“No, no; it is the 8th of February 1587, and you are shut up in the Castle of Fotheringay.”
“I?” asked Duclari, who thought that he had not quite understood the remark.
“Yes, you. You are weary, and try to get some variation. There in that wall is a hole;—it is too high for you to look through, but still that is what you desire to do. You place your table under it, and upon this table a three-legged stool, one of the legs being decidedly weak. You have seen at a fair an acrobat, who piled seven chairs one above another, and then placed himself on the top with his head downwards. Self-love and weariness press you to do something of the kind. You climb on your chair, [[184]]and reach the object.… You look for one moment through the hole.… ‘Oh, dear!’ You fall.… And don’t you now know why?”
“I think that the weak leg of the stool broke down,” said Verbrugge.
“Yes; that leg broke down,—but that is not the reason why you fell, the leg broke after your fall. Before every other hole, you could have stood a year on that chair, but now you would have fallen even if there had been thirteen legs to the stool. Yes, even had you been standing on the ground.…”
“I take it for granted,” said Duclari. “I see that you intend to let me fall, coûte que coûte. I lie flat enough now, and at full length; but really I don’t know why.”
“Well; that is very simple … you saw there a woman, dressed in black, kneeling down before a block. She bowed her head, and white as silver was the neck, which appeared whiter from its contrast with the velvet … and there stood a man with a large sword;[2] and he held it high, and he looked at this white neck … and he considered the arc which his blade must describe, to be driven through just there … there between those joints with exactness and force——and then you fell, Duclari; you fell because you saw that, and, therefore, you cried: ‘Oh, dear!’ and not because your chair had only three legs. [[185]]
“And long after you have been delivered from Fotheringay through the intercession of your cousin, or because they have grown tired of feeding you there any longer like a canary, long afterwards, yes, even now, your day-dreams are of this woman; you are roused from sleep, and fall down with a heavy shock on your bed, because you want to arrest the arm of the executioner!… Is it not so?”
“I am willing to believe it, but I cannot say very decidedly, because I have never looked through a hole in the wall of Fotheringay.”
“Granted! nor have I. But now I take a picture, which represents the decapitation of Mary Stuart. Suppose the representation to be perfect: there it hangs in a gilt frame, suspended by a red cord, if you like.… I know what you are about to say,—‘Granted!’ No! you do not see the frame; you even forget that you left your walking-stick at the entrance of the picture-gallery; you forget your name, your child, the new model shako, not to see a picture, but to behold in reality Mary Stuart, exactly the same as at Fotheringay. The executioner stands there exactly the same as he must have been standing in reality; yes, I will even suppose that you extend your arm to avert the blow, that you even cry, ‘Let this woman live, perhaps she will amend.’… You see, I give you fair play as regards the execution of the picture.”