this was the famous wolf

The camera, featuring advanced night-vision technology, provided a high-resolution picture in spite of the darkness and foul weather. For a moment, Camera 01 continued panning away from the Honda—then halted its programmed sweep and returned to the car. Dave Ladman had been on a routine foot patrol of the estate grounds at that time. Tom Mack, manning the security office, had recognized the presence of a suspicious vehicle and had overridden O1’s automatic function. Rain had been falling heavily. Ceaseless barrages of raindrops shattered against the blacktop with force, creating such a froth and dancing spray that the street appeared to be aboil. The driver’s door opened, and Camera 01 zoomed in for a close-up as a tall, solidly built man got out of the car. He wore a black waterproof windbreaker. His face was hidden in the shadow of a hood. Unless Rolf Reynerd had loaned his car to a friend, this was the famous wolf. He fit the physical profile on Reynerd’s license. He closed the driver’s door, opened the rear door, and took a large white ball from the backseat. This appeared to be the garbage bag containing the gift of the sutured apple. Reynerd closed the door and started toward the front of the car, toward the driveway gate a hundred yards away. Abruptly he halted and turned to peer along the dark rain-swept lane, poised for flight. Perhaps he thought that he’d heard an approaching engine above the rushing rustle of the rain racing down through the trees. The security tape provided no sound. At that lonely hour, if another vehicle had arrived on the scene, chances were good that it would have been a cruiser belonging to the Bel Air Patrol, the private-security force that assisted in the policing of this extremely wealthy community.

the operation of the gate

Anyone reconnoitering the front-wall security, the operation of the gate, and the protocols of visitor identification would detect no cameras on the public side or in the estate trees that overhung the wall. They would assume that surveillance could be conducted solely from within the property. Meanwhile, they would be watched by the cameras on the farther side of the narrow Bel Air byway, barely two lanes wide, which lacked sidewalks and streetlamps. A zoom shot would provide a clear ID to help ensure a conviction if the subject proceeded from reconnoitering to any act of criminal intent. The cameras operated 24/7. From the security office in the groundskeeper’s building and from several points in the house, any videoc鄊 in the system could be accessed if you knew the command. Several televisions in the house and a bank of six in the security office could receive the video feed from any camera. One TV could display as many as four views simultaneously in quarter-screen format. Therefore, the security team was able to study images from as many as twenty-four cameras at any one time. Mostly, the guards drank coffee and bullshitted each other. If an alarm was triggered, however, they could have an immediate, close look at whatever corner of the estate had been violated. Camera by camera, they would be able to track an intruder as he moved from one field of view into another. From the security-office keyboard, a guard could direct the video feed from any of the eighty-six sources to a VCR. The system included twelve VCRs capable of simultaneously recording forty-eight feeds in quarter-screen format. Even if a guard were not paying attention, motion detectors associated with each camera would instigate automatic recording of that field of vision when any living thing larger than a dog passed through its area of responsibility.

did would have left an impression

If he hadn’t been who he was, however, and if he hadn’t been so striking in appearance, nothing that Channing said or did would have left an impression. In a Hollywood deli that named sandwiches after stars, Clark Gable might have been roast beef and Liederkranz on rye with horseradish; Cary Grant might have been peppered chicken breast with Swiss cheese on whole wheat with mustard; and Channing Manheim would have been watercress on lightly buttered toast. Ethan didn’t actively dislike his employer, and he didn’t need to like him in order to want to protect him and keep him alive. [10] If the eye in the apple was a symbol of corruption, it might represent the star’s ego inside the beautiful fruit. Perhaps the doll’s eye didn’t stand for corruption, but for the downside of fame. A celebrity of Channing’s magnitude enjoyed little privacy and was always under scrutiny. The eye in the apple might be symbolic of the stalker’s eye—always watching, judging. Crap. Cheap analysis. For all his somber brooding, in weather conducive to contemplation and to dark speculation, Ethan’s every observation seemed obvious and useless. He ruminated on the apple-damp words: THE EYE IN THE APPLE? THE WATCHFUL WORM? THE WORM OF ORIGINAL SIN? DO WORDS HAVE ANY PURPOSE OTHER THAN CONFUSION? Stumped, he was grateful when the phone rang at a few minutes past ten o’clock, drawing him away from the windows and to the desk. Laura Moonves, an old friend from the LAPD, had been tracking down a license-plate number for him. She worked out of the Detective Support Division. Only once before in the past year had he presumed upon their friendship in this way. “Got your pervert,” Laura said. “Suspected pervert,” he corrected. “The three-year-old Honda is registered to Rolf Herman Reynerd in West Hollywood.” She spelled each name and gave him an address. “What kind of parents Rolf a kid?” Laura knew all about names. “It’s not so bad. Nicely masculine, in fact. In Old German, it means ‘famous wolf.’ Ethan, of course, means ‘permanent, assured.’ ” Two years ago, they’d dated. For Laura, Ethan had been anything but permanent, assured. She’d have liked permanence, some assurance. He had been too wounded to provide what she wanted. Or too stupid.

the enviable life of his employer

He supposed the shiny apple might represent fame and wealth, the enviable life of his employer. Then the doll’s eye might be a worm of sorts, a symbol of a particular corruption at the core of fame, and therefore an accusation, indictment, and condemnation of the Face. For twelve years, the actor had been the biggest box-office draw in the world. Since his first hit, the celebrity-mad media referred to him as the Face. This flattering sobriquet supposedly had arisen simultaneously from the pens of numerous entertainment reporters in a shared [9] swoon of admiration for his charismatic good looks. In truth, no doubt a clever and perpetually sleepless publicist had called in favors and paid out cold cash to engineer this spontaneous acclamation and then to sustain it for more than a decade. In a black-and-white Hollywood so distant in time and quality that contemporary moviegoers had only a little more knowledge of it than they had of the Spanish-American War, a fine actress named Greta Garbo had in her day been known as the Face. That flattery had been the work of a studio flack, but Garbo had proved to be more than mere flackery. For ten months, Ethan had been chief of security for Channing Manheim, the Face of the new millennium. As yet he hadn’t glimpsed even the suggestion of Garboesque depths. The face of the Face seemed to be nearly all there was of Channing. Ethan didn’t despise the actor. The Face was affable, as relaxed as might be a genuine demigod living with the sureness that life and youth were for him eternal. The star’s indifference to any circumstances other than his own arose neither from self-absorption nor from a willful lack of compassion. Intellectual limitations denied him an awareness that other people had more than a single script page of backstory, and that their character arcs were too complex to be portrayed in ninety-eight minutes. His occasional cruelties were never conscious.

