“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.

“The hunger made you weak, Frank; but the inhumanity was the worst of it; what devilish creatures men are.  I had never known anything about them.  I had never dreamt of such cruelties.  A man spoke to me at exercise.  You know you are not allowed to speak.  He was in front of me, and he whispered, so that he could not be seen, how sorry he was for me, and how he hoped I would bear up.  I stretched out my hands to him and cried, ‘Oh, thank you, thank you.’  The kindness of his voice brought tears into my eyes.  Of course I was punished at once for speaking; a dreadful punishment.  I won’t think of it:  I dare not.  They are infinitely cunning in malice here, Frank; infinitely cunning in punishment....  Don’t let us talk of it, it is too painful, too horrible that men should be so brutal.”

“Give me an instance,” I said, “of something less painful; something which may be bettered.”

He smiled wanly.  “All of it, Frank, all of it should be altered.  There is no spirit in a prison but hate, hate masked in degrading formalism.  They first break the will and rob you of hope, and then rule by fear.  One day a warder came into my cell.

“‘Take off your boots,’ he said.

“Of course I began to obey him; then I asked: 

“‘What is it?  Why must I take off my boots?’

“He would not answer me.  As soon as he had my boots, he said: 

“‘Come out of your cell.’

“‘Why?’ I asked again.  I was frightened, Frank.  What had I done?  I could not guess; but then I was often punished for nothing:  what was it?  No answer.  As soon as we were in the corridor he ordered me to stand with my face to the wall, and went away.  There I stood in my stocking feet waiting.  The cold chilled me through; I began standing first on one foot and then on the other, racking my brains as to what they were going to do to me, wondering why I was being punished like this, and how long it would last; you know the thoughts fear-born that plague the mind....  After what seemed an eternity I heard him coming back.  I did not dare to move or even look.  He came up to me; stopped by me for a moment; my heart stopped; he threw down a pair of boots beside me, and said: