and very much enjoyed years ago – Dixon’s “Story of the Tower,” its inmates and their acts and deeds. But, as fate would have it, I could not lay my hand on it. The days, however, that my companion, the Russian gentleman could spare for sight-seeing were drawing to an end, and so we had no time to lose.

Of this fact I was assured by himself on one bright August morning, when, owing to some wandering whim of his, we found ourselves standing on a very uninteresting spot on the right bank of the Thames. It was quite near the old St. Olave’s Street, corrupted of late into the meaningless Tooley Street. Just in front of us, on the opposite bank of the river, arose the massive and gloomy walls of that ancient structure, which had been once a palace, then a state-prison full of dark dungeons, a fortress, and had now become an arsenal and a treasury ward of the old relics and emblems of royalty – the venerable old Tower, in short.

“Would you mind going there straight and by the shortest cut?” asked my companion.

“I have no objection to it,” I replied, “But how about the means of transit? The nearest bridge is still a good way off; and this does not seem a favourite place of resort for either ’bus, cab or hansom. . . . This is an out-of-the-way corner, I fear. . . . Unfortunately, I already feel sufficiently tired, as it is; and, you know, one should not feel quite exhausted if one would visit the Tower. What can we do, do you think?”

“A very simple thing, indeed,” laughed my friend. “We must proceed right to the Tower as the bee flies, and without stopping to look out for bridges, or waiting for cabs.”

“What can you mean, with this river before us? . . . Surely you are not St. Peter, to attempt walking on the waters? I am not!”

“Very likely you are not. But follow me, and if you do, I promise to lead you straight under the walls of the Tower.” . . . And, without waiting for an answer, my obstinate companion moved on.

I had no choice, it seemed, and did the same, though greatly perplexed as to what he was going to do.

The lane we had entered was narrow, dirty, and very muddy. I had to move on with the greatest caution and care, lest I should carry away on my skirts some very undesirable memorial of my passage through it. Thus, picking up my dress the best way I could, I was slowly moving in a true labyrinth of garbage, while my cicerone was hurrying away at 23full speed. I thought it really unkind of him to force me to lose my breath on such a hot day, and leaving me helplessly ignorant where he was leading me to.

Suddenly the lane came to an end. My guide turned abruptly round the corner, and when I had done the same, he had disappeared!

“Good gracious!” I cried, considerably alarmed at this unexpected exit. “Where are you; and where have you gone to?”

“Come! come! and have no fear! You are safe enough if you only follow me!” came his merry reply from some underground regions.

So there I stood on the brink of a large black hole over a winding staircase, disappearing in depths unknown.

“Are you coming?” he cried. “Now don’t be a coward, and come bravely down. . . . What are you waiting for?”

“Surely I have some right to hesitate, when you may be leading me on to my death, for all I know. . . . What is this pit?”

For all answer I again heard a merry laugh. Then came the sound of quick footsteps, which soon died away in the distance. What could I do in such an emergency but pick up my skirts still more carefully, and catching hold, with a feeling of very natural squeamishness, of the dirty, damp and rust-eaten iron railing, descend the steep winding stairway?

“He must know best, after all,” was my helpless, self-encouraging thought, as I cautiously descended, counting meanwhile the steps. . . . “One, two, three – ten – twenty – fifty! Good Heavens, seventy! . . . Ninety! Oh, Goodness!” I exclaimed, “is there ever to be an end to this?”

“Most assuredly; and here we are,” replied the well-known mocking voice. “Only ninety-six steps, after all. ... A good deal less than we should have to descend were we going down from the top of the Great Pyramid, say. Why should you make such a fuss over it? There! we have arrived and now we may go on again.”

“Go on, indeed! We have arrived, and we may go on; admirable and most comforting logic. But where, pray, are we going on to?”

Here I was suddenly silenced and remained awestruck. My guide’s form was scarcely visible in the thick gloom of a large iron tube very imperfectly lit by a row of gas burners, whose unbroken line became fainter and fainter as the golden thread of lights became low in the dim, mysterious depths of the tunnel.

We hurried on through this strange subterranean passage surrounded by its damp mist and stifling vapours. The vaulted iron ceiling was moist and slimy, and thin streams of water, as they filtered along the concave walls, ran splashing down into the muddy pools under our feet, and spattering at every step we took. Something was roaring and moaning above our heads, with wailing and thunderous sounds. There 24was something moving outside, running on and thrusting itself against our narrow iron subway.

“What is this noise?” I inquired. “What does it come from?”

“Water. It is a mighty power, you know,” answered my guide, with a placid smile. “It broke in once, and flooded this tunnel completely; but it was soon repaired.”

“The water broke in?” I cried. “Why, is it the water? I thought it was the sound of wheels.”

“What wheels would you have in the midst of a river, except those of the steamers? Boats are not noisy. . . . Besides, they run many feet higher, on the surface of the Thames, whilst we are under it.”

Suddenly he stopped; and it was well he did so, for I needed a moment’s rest to recover my breath.

“Ough!” he shuddered; “how it roars! Awful! We are now just in the middle of the Thames, you know . . . Yes: Suppose the stream finds its way in? . . . Just the slightest fence. O! We should have to take to our heels. Gracious Heaven! What a run we should have for it! ... Oh!”

And mischievously he took to his heels. But I could not.

“Now, look here; don’t!” I exclaimed, highly distressed.

“Not that I really was afraid, but rather unnerved by the heat and fatigue. Besides ... if once the water had found its way in and flooded the tunnel! Why should it not happen again? . . . And . . . what if this little catastrophe took place now ... at this very moment?

Certainly I am not very much afraid of death. I am rather a philosopher, I should say; but ... I must own that the mere thought of an end so very gloomy gave me a most unpleasant feeling of cold along my spine . . . . It seemed a precursor to the unwelcome submersion.

“I never thought you were so nervous. Do you really fear a deluge?” asked my merry friend. “Don’t. It is out of the question.”

“I know that,” was my answer. “But you have had a nice whim to lead me by such a pleasant road. Muddy, stifling, damp and dark as a pit! More tiresome, indeed, than a walk to the farthest bridge.”

“Is it? Truly, I am very sorry. But I thought this way would please you, as an unusual one ... You like queer things, don’t you?”

My companion’s voice was very gentle, but I am not quite sure there was not a slight intonation of irony in it.

He at once became very talkative and pleasant, as indeed he usually was. He told me all about the method of laying such a tunnel and rendering it secure by means of engineering art. He offered me his arm to lean upon, and so we walked on, in a friendly way enough, to the outlet of this seemingly endless subway.

“There was once a tramway here,” said he, “but it was removed for fear of the vibration. It is a pity, isn’t it? I am sure now, you would 25like to be seated and dragged on anything ... if only a wheelbarrow . . . isn’t it so?”

“Well, it is so. I fear I shall need a good long rest. Maybe I shall not be able to see all that is to be seen in the Tower.”

“Don’t mind. We can come again when you please. Only rally your strength and courage just now. We have that flight of a hundred steps to climb at the end of the passage – you remember. Take your courage in both hands, as we say in Russia.”

“O, yes. That I will,” I asserted laughingly. “Besides, do not think me more unfit for our task than I am. I was taken aback by this dreadful subway, I confess. But now it’s all right.”

“Very well. Glad to hear it. Ah! there’s daylight at last!” exclaimed he in a tone of relief. “One effort more! At the top of these stairs we are in the Tower . . . Are you fit to go on? or shall we rest a little?”

“Oh, no! Why lose our time? I am all right . . . and so glad to be at last in the Tower of London.”

And so I was. But alas! I very soon found out that all was not quite right with me when my last task was over . . . O, these ever-turning steps! . . . Round and round we climbed, at an endless, overtiring rate, and when at last at the top I felt myself scarcely able to stand on my legs. My knees trembled, my head was giddy. The sunlight dazzled my eyes and I felt my breathing grow short, as if I was suffocated by the fresh air. I rallied all my will to walk over the moat, and up to the “Traitor’s Gate”; but in sight of the entrance to the ‘Record Tower” I was obliged to stop because my legs would move no longer. . . .

“Now, there you see the most ancient walls of this place; more than eight centuries’ weight lies on them,” went on my learned friend, unaware of my state of weakness. “At your left is the so-called ‘Bell Tower.’ The alarm bell was rung on its top, as well as joyous volleys fired on occasions of births and weddings. Or again, perhaps, the bell tolled to signify to miserable prisoners that their death-hour had struck. At our right you perceive the mournful ‘Traitors’ Gate.’ This gate gave access from the Thames to state-prisoners, thus qualified ignominiously by their lord and master. Were they in truth traitors or not, after entering this dreary gate they had only one escape – the scaffold. I’ll show you presently, under this arch leading to the ‘Bloody Tower’ yonder – nice name, isn’t it? – the very iron crooks on which they used to expose the heads of poor decapitated wretches. . . .”

But this time I neither saw the monstrous crooks, nor did I hear any more my friend’s voice. . . . Ah! . . . But I saw and heard things far more wondrous. . . . .

What could be the matter with me? I thought I was fainting – but not at all! Only one moment’s deafness and blindness, and behold! I am heaved up in a glow of bright colours, in a glory of light.

26 This grand light did not blind my eyes: it was so soft and entrancing. It was not its rays that awakened me to life, but rather loud human shouts, shots, ringing bells and blaring trumpets. . . . .