nestled in the apple flesh

Ethan had expected a worm: earthworm, corn earworm, cutworm, leech, caterpillar, trematode, one type of worm or another. Instead, nestled in the apple flesh, he found an eye. For an ugly instant, he thought the eye might be real. Then he saw that it was only a plastic orb with convincing details. Not an orb, actually, but a hemisphere. The back of the eye proved to be flat, with a button loop. Somewhere a half-blinded doll still smiled. When the stalker looked at the doll, perhaps he saw the famous object of his obsession likewise mutilated. Ethan was nearly as disturbed by this discovery as he might have been if he’d found a real eye in the red delicious. Under the eye, in the hollowed-out seed pocket, was a tightly folded slip of paper, slightly damp with absorbed juice. When he unfolded it, he saw typing, the first direct message in the six packages: THE EYE IN THE APPLE? THE WATCHFUL WORM? THE WORM OF ORIGINAL SIN? DO WORDS HAVE ANY PURPOSE OTHER THAN CONFUSION? Ethan was confused, all right. Whatever it meant, this threat—the eye in the apple—struck him as particularly vicious. Here the sender had made an angry if enigmatic statement, the symbolism of which must be correctly interpreted, and urgently. Chapter 2 BEYOND THE BEVELED GLASS, THE IRON-BLACK clouds that had masked the sky now hid themselves behind gray veils of trailing mist. The wind went elsewhere with its lamentations, and the sodden trees stood as still and solemn as witnesses to a funeral cortege. The gray day drifted into the eye of the storm, and from each of his three study windows, Ethan observed the mourning weather while meditating on the meaning of the apple in the context of the five bizarre items that had preceded it. Nature peered back at him through a milky cataract and, in sympathy with his inner vision, remained clouded.

its final version read

From both sidelines, the white players stared at the black players. Green Lobo jerseys and helmets littered the field. The officials retreated to an end zone and watched; their day was done. Minutes passed as reality set in. Then from the Longview sideline, Number 35, a white backup fullback, stepped onto the field, removed his helmet and jersey, and took a seat on the forty-yard line, near his black teammates. One by one the other players followed, until only the coaches were left on the sideline. The Slone coach wasn't sure what to do. He was thinking that perhaps he had just been handed a victory, snatched by a miracle from certain defeat. He was about to tell his players to leave the field when Number 88, Denny Weeks, the starting tight end and the son of a Slone police officer, stepped onto the field, dropped his helmet, and pulled off his jersey. He sat on the field with the Longview players, one of whom reached over and shook his hand. One by one the Warriors followed, until all forty-one had left the sideline. At 3:00 p.m., the governor's office issued a statement for the press. Drafted by Barry Ringfield and rewritten by Wayne Wallcott and the governor himself, its final version read: Governor Gill Newton is deeply concerned about recent events in the matter of Donte Drumm. The allegations that this office received a videotape of a confession by the alleged killer, just before the execution, are simply false. The governor first saw the video yesterday, Friday, approximately sixteen hours after the execution. The governor will be available on Monday for additional comments. The train station finally closed Saturday afternoon. Aaron Rey placed two armed guards on the landing, with orders to threaten anyone who came near.

The game was over before it began

Slone won the toss and elected to receive. It really didn't matter, but the Slone coach wanted to avoid a long kickoff return and a quick seven points. His receiving team took the field, and the Lobos lined up to kick. Ten black kids and a white kicker. At the whistle, the player closest to the ball suddenly stepped forward and grabbed it. It was a move that had never been seen before, and for a second everyone was startled. The ten black members of the kickoff team then yanked off their helmets and laid them on the turf. The referees blew their whistles, the coaches yelled, and for a few seconds there was total confusion. On cue, the other black Longview players walked onto the field dropping their helmets and jerseys as they went. The Slone players on the field backed away in disbelief. The game was over before it began. The black players formed a tight circle and sat together at midfield, the modern-day version of a sit-in. The officials, four white and two black, huddled briefly and kept their cool. None of the six volunteered to attempt to get the football. The Longview coach walked to midfield and said, "What the hell is going on here?" "Game's over, Coach," said Number 71, a 330-pound tackle and co-captain. "We ain't playing," said Number 2, the other co-captain. "Why not?" "It's a protest," said Number 71. "We're solid with our brothers in Slone." The coach kicked the turf and weighed his options. It was clear that this situation was not about to change, not anytime soon. "Well, just so you understand what you are doing here, this means we'll have to forfeit, which knocks us out of the play-offs, and they'll probably find some kind of probation for us. That what you guys want?" All sixty or so said "Yes!" in unison. The coach threw up his hands, walked off the field, and sat on the bench. The Slone coach called his players off the field.

You may have to plead guilty

I'm not predicting this; it's just the worst case. If you admit your role in taking him to Texas, get ready for some coverage. Then, if Boyette rapes another woman, all hell breaks loose. I can see the DA playing hardball with you, but I cannot, under any scenario, see you going to jail. You may have to plead guilty, get probation, pay a small fine, but I doubt it." "I'd stand in court, in front of a judge, and plead guilty?" "That's what usually happens." Keith took Dana's hand on the table. There was a long moment of reflection, then she said, "What would you do, Matthew?" "Hire a lawyer, and pray Boyette is either dead or too ill to attack someone." At noon, the forty-one white members of the Slone High football team met in the parking lot of a small elementary school on the edge of town. There, they quickly boarded a chartered bus and left town. Their equipment was in a rental van behind the bus. An hour later, they arrived at Mount Pleasant, population fifteen thousand. From there, the bus followed a police car to the high school football field. The players dressed quickly and hustled to the field for their pregame routines. It was odd, warming up with no lights and no fans. Security was tight; police cars blocked every possible route to the field. The Lobos of Longview High took the field minutes later. There were no cheerleaders, no band, national anthem, pregame prayer, or public address announcer. As the coin was tossed, the Slone coach looked across the field at the Lobos and wondered how bad the slaughter might be. They had eighty players on a roster that was at least 70 percent black. Slone had not beaten Longview since the days of Donte Drumm, and the Warriors had no chance today. What was happening in Slone was being felt throughout East Texas, if not far beyond.

That's sort of what I figured

"It's possible," Keith said. "I went there several times looking for Boyette. I signed the register, and there was a guy at the desk, Rudy, I think, who knew my name." "But he didn't see you drive away with Boyette late Wednesday night?" "No one saw us. It was after midnight." Matthew shrugged, satisfied. All three worked on their coffee for a moment, then Keith said, "I can make the link, Matthew. I knew I was violating the law when I left with Boyette because you made things very clear. I made a choice. At the time, I knew I was doing the right thing. I have no regrets now, so long as Boyette is found before he hurts anyone else. But if he's not found, and if someone gets hurt, then I'll have a ton of regrets. I am not going to live with a possible criminal violation hanging over my head. We plan to deal with it now." Dana and Keith were both looking at Matthew, who said, "That's sort of what I figured." "I'm not running from this," Keith said. "And we can't live with the threat of an officer knocking on the door. Let's get it over with." Matthew shook his head and said, "Okay, but you'll need a lawyer." "What about you?" Dana asked. "A defense lawyer, as in criminal defense. Me? I'm now on the other side of the street, and, frankly, I can help more over there." "Could Keith possibly go to jail?" she asked. "Get right to the point, don't you?" Keith said, with a smile. Dana was not smiling. Her eyes were moist. Matthew stretched his arms above his head, then leaned forward on his elbows. "Here's my worst-case scenario.

We're forced to pick and choose

"The law is not real clear. There is no specific prohibition against aiding a convicted felon in his efforts to violate the terms of his parole. But it's still against the law. The applicable code section deals with obstruction of justice, which is a huge net for a lot of behavior that would otherwise be difficult to classify. By driving Boyette out of this jurisdiction, and with the knowledge that it was a violation of his parole, you violated the law." "How serious?" Matthew shrugged, grimaced, stirred his coffee with a spoon. "It's a felony, but not a serious one. And it's not the type of violation that we get excited about." "We?" Dana asked. "As in prosecutors. The district attorney would have jurisdiction, a different office. I'm with the city." "A felony?" Keith asked. "Probably. It appears that your trip to Texas has gone unnoticed here in Topeka. You managed to avoid the cameras, and I have yet to see your name in print." "But you know about it, Matthew," Dana said. "I do, and I suppose that, technically, I'm expected to inform the police, to turn you in. But it doesn't work that way. We can process only so much crime. We're forced to pick and choose. This is not a violation that any prosecutor would want to deal with." "But Boyette is a famous guy right now," Dana said. "It's just a matter of time before a reporter here picks up on the story. He jumped parole, took off to Texas, and we've seen his face for three days now." "Yes, but who can link Keith to Boyette?" "Several folks in Texas," Keith said. "True, but I doubt if they care what happens here. And these folks are on our side, right?" "I guess." "So, who can make the link? Did anyone see you with Boyette?" "What about the guy at the halfway house?" Dana asked.

and now the burning of a church

All of Slone knew that the black players had boycotted practice on Wednesday and had vowed not to play Friday. There could be no greater insult to a community that loved its football. The fans, so ardent and loyal only a week earlier, now felt betrayed. Feelings were strong; emotions were raw all over Slone. On the white side of town, the bitterness was caused by football, and now the burning of a church. On the black side, it was all about the execution. As with most violent and sudden conflicts, the precise manner in which the riot began would never be known. In the endless retelling of it, two things became obvious: the black students blamed the white students, and the whites blamed the blacks. The question of time was a bit clearer. Just seconds after the first bell at 8:15, several things happened at once. Smoke bombs were lit in the boys' restrooms on the first and second floors. Cherry bombs were rolled down the main hallway, exploding like howitzers under the metal lockers. A string of firecrackers went off near the central stairwell, and panic swept the school. Most of the black students walked out of class and mingled in the halls. A brawl erupted in a junior homeroom class when a black hothead and a white hothead exchanged insults and started swinging. Others were quick to take sides and join in. The teacher ran from the room screaming for help. One fight sparked a dozen more. Before long, students were rushing out of the building, running for safety. Some were yelling, "Fire! Fire!" though no flames had been seen. The police called for backups and fire trucks. Firecrackers were popping all over the first and second floors. The smoke grew thicker and thicker as the chaos spread. Near the entryway to the gymnasium, some black kids were ransacking the trophy cases when they were seen by a gang of whites. Another fight broke out, one that spilled into a parking lot next to the gym. The principal stayed in his office and barked nonstop into the PA system. His warnings were ignored and only added to the confusion. At 8:30, he announced that school had been canceled for that day and the next. The police, with reinforcements, eventually settled things down and evacuated Slone High School. There were no fires, only smoke and the acrid smell of cheap explosives. There was some broken glass, clogged toilets, upended lockers, and stolen backpacks, and a soft drink machine was vandalized. Three students--two whites and one black--were taken to the hospital and treated for cuts.

He knows a lot about the crime

"I got that. If you'll recall, I tried to talk to you yesterday, and you told me to get lost." Robbie took a deep breath as he collected the stares from around the table. "Can he hear you right now?" "No. He's lying in the backseat, rubbing his head, afraid to move. Me, I'm sitting on the hood, dodging 18-wheelers." "Tell us why you believe this guy." "Well, let's see, where do I start? He knows a lot about the crime. He was in Slone when it happened. He's obviously capable of such violence. He's dying. There's no proof against Donte Drumm other than the confession. And Boyette has her senior class ring on a chain around his neck. That's the best I can do, Robbie. And, I'll admit, there's a slight chance this is all a big lie." "But you're helping him jump parole. You're committing a crime." "Don't remind me, okay? I just talked to my wife and she happened to mention that." "How soon can you get here?" "I don't know. Three hours, maybe. We've stopped twice for coffee because I haven't slept in three nights. I bought myself a speeding ticket, one written by the slowest trooper in Oklahoma. Now Boyette is puking his guts out, and I'd rather him do that in a ditch and not in my car. I don't know, Robbie. We're trying." "Hurry up." Chapter 19 With the sun up and the town anxiously coming to life, the Slone police were on high alert, with holsters unfastened, radios squawking, patrol cars darting up and down the streets, and every officer looking for the next hint of trouble. It was expected at the high school, and for good measure the chief sent half a dozen men there early on Thursday morning. When the students arrived for class, they saw police cars parked near the main entrance, an ominous sign.

