It Is Never Too Late to Mend — Chapter XV, part 2
Such are the great.
Men know their feats but not their struggles!
Meantime Robinson lay in the dark cell with a morsel of bread and water, and no bed or chair, that hunger and unrest might co-operate with darkness and solitude to his hurt.
To this horrid abode it is now our fate to follow a thief and a blasphemer.
We must pass his gloomy portal, over which might have been inscribed what Dante has written over the gates of hell: “ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE--ABANDON HOPE!!
” At six o'clock Robinson was thrust in, and his pittance of bread and water with him; the door, which fitted like mosaic, was closed.
The steps retreated carrying away hope and human kind; there was silence, and the man shivered in the thick black air that seemed a fluid, not an atmosphere.
When the door closed his heart was yet beating with rage and wild desire of vengeance.
He nursed this rage as long as he could, but the thick darkness soon cooled him and cowed him.
He sat down upon the floor, he ate his pittance very slowly, two mouthfuls a minute.
“I will be an hour eating it,” said he, “and then an hour will have passed.
” He thought he was an hour eating it, but in reality he was scarce twenty minutes.
The blackness seemed to smother him.
“I will shut it out,” said he.
He took out his handkerchief and wrapped his head in it.
“What a weak fool I am,” cried he, “when we are asleep it does not matter to us light or dark; I will go to sleep.
” He lay down, his head still wrapped up, and tried to sleep.
So passed the first hour.
Second hour.
He rose from the stone floor after a vain attempt to sleep.
“Oh, no!
” cried he, “sleep is for those who are well and happy, and who could enjoy themselves as well awake; it won't come to me to save a poor wretch from despair.
I must tire myself, and I am too cold to sleep.
Here goes for a warm.
” He groped to the wall, and keeping his hand on it went round and round like a caged tiger.
“Hawes hopes to drive me to Bedlam.
I'll do the best I can for myself to spite him.
May he lie in a place narrower than this, and almost as dark, with his jaw down and his toes up before the year is out, curse him!
” But the poor wretch's curses quavered away into sobs and tears.
“Oh, what have I done to be used so as I am here?
They drive me to despair, then drive me to hell for despairing.
Patience, or I shall go mad.
Patience!
Patience!
” This hour was passed cursing and weeping and groping for warmth and fatigue--in vain.
Third hour.
The man sat rocking himself to and fro, trying not to think of anything.
For now the past, too, was coming with all its weight upon him; every minute he started up as if an adder had stung him; crawled about his cell seeking refuge in motion and finding none; then he threw himself on the floor and struggled for sleep.
Sleep would not come so sought; and now his spirits were quite cowed.
He would cringe to Hawes;
he would lick the dust at his feet to get out of this horrible place;
who could he get to go and tell the governor he was _penitent_.
He listened at the door; he rapped; no one came.
He put his ear to the ground and listened; no sound--blackness, silence, solitude.
“They have left me here to die,” shrieked the despairing man, and he flung himself on the floor and writhed upon the hard stone.
“It must be morning, and no one comes near me; this is my tomb!
” Fear came upon him, and trembling and a cold sweat bedewed his limbs; and once more the past rushed over him with tenfold force; days of happiness and comparative innocence now forfeited forever.
His whole life whirled round before his eyes in a panorama, scene dissolving into scene with inconceivable rapidity; thus passed more than two hours; and now remorse and memory concentrated themselves on one dark spot in this man's history.
“She is in the tomb,” cried he, “and all through me, and that is why I am here.
This is my grave.
Do you see me, Mary?
--she is here.
The spirits of the dead can go anywhere.
” Then he trembled and cried for help.
Oh!
for a human voice or a human footstep!
--none.
His nerves and senses were now shaken.
He cried aloud most piteously for help.
“Mr. Fry, Mr. Hodges, help!
help!
help!
The cell is full of the dead, and devils are buzzing round me waiting to carry me away--they won't wait much longer.
” He fancied something supernatural passed him like a wind.
He struck wildly at it.
He flung himself madly against the door to escape it; he fell back bruised and bleeding and lay a while in stupor.
Sixth hour.
Robinson was going mad.
The blackness and solitude and silence and remorse and despair were more than his excitable nature could bear any longer.
He prayed Hawes to come and abuse him.
He prayed Fry to bring the jacket to him.
“Let me but see a man, or hear a man!
” He screamed, and cursed, and prayed, and dashed himself on the ground and ran round the cell wounding his hands and his face.
Suddenly he turned deadly calm.
He saw he was going mad--better die than so--“I shall be a beast soon--I will die a man”--he tore down his collar--he had on cotton stockings; he took one off--he tied it in a loose knot round his naked throat--he took a firm hold with each hand.
And now he was quiet and sorrowed calmly.