I awoke, and looked about me in wonder and delight. It seemed as if I had acquired new senses and supernatural vital power. I felt myself neither on earth nor in the air, but it was as though I at once lived and moved simultaneously everywhere. . . . .

I saw, and heard, and comprehended all that was taking place; all the import and meaning of the different scenes and sights that enveloped me all around, as in a brilliant net. Indeed, now, as I think of it, it seems as if all my being was dissolved in ether; that it lived and felt in every atom, in all that was living and feeling on earth or in heaven, but that I still preserved my proper faculties, my inner self-consciousness as well as my external powers of moving at will. It was a delicious, a sublime, state of being!

I gazed with eager surprise and perceived that I was in this same Tower of London. And yet how different it was!

It was a great deal larger and brighter; full of buildings and galleries and beautiful halls. Gardens and flowers overshadowed and brightened the heavy towers. Handsome furniture, gold, silver, rich carpets and draperies adorned the splendid chambers of the Tower Palace. It was no longer a prison nor a fortress, but a kingly abode indeed. Bright waters filled the moat, swept up to the thick walls and under the sombre arches; but even the gloomiest of these were bright on this happy day.

A brilliant cavalcade was emerging from the main entrance to receive the gorgeous procession moving, in grand pomp, from the river side to the Tower Palace. Guards clad in steel and brass; heralds and beautiful pages preceded their monarch.

Tall, stout and stalwart was he, the mighty king of England! He slowly advanced on a great silver-white steed. Well accustomed to bear the weight of its master, even when arrayed in armour and heavy war trappings, it now moved at an easy pace, feeling no more the weight of the King’s rich garments than that of its golden bridle or those white feathers which waved about its massive head. Glorious seemed they both – rider and horse!

The sovereign’s large, blooming, fair face was bright with joy; but not even his great happiness could smooth away its repulsive expression.

There was something hard, sensual and withal ironical, in the lines of his thin lips and heavy chin, scarcely shadowed by a pretence to moustaches, as yellow as the hair on his head; something sharp and biting as steel, flashed in the cold, pitiless glare of his ever restless eye.

His escort was numerous and magnificent, but I did not heed it. . . . .

My attention was at once attracted beyond the walls of this regal residence to throngs of brightly attired people, as well as to the Thames, richly decorated and studded with pleasure boats, and gay barges.

27 How it was I do not know; but, I seemed to see it all at once.

I saw all: the river with its smiling green banks, down to Greenwich, whence came the royal bride, in all the pomp of heraldry and power. I saw her landed amidst crowds of citizens, of civil and military trains; I heard the joyous strains of music, the roar of guns, the peal of bells and the merry shouts that welcomed her.

Then I saw the Lord Mayor escorting her, with many officials arrayed in golden robes and chains, and mantles scarlet as blood. . . .

They brought her a beautiful white horse with gilded saddle and bridle set with pearls. She mounted it and went to meet the King, her amorous but passionate and heartless despot ... to meet her hapless, dreary fate! . . . I looked at her . . . and could no longer take my eyes from her. They were rivetted to that youthful form and fair face!

Truly it was a striking and beautiful face. Its charm lay not so much in the features or complexion as in its expression: mild, innocent and so pathetic. . . . Truth and sweetness were written in her large soft eyes, in her charming smile entirely devoid of pride or vanity. She had a strange, somewhat bewildered and enquiring look. Glancing about her, she seemed to be seeking for an answer to a secret thought, to strain her mental sight as if to read, in all this brightness and glory surrounding her, her future doom. . . .

She did not see, and could read nothing.

But I could: I saw and read it, and knew what was in store for her.

The long black tresses, flowing down over the slender ermine-clad shoulders, appeared like so many serpents in my sight; the precious rubies that encircled her brow turned into large drops of blood. . . .

The same with the gaudy, high-floating flags. The date, the very day and year, embroidered on them in gold and silver characters – “May 29, 1533” – changed colour and meaning for me. I read:

“May 19, 1536.”

I saw the large black characters everywhere, on earth and in the sky. They were written above the doomed fair girl’s head, over the walls and gates of the Tower, and even on the broad features of her betrothed, when the pair met to become man and wife. . . .

And behold! When I saw them meet, all was changed in a moment.

What of the dazzling procession, of the brilliant palace, where the satiated egoist, the cruel despot, was about to wed one of the many unfortunate women whom he claimed for his own? All had disappeared! The pile of desolate walls was now a fortress or a prison. At once I knew that three years had elapsed from that bright, joyful day . . . . had passed and gone for ever!

All was changed! All seemed dark and mournful around.

I saw her again, the once happy, beloved bride, the wife of a mighty king. Oh! how wan, how pale and withered she looked. But 28there was still the same light of innocence and sweetness about her, and much more dignity and queen-like majesty withal.