He was rubbing his temples

"I'm throwing up," Boyette said, reaching for the door handle. Keith hit the brakes and steered the Subaru onto the shoulder. An 18-wheeler behind him swerved and sounded the horn. They finally came to a stop, and Boyette clutched his seat belt. When he was free, he leaned through the cracked door and began vomiting. Keith got out, walked to the rear bumper, and decided not to watch. Boyette puked for a long time, and when he finally finished, Keith handed him a bottle of water. "I need to lie down," Boyette said, and crawled into the backseat. "Don't move the car," he directed. "I'm still sick." Keith walked a few feet away and called his wife. After another noisy bout of gagging and throwing up, Boyette seemed to settle down. He returned to the rear seat, with the right-side door open, his feet hanging out. "We need to move along, Travis. Slone is not getting any closer." "Just a minute, okay? I'm not ready to move." He was rubbing his temples, and his slick skull seemed ready to crack. Keith watched him for a minute, but felt uncomfortable gawking at such agony. He stepped around the vomit and leaned on the hood of the car. His phone buzzed. It was Robbie. "What happened?" he asked. Robbie was seated now, still at the conference table, with most of the crew still there. Carlos was already working on an affidavit. Bonnie had found Boyette's arrest record in Slone and was trying to determine which lawyer had represented him. Kristi Hinze arrived around 7:30 and soon realized she was missing the excitement. Martha Handler typed furiously, another episode in her evolving story about the execution. Aaron Rey and Fred Pryor roamed around the train station, sipping cup after cup of coffee and nervously watching all doors and windows. Thankfully, the sun was now up and they didn't really expect trouble. Not at the office, anyway. "He has these seizures," Keith said, as an 18-wheeler roared by, its wind blowing his hair. "I guess it's the tumor, but when they hit, they're pretty frightening. He's been throwing up for the past twenty minutes." "Is the car moving, Keith?" "No. We'll take off in a minute." "The minutes are getting by us, Keith. You understand this, right? Donte will be executed at six o'clock tonight."

whose reaction was startling

Robbie rubbed both hands and said, "Okay, Keith, here's what we have to do. We have to meet Boyette and ask him a lot of questions, and if that goes well, then we'll prepare an affidavit for him to sign and file it with a petition. We have time, but not much." Carlos handed Samantha a photo of Boyette he'd just printed out from a Web site for the Kansas Department of Corrections. She pointed at his face and whispered, "Get him on the phone." Robbie nodded and said, "Keith, I'd like to talk to Boyette. Can you put him on?" Keith lowered his cell phone and said, "Travis, this is the lawyer. He wants to talk to you." "I don't think so," Boyette said. "Why not? We're driving to Texas to talk to the man, here he is." "Nope. I'll talk when we get there." Boyette's voice was clear on the speakerphone. Robbie and the rest were relieved to know that Keith actually had someone else in the car with him. Maybe he wasn't some nut playing games at the eleventh hour. Robbie pressed on. "If we can talk to him now, we can start to work on his affidavit. That'll save some time, and we don't have much of it." Keith relayed this to Boyette, whose reaction was startling. His upper body pitched forward violently as he grabbed his head with both hands. He tried to suppress a scream, but a very loud "Aghhhhh!" escaped, followed by deep guttural lurches that made the man sound as if he were dying in horrendous pain. "What was that?" Robbie asked. Keith was driving, talking on the phone, and suddenly distracted by another seizure. "I'll call you back," he said and put the phone down.

tried to rape another woman

I have Travis Boyette with me, and he's ready to tell his story." "Tell us about Travis," Robbie said. There was no movement, and little breathing, around the table. "He's forty-four years old, born in Joplin, Missouri, a career criminal, registered sex offender in at least four states." Keith glanced at Boyette, who was looking through the passenger window, as if he were somewhere else. "His last stop was a prison in Lansing, Kansas, and he's now on parole. He was living in Slone at the time of Nicole Yarber's disappearance, staying at the Rebel Motor Inn. I'm sure you know where it is. He was arrested for drunk driving in Slone in January 1999. There is a copy of his arrest." Carlos and Bonnie were hammering keys on their laptops, racing through the Internet, digging for anything on Keith Schroeder, Travis Boyette, the arrest in Slone. Keith continued: "In fact, he was in jail in Slone while Donte Drumm was under arrest. Boyette posted bond, got out, then skipped town. He drifted to Kansas, tried to rape another woman, got caught, and is just finishing his sentence." Tense looks were exchanged around the table. Everyone took a breath. "Why is he talking now?" Robbie asked, leaning down closer to the speakerphone. "He's dying," Keith said bluntly, no need to soft-pedal things at this point. "He has a brain tumor, a glioblastoma, grade four, inoperable. He says that the doctors have told him he has less than a year to live. He says he wants to do the right thing. While he was in prison, he lost track of the Drumm case, said he figured the authorities in Texas would one day figure out that they had the wrong man." "This guy's in the car with you?" "Yes." "Can he hear this conversation?" Keith was driving with his left hand and holding his cell phone with his right. "No," he said. "When did you meet this guy, Keith?" "Monday." "Do you believe him? If he is in fact a serial rapist and career criminal, then he'd rather lie than tell the truth. How do you know he has a brain tumor?" "I checked that out. It's true." Keith glanced at Boyette, who was still staring at nothing through the passenger window. "I think it's all true." "What does he want?" "So far, nothing." "Where are you right now?" "Interstate 35, not far from the Texas line. How does this work, Robbie? Is there a chance of stopping the execution?" "There's a chance," Robbie said as he looked into the eyes of Samantha Thomas. She shrugged, nodded, a weak "Maybe."

That sort of existence is easy enough

Why make all these excuses?" interrupted Aglaya in a mocking tone of voice. "Besides, you need not mind about lecturing us; you have nothing to boast of. With your quietism, one could live happily for a hundred years at least. One might show you the execution of a felon, or show you one's little finger. You could draw a moral from either, and be quite satisfied. That sort of existence is easy enough." "I can't understand why you always fly into a temper," said Mrs. Epanchin, who had been listening to the conversation and examining the faces of the speakers in turn. "I do not understand what you mean. What has your little finger to do with it? The prince talks well, though he is not amusing. He began all right, but now he seems sad." "Never mind, mamma! Prince, I wish you had seen an execution," said Aglaya. "I should like to ask you a question about that, if you had." "I have seen an execution," said the prince. "You have!" cried Aglaya. "I might have guessed it. That's a fitting crown to the rest of the story. If you have seen an execution, how can you say you lived happily all the while?" "But is there capital punishment where you were?" asked Adelaida. "I saw it at Lyons. Schneider took us there, and as soon as we arrived we came in for that." "Well, and did you like it very much? Was it very edifying and instructive?" asked Aglaya. "No, I didn't like it at all, and was ill after seeing it; but I confess I stared as though my eyes were fixed to the sight. I could not tear them away." "I, too, should have been unable to tear my eyes away," said Aglaya. "They do not at all approve of women going to see an execution there. The women who do go are condemned for it afterwards in the newspapers." "That is, by contending that it is not a sight for women they admit that it is a sight for men. I congratulate them on the deduction. I suppose you quite agree with them, prince?" "Tell us about the execution," put in Adelaida. "I would much rather not, just now," said the prince, a little disturbed and frowning slightly; " You don't seem to want to tell us," said Aglaya, with a mocking air.

I have thought so myself

"Very well, then there's an experiment, and the thing is proved; one cannot live and count each moment; say what you like, but one CANNOT." "That is true," said the prince, "I have thought so myself. And yet, why shouldn't one do it?" "You think, then, that you could live more wisely than other people?" said Aglaya. "I have had that idea." "And you have it still?" "Yes--I have it still," the prince replied. He had contemplated Aglaya until now, with a pleasant though rather timid smile, but as the last words fell from his lips he began to laugh, and looked at her merrily. "You are not very modest!" said she. "But how brave you are!" said he. "You are laughing, and I-- that man's tale impressed me so much, that I dreamt of it afterwards; yes, I dreamt of those five minutes . . ." He looked at his listeners again with that same serious, searching expression. "You are not angry with me?" he asked suddenly, and with a kind of nervous hurry, although he looked them straight in the face. "Why should we be angry?" they cried. "Only because I seem to be giving you a lecture, all the time!" At this they laughed heartily. "Please don't be angry with me," continued the prince. "I know very well that I have seen less of life than other people, and have less knowledge of it. I must appear to speak strangely sometimes . . ." He said the last words nervously. "You say you have been happy, and that proves you have lived, not less, but more than other people.

and at the rays of light sparkling from it

A little way off there stood a church, and its gilded spire glittered in the sun. He remembered staring stubbornly at this spire, and at the rays of light sparkling from it. He could not tear his eyes from these rays of light; he got the idea that these rays were his new nature, and that in three minutes he would become one of them, amalgamated somehow with them. "The repugnance to what must ensue almost immediately, and the uncertainty, were dreadful, he said; but worst of all was the idea, 'What should I do if I were not to die now? What if I were to return to life again? What an eternity of days, and all mine! How I should grudge and count up every minute of it, so as to waste not a single instant!' He said that this thought weighed so upon him and became such a terrible burden upon his brain that he could not bear it, and wished they would shoot him quickly and have done with it." The prince paused and all waited, expecting him to go on again and finish the story. "Is that all?" asked Aglaya. "All? Yes," said the prince, emerging from a momentary reverie. "And why did you tell us this?" "Oh, I happened to recall it, that's all! It fitted into the conversation--" "You probably wish to deduce, prince," said Alexandra, "that moments of time cannot be reckoned by money value, and that sometimes five minutes are worth priceless treasures. All this is very praiseworthy; but may I ask about this friend of yours, who told you the terrible experience of his life? He was reprieved, you say; in other words, they did restore to him that 'eternity of days.' What did he do with these riches of time? Did he keep careful account of his minutes?" "Oh no, he didn't! I asked him myself. He said that he had not lived a bit as he had intended, and had wasted many, and many a minute."

with white caps drawn over their faces

This man had once been brought to the scaffold in company with several others, and had had the sentence of death by shooting passed upon him for some political crime. Twenty minutes later he had been reprieved and some other punishment substituted; but the interval between the two sentences, twenty minutes, or at least a quarter of an hour, had been passed in the certainty that within a few minutes he must die. I was very anxious to hear him speak of his impressions during that dreadful time, and I several times inquired of him as to what he thought and felt. He remembered everything with the most accurate and extraordinary distinctness, and declared that he would never forget a single iota of the experience. "About twenty paces from the scaffold, where he had stood to hear the sentence, were three posts, fixed in the ground, to which to fasten the criminals (of whom there were several). The first three criminals were taken to the posts, dressed in long white tunics, with white caps drawn over their faces, so that they could not see the rifles pointed at them. Then a group of soldiers took their stand opposite to each post. My friend was the eighth on the list, and therefore he would have been among the third lot to go up. A priest went about among them with a cross: and there was about five minutes of time left for him to live. "He said that those five minutes seemed to him to be a most interminable period, an enormous wealth of time; he seemed to be living, in these minutes, so many lives that there was no need as yet to think of that last moment, so that he made several arrangements, dividing up the time into portions--one for saying farewell to his companions, two minutes for that; then a couple more for thinking over his own life and career and all about himself; and another minute for a last look around. He remembered having divided his time like this quite well. While saying good- bye to his friends he recollected asking one of them some very usual everyday question, and being much interested in the answer. Then having bade farewell, he embarked upon those two minutes which he had allotted to looking into himself; he knew beforehand what he was going to think about. He wished to put it to himself as quickly and clearly as possible, that here was he, a living, thinking man, and that in three minutes he would be nobody; or if somebody or something, then what and where? He thought he would decide this question once for all in these last three minutes.

with our little village in the distance

Sometimes I went and climbed the mountain and stood there in the midst of the tall pines, all alone in the terrible silence, with our little village in the distance, and the sky so blue, and the sun so bright, and an old ruined castle on the mountain-side, far away. I used to watch the line where earth and sky met, and longed to go and seek there the key of all mysteries, thinking that I might find there a new life, perhaps some great city where life should be grander and richer--and then it struck me that life may be grand enough even in a prison." "I read that last most praiseworthy thought in my manual, when I was twelve years old," said Aglaya. "All this is pure philosophy," said Adelaida. "You are a philosopher, prince, and have come here to instruct us in your views." "Perhaps you are right," said the prince, smiling. "I think I am a philosopher, perhaps, and who knows, perhaps I do wish to teach my views of things to those I meet with?" "Your philosophy is rather like that of an old woman we know, who is rich and yet does nothing but try how little she can spend. She talks of nothing but money all day. Your great philosophical idea of a grand life in a prison and your four happy years in that Swiss village are like this, rather," said Aglaya. "As to life in a prison, of course there may be two opinions," said the prince. "I once heard the story of a man who lived twelve years in a prison--I heard it from the man himself. He was one of the persons under treatment with my professor; he had fits, and attacks of melancholy, then he would weep, and once he tried to commit suicide. HIS life in prison was sad enough; his only acquaintances were spiders and a tree that grew outside his grating-but I think I had better tell you of another man I met last year. There was a very strange feature in this case, strange because of its extremely rare occurrence.

