“Do you understand?” I asked.

“Of course, Frank, of course, but you have no conception how weary I am of the whole thing, of the shame and the struggling and the hatred.  To see those people coming into the box one after the other to witness against me makes me sick.  The self-satisfied grin of the barristers, the pompous foolish judge with his thin lips and cunning eyes and hard jaw.  Oh, it’s terrible.  I feel inclined to stretch out my hands and cry to them, ’Do what you will with me, in God’s name, only do it quickly; cannot you see that I am worn out?  If hatred gives you pleasure, indulge it.’  They worry one, Frank, with ravening jaws, as dogs worry a rabbit.  Yet they call themselves men.  It is appalling.”

The day was dying, the western sky all draped with crimson, saffron and rosy curtains:  a slight mist over London, purple on the horizon, closer, a mere wash of blue; here and there steeples pierced the thin veil like fingers pointing upward.  On the left the dome of St. Paul’s hung like a grey bubble over the city; on the right the twin towers of Westminster with the river and bridge which Wordsworth sang.  Peace and beauty brooding everywhere, and down there lost in the mist the “rat pit” that men call the Courts of Justice.  There they judge their fellows, mistaking indifference for impartiality, as if anyone could judge his fellowman without love, and even with love how far short we all come of that perfect sympathy which is above forgiveness and takes delight in succouring the weak, comforting the broken-hearted.

* * * * *

The days went swiftly by and my powerlessness to influence him filled me with self-contempt.  Of course, I said to myself, if I knew him better I should be able to help him.  Would vanity do anything?  It was his mainspring; I could but try.  He might be led by the hope of making Englishmen talk of him again, talk of him as one who had dared to escape; wonder what he would do next.  I would try, and I did try.  But his dejection foiled me:  his dislike of the struggle seemed to grow from day to day.

He would scarcely listen to me.  He was counting the days to the trial:  willing to accept an adverse decision; even punishment and misery and shame seemed better than doubt and waiting.  He surprised me by saying: 

“A year, Frank, they may give me a year? half the possible sentence:  the middle course, that English Judges always take:  the sort of compromise they think safe?” and his eyes searched my face for agreement.

I felt no such confidence in English Judges; their compromises are usually bargainings; when they get hold of an artist they give rein to their intuitive fear and hate.

But I would not discourage him.  I repeated: 

“You can win, Oscar, if you like:—­” my litany to him.  His wan dejected smile brought tears to my eyes.

* * * * *