"I don't like to," he said, "it is all so dreadful--and ugly and
painful, I would rather not think of it," and he turned away
despairingly.
"You must tell me, or I shall not be able to help you." Bit by bit I won
the confession from him.
"At first it was a fiendish nightmare; more horrible than anything I had
ever dreamt of; from the first evening when they made me undress before
them and get into some filthy water they called a bath and dry myself
with a damp, brown rag and put on this livery of shame. The cell was
appalling: I could hardly breathe in it, and the food turned my stomach;
the smell and sight of it were enough: I did not eat anything for days
and days, I could not even swallow the bread; and the rest of the food
was uneatable; I lay on the so-called bed and shivered all night
long.... Don't ask me to speak of it, please. Words cannot convey the
cumulative effect of a myriad discomforts, brutal handling and slow
starvation. Surely like Dante I have written on my face the fact that I
have been in hell. Only Dante never imagined any hell like an English
prison; in his lowest circle people could move about; could see each
other, and hear each other groan: there was some change, some human
companionship in misery...."
"When did you begin to eat the food?" I asked.
"I can't tell, Frank," he replied. "After some days I got so hungry I
had to eat a little, nibble at the outside of the bread, and drink some
of the liquid; whether it was tea, coffee or gruel, I could not tell. As
soon as I really ate anything it produced violent diarrhoea and I was
ill all day and all night. From the beginning I could not sleep. I grew
weak and had wild delusions.... You must not ask me to describe it. It
is like asking a man who has gone through fever to describe one of the
terrifying dreams. At Wandsworth I thought I should go mad; Wandsworth
is the worst: no dungeon in hell can be worse; why is the food so bad?
It even smelt bad. It was not fit for dogs."
"Was the food the worst of it?" I asked.
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