There she stood, in all the glory of her righteousness, calm and proud in the stately Hall, before her judges. She looked straight into the face of death and into the eyes of her unjust accusers, while they – they dared not lift their eyes to meet hers. . . .

And when the fatal word “GUILTY” fell from the lips of her chief judge and nearest kinsman, she only shuddered, and looked at him with silent terror. She was horrified, but not for herself. Neither fear nor despair did she feel at her own unhappy fate; but great was her sorrow for the sinful and shameless deed perpetrated upon her!

She looked at her judge with wonder and mute enquiry in her beautiful face, and then she slowly lifted up her eyes and hands to Heaven, and simply said:

“Oh, Father! Oh, Creator! Thou who art the way, the truth, and the life! Thou knowest that I have not deserved this death!”

Her head dropped on her bosom, and she was gone. But her mild protest remained as a curse on the heads of her condemners. . . .

What is this awful work going on meantime, between the White and the Bloody Towers? I see! It is the consummation of cruel injustice and unrepenting crime. . . . The executioner has to prepare his ominous block, to sharpen his blood-stained axe. . . .

Sharpen it well, my man! Sharpen it on both sides, so that it may return and fall upon the heads of those more guilty of the deed than thou art – and rest on them for ever! Thou doest well to put an iron mask on thy bewildered face, not to be seen by thy victim, for even thou art ashamed to perpetrate the ghastly crime. . . .

There she is – the Queen, the sinless martyr! I saw her advance to the ignominious scaffold. I heard her speak her last few words, her saint-like pardon to her foes; and I saw her calmly lay her youthful guileless head upon the block. . . .

But when the axe was lifted above her childlike neck, I rushed to avert the blow with all the strength of my will – and saw no more. . . . .

One moment of profound unconsciousness, and there I was, half astounded as by a fall from the clouds. I found myself lying on the cold steps of the Wakefield Tower in front of the closed and silent Traitors’ Gate of the Bloody Tower, too, which, thanks to heaven, sheds no more blood. My poor friend was moaning over me, holding my head, rubbing my hands, in sore distress, indeed; and then I saw someone forcing on me a glass of water. I took it, and drank the cold water with the utmost pleasure. Then catching sight of this “someone” I again grew bewildered, for the man looked as if he verily represented the last remnant of my recent vision, or dream – as you like to call it.

29 He wore a red and golden attire, a round hat of the most queer shape, which reminded me of the coachman’s headdress among my own Russian people; a large white beard completed the likeness.

“Well; who is this? And what are you moaning and grumbling over me for?” said I, when recovered from my first surprise.

“This is quite like you,” he cried. “Just returned to life, and asking questions about indifferent things. He is the yeoman. . . . the keeper . . . One of the official guardians of the Tower. And how do you feel now?”

“How do I feel? ... I am very well, thank you.”

“Very well! . . And you just recovering from a dead swoon! What was the matter with you, for goodness’ sake? Why did you not tell me at once that you felt ill?”

“I felt ill? But – not at all! I felt perfectly well indeed, and enjoyed myself, I can assure you, for I saw a wonderful sight. I have seen the arrival of Anne Boleyn at this very place! Henry VIII. meeting her at the main entrance . . . O, it was an exceedingly beautiful and striking procession, I tell you. After that, I saw her judged and sentenced. Oh, the lawless, monstrous deed! I saw the poor, young, harmless thing led to the scaffold. I rushed to her rescue – and then ... all disappeared ... I felt as if I could tear the headsman to pieces.”

“Oh, indeed? . . . Hush! Don’t!” . . . . . were the distressed and pleading entreaties of my poor friend. He was frightened to death lest he should have to take me to a lunatic asylum, instead of my home.

“Now, don’t! . . . Do for goodness’ sake be calm!” he went on. “Why you must be very ill indeed. You are delirious, my dear madam.” . . .

“Delirious yourself!” cried I. “I never was more in earnest. I have seen all this and much more I tell you.”

“Yes, yes! Certainly you did,” said he soothingly. “But now, you see, we must go home. You are overtired, indeed you are. I have sent for a cab.” . . .

“What for? Am I to go home without looking inside these towers? Now, when I am most interested and eager to see them? Go home!” I indignantly protested. “Take the cab for yourself! I will not.” . . .

“This is impossible. You may feel worse. . . . We will come here to-morrow, but you must have some rest first,” implored the poor man.

“I have had rest enough,” replied I, so very decisively that he was taken aback. “Now, give me your arm and show me the Tower, or I will go along by myself. I am neither mad, nor sick, nor tired, and I will have my own way.”

And so I had.

But do and say all I may, my companion – and indeed no one – would believe that I really saw the terrible old drama performed once more before my eyes, and by the true actors of old.

So much the worse for sceptics – because I did see it, and I assert it.

Vera P. Jelihovsky.

Footnotes