A man to die in the prime of life for want of a little light and a word from a human creature to keep him from madness.
Then as the thought returned, clinching his teeth, he gathered the ends of the stocking and prepared with one fierce pull to save his shaken reason and end his miserable days.
Now at this awful moment, While his hands griped convulsively the means of death, a quiet tap on the outside of the cell door suddenly rang through the dead stillness, and a moment after a human word forced its way into the cave of madness and death-- “BROTHER!
” When this strange word pierced the thick door and came into the hell-cave, feeble as though wafted over water from a distance, yet distinct as a bell and bright as a sunbeam, Robinson started, and quaked with fear and doubt.
Did it come from the grave, that unearthly tone and word?
Still holding the ends of the stocking, he cried out wildly in a loud but quavering voice: “Who--o--o calls Thomas Sinclair brother?
” The distant voice rang back-- “Francis Eden!
” “Ah!
--where are you, Francis Eden?
” “Here!
within a hand's-breadth of you;” and Mr. Eden struck the door.
“Here!
” “There!
are you there?
” and Robinson struck the door on his side.
“Yes, here!
” “Ha!
don't go away, pray don't go away!
” “I don't mean to.
Take courage--calm your fears--a brother is close by you!
” “A brother!
--again!
now I know who it must be, but there is no telling voices here.
” “What were you doing?
” “What was I doing?
Oh!
don't ask me--I was going mad--where are you?
” “Here!
” (rap).
“And I am here close opposite; you won't go away yet a while?
” “Not till you bid me--compose yourself--do you hear me?
--calm yourself, compose yourself.
” “I will try, sir!
--thank you, sir--I will try.
What o'clock is it?
” “Half-past twelve.
” “Night or day?
” “Night.
” “Friday night, or Saturday?
” “Thursday.
” “How came you to be in the prison at this hour?
” “I was anxious about you.
” “You were what?
” “Fearful about you.
” “What!
did you give up your sleep only to see after me?
” “Are you not glad I came?
” “Is a shipwrecked sailor glad when a rope is flung him?
I hold on to life and reason by you!
” “Is not this better than sleeping?
--Did you speak?
” “No!
I am thinking!
I am trying to make you out.
Were you ever a p----(hum)?
” “Was I ever what?
the door is so thick!
” “Oh!
nothing, sir; you seem to know what a poor fellow suffers in the dark cell.
” “I have been in it!
” “Whee-ugh-whee!
--what a shame!
what did they put you in for?
” “They didn't put me in.
I went in.
” “The devil you did!
” muttered the immured.
“What?
Speak out.
” “Nothing, your reverence,” bawled Robinson.
“Why did you go into such a cur--into such a hole?
” “It was my duty to know what a fellow-creature suffers there, lest, through inexperience, I might be cruel.
Ignorance is the mother of cruelty!
” “I hear you, sir.
“And cruelty is a fearful crime in His eyes, whose servant I am.
” “I am thinking, sir; I am putting two or three things together--I see--” “Speak more slowly and articulately.
” “I will; I see what you are now--you are a Christian.
” “I hope so!
” “I might have guessed as much, and I did suspect it; but I couldn't know, I had nothing to go by.
I never fell in with a Christian before.
” “Where did you go to look for them?
” asked Mr. Eden, his mouth twitching.
“I have been in many countries, and my eyes open; and I've heard and read of Christians, and I've met hypocrites; but never met a living Christian till to-night.
” Then, after a pause, “Sir, I want to apologize to you!
” “What for!
” “For my ignorant and ungrateful conduct to you in my cell.
” “Let bygones be bygones!
” “Could you forgive me, sir?
” “You punished yourself, not me; I forgive you.
” “Thank you.
” Robinson was silent.
After a pause Mr. Eden tapped.
“What are you doing?
” “I am thinking over your goodness to me.
” “Are you better now?
” “That I am.
The place was a tomb; since you came it is only a closet.
I
can't see your face--I feel it, though; and your voice is music to me.
Have you nothing to say to me, sir?
” “I have many things to say to you; but this is not the time.
I want you to sleep.
” “Why, sir?
” “Sleep is the balm of mind and body--you need sleep.
” “And you, sir?
” “I shall sit here.
” “You will take your death of cold.
” “No, I have my greatcoat.
” There was a long pause.
Robinson tapped.
“Sir, grant me a favor.
” “What is it?
” “Go home to your bed.
” “What, leave you?
” “Yes.
” “Shall you not miss me?
” “Yes, sir, but you must go.
The words you have spoken will stay with me while you are gone.
” “I shall stay.
” “No, sir, no!
I can't bear it--it isn't fair!
” “What do you mean?
” “It isn't fair that a gentleman like you should be kept shivering at an unfortunate man's door like me.
I am not quite good for nothing, sir, and this will disgrace me in my own eyes.
” “I am on the best side of the door; don't trouble your head about me.
” “I shouldn't, sir, if you had not about me--but kindness begets kindness.
Go to your comfortable bed.
” Mr. Eden hesitated.
“You will make me more unhappy than I am, if you stay here in the cold.
” Now, at the beginning of this argument Mr. Eden was determined not to go; but on reflection he made up his mind to, for this reason: “This,” said he to himself, “is an act of uncommon virtue and self-denial in this poor fellow.
I must not balk it, for it will be good for his soul;
it is a step on the right road.
This good and, I might say, noble act is a foundation-stone on which I ought to try and build an honest man and a Christian.
” “Well, then, as you are so considerate I will go.
” “Thank you.
” “Can I do nothing for you before I go?
” “No, sir; you have done all a man can; yes, you can do something--you spoke a word to me when you came; it is a word I am not worthy of, but still if you could leave me that word it would be a companion for me.
” “Brother!
” “Thank you.
” When he heard Mr. Eden's steps grow fainter and fainter, and at last inaudible, Robinson groaned; the darkness turned blacker and the solitude more desolate than ever.
Mr. Eden paced the corridors in meditation.
“It is never too late to mend!
” he said.
“This man seemed an unredeemable brute, yet his heart was to be touched by persevering kindness; and once touched, how much of goodness left in his fallen nature--genuine gratitude, and even the embers of self-respect.
'I hate myself for my conduct in the cell; it would disgrace me in my own eyes if I let you shiver at my door.'
Poor fellow, my heart yearns toward him for that.
'Go, or you will make me more unhappy.'
Why, that was real delicacy.
I must not let him suffer for it.
In an hour I will go back to him.
If he is asleep, well and good; if not, there I stay till morning.
” He went to his room and worked.
The hour soon glided by to him; not so to the poor prisoner.
At two in the morning Mr. Eden came softly back to the dark cell to see whether Robinson was asleep.
He scratched the door with a key.
A loud, unsteady voice cried out, “What is that?
” “It is I, brother.
” “Why are you not in your bed?
” “I couldn't sleep for anxiety.
Come, chat with me till you feel sleepy.
How did you color those cards?
” “I found a coal and a bit of brick in the yard.
I pounded them and mixed them with water and laid them on with a brush I had made and hid.
” “Very ingenious!
Are you cold?
” “No. ” “Because your voice trembles.
” “Does it?
” “What is the matter?
” “Can't you guess?
” “No!
But I remember you used to tremble when I spoke to you in the cell.
Why was that?
Have your nerves been shaken by ill-usage, my poor fellow?
” “Oh, no!
it is not that.
” “Tell me, then!
” “Oh, sir!
you know all a poor fellow feels.
You can guess what made me tremble, and makes me tremble now, like an aspen I do.
” “No, indeed!
pray tell me!
Are we not friends?
” “The best ever I had, or ever shall.
” “Then tell me.
” “I'll try; but it is a long story, and the door is so thick.
” “Ah!
but I hear you better now.
I have got used to your voice.
“Well, sir; but I've no words to speak to you as I ought.
Why did I use to tremble when you used to speak kind to me?
Sir, when I first came here I hadn't a bad heart.
I was a felon, but I was a man.
They turned me to a brute by cruelty and wrong.
You came too late, sir.
It wasn't Tom Robinson you found in that cell.
I had got to think all men were devils They poisoned my soul!
I hated God and man!
“The very chaplain before you said good, kind words in church, but out of it he was Hawes' tool!
Then you came and spoke good, kind words.
My heart ran to meet them; then it drew back all shivering and said, this is a hypocrite, too!
I was a fool and a villain to think so for a moment, and perhaps I didn't at bottom, but I was turned to gall.
“Oh, sir!
you don't know what it is to lose hope, to find out that do what you will you can't be right, can't escape abuse and hatred and torture.
Treat a man like a dog and you make him one!
“But you came.
Your voice, your face, your eye were all pity and kindness.
I hoped, but I was afraid to hope!
I had seen but two things--butchers and hypocrites.
Then I had sworn in my despair never to speak again, and I wouldn't speak to you.
Fool!
How kind and patient you were.
Sir, once when you left me you sighed as you closed the cell door.
I came after you to beg your pardon, when it was too late; indeed I did, upon my honor.
And when you would rub the ointment on my throat in spite of my ingratitude, I could have worshipped you; but my pride held me back like an iron hand.
Why did I tremble?
that was the devil and my better part fighting inside me for the upper hand.
And another thing, I did not dare speak to you.
I felt that if I did I should give way altogether, like a woman or a child.
I feel so now.
For, oh!
can't you guess what it must be to a poor fellow when all the rest are savage as wolves and one is kind as a woman?
Oh!
you have been a friend to me.
You don't know all you have done.