It was too unbearable to his helpless

Long days of changeless sunlight on the desert, an intolerable glare. From the doorway of the lonely station Banneker stared out over leagues of sand and cactus, arid, sterile, hopeless, promiseless. Life was like that. Four weeks now since Io had left him. And still, except for the Bible, no word from her. No sign. Silence. Why that? Anything but that! It was too unbearable to his helpless masculine need of her. He could not understand it. He could not understand anything. Except the Hunger. That he understood well enough now.... At two o'clock of a savagely haunted night, Banneker staggered from his cot. For weeks he had not known sleep otherwise than in fitful passages. His brain was hot and blank. Although the room was pitch-dark, he crossed it unerringly to a shelf and look down his revolver. Slipping on overcoat and shoes, he dropped the weapon into his pocket and set out up the railroad track. A half-mile he covered before turning into the desert. There he wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, and after that groped his way, guarding with a stick against the surrounding threat of the cactus, for his eyes were tight closed. Still blind, he drew out the pistol, gripped it by the barrel, and threw it, whirling high and far, into the trackless waste. He passed on, feeling his uncertain way patiently. It took him a quarter of an hour to find the railroad track and set a sure course for home, so effectually had he lost himself.... No chance of his recovering that old friend. It had been whispering to him, in the blackness of empty nights, counsels that were too persuasive. Back in his room over the station he lighted the lamp and stood before the few books which he kept with him there; among them Io's Bible and "The Undying Voices," with the two pages still joined as her fingers had left them. He was summoning his courage to face what might be the final solution. When he must, she had said, he was to open and read. Well ... he must. He could bear it no longer, the wordless uncertainty. He lifted down the volume, gently parted the fastened pages and read. From out the still, ordered lines, there rose to him the passionate cry of protest and bereavement: "............................Nevermore Alone upon the threshold of my door Of individual life I shall command The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand Serenely in the sunshine as before, Without the sense of that which I forbore--Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine With pulses that beat double. What I do And what I dream include thee, as the wine Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue God for myself, He hears that name of thine And sees within my eyes the tears of two."

planted a garden of dreams

He felt the tips of slender fingers on his temples, the light, swift pressure of cold lips on his mouth.... While the train pulled out, she stood on the rear platform, looking, looking. She was very still. All motion, all expression seemed centered in the steady gaze which dwindled away from him, became vague ... featureless ... vanished in a lurch of the car. Banneker, at home again, planted a garden of dreams, and lived in it, mechanically acceptant of the outer world, resentful of any intrusion upon that flowerful retreat. Even of Miss Van Arsdale's. Not for days thereafter did the Hunger come. It began as a little gnawing doubt and disappointment. It grew to a devastating, ravening starvation of the heart, for sign or sight or word of Io Welland. It drove him out of his withered seclusion, to seek Miss Van Arsdale, in the hope of hearing Io's name spoken. But Miss Van Arsdale scarcely referred to Io. She watched Banneker with unconcealed anxiety. ... Why had there been no letter?... Appeasement came in the form of a package addressed in her handwriting. Avidly he opened it. It was the promised Bible, mailed from New York City. On the fly-leaf was written "I.O.W. to E.B."--nothing more. He went through it page by page, seeking marked passages. There was none. The doubt settled down on him again. The Hunger bit into him more savagely. ... Why didn't she write? A word! Anything! ... Had she written Miss Van Arsdale? At first it was intolerable that he should be driven to ask about her from any other person; about Io, who had clasped him in the Valley of the Shadow, whose lips had made the imminence of death seem a light thing! The Hunger drove him to it. Yes; Miss Van Arsdale had heard. Io Welland was in New York, and well. That was all. But Banneker felt an undermining reserve.

Time seemed to have stopped for her

He kissed her gently, stepped back, took a run and flung himself upward and outward into the ravening current. She saw a foaming thresh that melted into darkness.... Time seemed to have stopped for her. She waited, waited, waited in a world wherein only Death waited with her.... Ban was now limp and lifeless somewhere far downstream, asprawl in the swiftness, rolling a pasty face to the sky like that grisly wayfarer who had hailed them silently in the upper reach of the river, a messenger and prophet of their fate. The rising waters eddied about her feet. The boat stirred uneasily. Mechanically she drew it back from the claim of the flood. A light blow fell upon her cheek and neck. It was the rope. Instantly and intensely alive, Io tautened it and felt the jerk of Ban's signal. With expert hands she made it fast, shipped the oars, twitched the cord thrice, and, venturing as far as she dared into the deluge, pushed with all her force and threw herself over the stern. The rope twanged and hummed like a gigantic bass-string. Io crawled to the oars, felt the gunwale dip and right again, and, before she could take a stroke, was pressed against the far bank. She clambered out and went to Banneker, guiding herself by the light. His face, in the feeble glow, shone, twisted in agony. He was shaking from head to foot. The other end of the rope which had brought her to safety was knotted fast around his waist.... So he would have followed, as he said! Through Io's queer, inconsequent brain flitted a grotesque conjecture: what would the newspapers make of it if she had been found, washed up on the river-bank, and the Manzanita agent of the Atkinson and St. Philip Railroad Company drowned and haltered by a long tether to his boat, near by? A sensational story!... She went to Banneker, still helplessly shaking, and put her firm, slight hands on his shoulders. "It's all right, Ban," she said soothingly. "We're out of it." Part 1 Chapter 14 "Arrived safe" was the laconic message delivered to Miss Camilla Van Arsdale by Banneker's substitute when, after a haggard night, she rode over in the morning for news. Banneker himself returned on the second noon, after much and roundabout wayfaring.

He brought out a coil of rope

"It's a headlight!" he cried. "A train! Look, Io! The mainland. It's only a couple of rods away." He slipped from her arms, ran to the boat. "What are you going to do?" she called weakly. "Ban! You can never make it." "I've got to. It's our only chance." As he spoke, he was fumbling under the seat. He brought out a coil of rope. Throwing off poncho, coat, and waistcoat, he coiled the lengths around his body. "Let me swim with you," she begged. "You're not strong enough." "I don't care. We'd go together ... I--I can't face it alone, Ban." "You'll have to. Or give up our only chance of life. You must, Io. If I shouldn't get across, you may try it; the chances of the current might help you. But not until after you're sure I haven't made it. You must wait." "Yes," she said submissively. "As soon as I get to shore, I'll throw the rope across to you. Listen for it. I'll keep throwing until it strikes where you can get it." "I'll give you the light." "That may help. Then you make fast under the forward seat of the boat. Be sure it's tight." "Yes, Ban." "Twitch three times on the rope to let me know when you're ready and shove out and upstream as strongly as you can." "Can you hold it against the current?" "I must. If I do, you'll drift around against the bank. If I don't--I'll follow you." "No, Ban," she implored. "Not you, too. There's no need--" "I'll follow you," said he. "Now, Io."

You're wonderful beyond all wonders

A wavelet lapped quietly across her foot. She withdrew it and with that involuntary act came understanding. Her hand, turning in his, pressed close, palm cleaving to palm. "How much longer?" she asked in a whisper. "Not long. It's just a tiny patch. And the river is rising every minute." "How long?" she persisted. "Perhaps two hours. Perhaps less. My good God! If there's any special hell for criminal fools, I ought to go to it for bringing you to this," he burst out in agony. "I brought you. Whatever there is, we'll go to it together." "You're wonderful beyond all wonders. Aren't you afraid?" "I don't know. It isn't so much fear, though I dread to think of that hammering-down weight of water." "Don't!" he cried brokenly. "I can't bear to think of you--" He lifted his head sharply. "Isn't it lightening up? Look! Can you see shore? We might be quite near." She peered out, leaning forward. "No; there's nothing." Her hand turned within his, released itself gently. "I'm not afraid," she said, speaking clear and swift. "It isn't that. But I'm--rebellious. I hate the idea of it, of ending everything; the unfairness of it. To have to die without knowing the--the realness of life. Unfulfilled. It isn't fair," she accused breathlessly. "Ban, it's what we were saying. Back there on the river-bank where the yucca stands. I don't want to go--I can't bear to go--before I've known ... before...." Her arms crept to enfold him. Her lips sought his, tremulous, surrendering, demanding in surrender. With all the passion and longing that he had held in control, refusing to acknowledge even their existence, as if the mere recognition of them would have blemished her, he caught her to him. He heard her, felt her sob once. The roar of the cataract was louder, more insistent in his ears ... or was it the rush of the blood in his veins?... Io cried out, a desolate and hungry cry, for he had wrenched his mouth from hers. She could feel the inner man abruptly withdrawn, concentrated elsewhere. She opened her eyes upon an appalling radiance wherein his face stood out clear, incredulous, then suddenly eager and resolute.

He almost talked to her in his anger

With a mother's instinct Mrs Clare had put her finger on the kind of trouble that would cause such a disquiet as seemed to agitate her son. `She is spotless!' he replied; and felt that if it had sent him to eternal hell there and then he would have told that lie. `Then never mind the rest. After all, there are few purer things in nature than an unsullied country maid. Any crudeness of which may offend your more educated sense at first, will, I am sure, disappear under the influence of your companionship and tuition.' Such terrible sarcasm of blind magnanimity brought home to Clare the secondary perception that he had utterly wrecked his career by this marriage, which had not been among his early thoughts after the disclosure. True, on his own account he cared very little about his career; but he had wished to make it at least a respectable one on account of his parents and brothers. And now as he looked into the candle its flame dumbly expressed to him that it was made to shine on sensible people, and that it abhorred lighting the face of a dupe and a failure. When his agitation had cooled he would be at moments incensed with his poor wife for causing a situation in which he was obliged to practise deception on his parents. He almost talked to her in his anger, as if she had been in the room. And then her cooing voice, plaintive in expostulation, disturbed the darkness, the velvet touch of her lips passed over his brow, and he could distinguish in the air the warmth of her breath. This night the woman of his belittling deprecations was thinking how great and good her husband was. But over them both there hung a deeper shade than the shade which Angel Clare perceived, namely, the shade of his own limitations. With all his attempted independence of judgment this advanced and well meaning young man, a sample product of the last five-and-twenty years, was yet the slave to custom and conventionality when surprised back into his early teachings. No prophet had told him, and he was not prophet enough to tell himself, that essentially this young wife of his was as deserving of the praise of King Lemuel as any other woman endowed with the same dislike of evil, her moral value having to be reckoned not by achievement but by tendency. Moreover, the figure near at hand suffers on such occasions, because it shows up its sorriness without shade; while vague figures afar off are honoured, in that their distance makes artistic virtues of their stains. In considering what Tess was not, he overlooked what she was, and forgot that the defective can be more than the entire.

but thou excellest them all

`Yes, certainly,' said Mrs Clare. `The words of King Lemuel' (she could cite chapter and verse as well as her husband).'My dear son, your father has decided to read us the chapter in Proverbs in praise of a virtuous wife. We shall not need to be reminded to apply the words to the absent one. May Heaven shield her in all her ways!' A lump rose in Clare's throat. The portable lectern was taken out from the corner and set in the middle of the fireplace, the two old servants came in, and Angel's father began to read at the tenth verse of the aforesaid chapter-- "`Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far above rubies. She riseth while it is yet night, and giveth meat to her household. She girdeth her loins with strength and strengtheneth her arms. She perceiveth that her merchandise is good; her candle goeth not out by night. She looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness. Her children arise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her. Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all."' When prayers were over, his mother said-- `I could not help thinking how very aptly that chapter your dear father read applied, in some of its particulars, to the woman you have chosen. The perfect woman, you see, was a working woman; not an idler; not a fine lady; but one who used her hands and her head and her heart for the good of others. "Her children arise up and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praiseth her. Many daughters have done virtuously, but she excelleth them all." Well, I wish I could have seen her, Angel. Since she is pure and chaste she would have been refined enough for me.' Clare could bear this no longer. His eyes were full of tears, which seemed like drops of molten lead. He bade a quick goodnight to these sincere and simple souls whom he loved so well; who knew neither the world, the flesh, nor the devil in their own hearts; only as something vague and external to themselves. He went to his own chamber. His mother followed him, and tapped at his door. Clare opened it to discover her standing without, with anxious eyes. `Angel,' she asked, `is there something wrong that you go away so soon? I am quite sure you are not yourself.' `I am not, quite, mother,' said he. `About her? Now, my son, I know it is that - I know it is about her! Have you quarrelled in these three weeks?' `We have not exactly quarrelled,' he said. `But we have had a difference------' `Angel - is she a young woman whose history will bear investigation?'

She watched her son as he ate

A hastily prepared supper was brought in, and Clare made further exposition of his plans. His mother's disappointment at not seeing the bride still remained with her. Clare's late enthusiasm for Tess had infected her through her maternal sympathies, till she had almost fancied that a good thing could come out of Nazareth - a charming woman out of Talbothays Dairy. She watched her son as he ate. `Cannot you describe her? I am sure she is very pretty, Angel.' `Of that there can be no question!' he said, with a zest which covered its bitterness. `And that she is pure and virtuous goes without question?' `Pure and virtuous, of course, she is.' `I can see her quite distinctly. You said the other day that she was fine in figure; roundly built; had deep red lips like Cupid's bow; dark eyelashes and brows, an immense rope of hair like a ship's cable; and large eyes violety-bluey-blackish.' `I did, mother.' `I quite see her. And living in such seclusion she naturally had scarce ever seen any young man from the world without till she saw you. `Scarcely.' `You were her first love?' `Of course.' `There are worse wives than these simple, rosy-mouthed, robust girls of the farm. Certainly I could have wished - well, since my son is to be an agriculturist, it is perhaps but proper that his wife should have been accustomed to an outdoor life.' His father was less inquisitive; but when the time came for the chapter from the Bible which was always read before evening prayers, the Vicar observed to Mrs Clare-- `I think, since Angel has come, that it will be more appropriate to read the thirty-first of Proverbs than the chapter which we should have had in the usual course of our reading?'

Yet I wish I could have seen her first

But even the novelty and painfulness of his going to a Papistical land could not displace for long Mr and Mrs Clare's natural interest in their son's marriage. `We had your brief note three weeks ago announcing that it had taken place,' said Mrs Clare, `and your father sent your god-mother's gift to her, as you know. Of course it was best that none of us should be present, especially as you preferred to marry her from the dairy, and not at her home, wherever that may be. It would have embarrassed you, and given us no pleasure. Your brothers felt that very strongly. Now it is done we do not complain, particularly if she suits you for the business you have chosen to follow instead of the ministry of the Gospel... . Yet I wish I could have seen her first, Angel, or have known a little more about her. We sent her no present of our own, not knowing what would best give her pleasure, but you must suppose it only delayed. Angel, there is no irritation in my mind or your father's against you for this marriage; but we have thought it much better to reserve our liking for your wife till we could see her. And now you have not brought her. It seems strange. What has happened?' He replied that it had been thought best by them that she should go to her parents' home for the present, whilst he came there. `I don't mind telling you, dear mother,' he said, `that I always meant to keep her away from this house till I should feel she could come with credit to you. But this idea of Brazil is quite a recent one. If I do go it will be unadvisable for me to take her on this my first journey. She will remain at her mother's till I come back.' `And I shall not see her before you start?' He was afraid they would not. His original plan had been, as he had said, to refrain from bringing her there for some little while not to wound their prejudices - feelings - in any way; and for other reasons he had adhered to it. He would have to visit home in the course of a year, if he went out at once; and it would be possible for them to see her before he started a second time with her.

and closed the door quietly behind him

Then he became weary and anxious, and his anxiety increased. He wondered if he had treated her unfairly. He ate without knowing that he ate, and drank without tasting. As the hours dropped past, as the motive of each act in the long series of bygone days presented itself to his view, he perceived how intimately the notion of having Tess as a dear possession was mixed up with all his schemes and words and ways. In going hither and thither he observed in the outskirts of a small town a red-and-blue placard setting forth the great advantages of the Empire of Brazil as a field for the emigrating agriculturist. Land was offered there on exceptionally advantageous terms. Brazil somewhat attracted him as a new idea. Tess could eventually loin him there, and perhaps in that country of contrasting scenes and notions and habits the conventions would not be so operative which made life with her seem impracticable to him here. In brief he was strongly inclined to try Brazil, especially as the season for going thither was just at hand. With this view he was returning to Emminster to disclose his plan to his parents, and to make the best explanation he could make of arriving without Tess, short of revealing what had actually separated them. As he reached the door the new moon shone upon his face, just as the old one had done in the small hours of that morning when he had carried his wife in his arms across the river to the graveyard of the monks; but his face was thinner now. Clare had given his parents no warning of his visit, and his arrival stirred the atmosphere of the Vicarage as the dive of the kingfisher stirs a quiet pool. His father and mother were both in the drawing-room, but neither of his brothers was now at home. Angel entered, and closed the door quietly behind him. `But - where's your wife, dear Angel?' cried his mother. `How you surprise us!' `She is at her mother's - temporarily. I have come home rather in a hurry because I've decided to go to Brazil.' `Brazil! Why they are all Roman Catholics there surely!' `Are they? I hadn't thought of that.'

I bred her and educated her

She drew an arm round my neck, and drew my head close down to hers as she sat in the chair. `Love her, love her, love her! How does she use you?' Before I could answer (if I could have answered so difficult a question at all), she repeated, `Love her, love her, love her! If she favours you, love her. If she wounds you, love her. If she tears your heart to pieces - and as it gets older and stronger, it will tear deeper - love her, love her, love her!' Never had I seen such passionate eagerness as was joined to her utterance of these words. I could feel the muscles of the thin arm round my neck, swell with the vehemence that possessed her. `Hear me, Pip! I adopted her to be loved. I bred her and educated her, to be loved. I developed her into what she is, that she might be loved. Love her!' She said the word often enough, and there could be no doubt that she meant to say it; but if the often repeated word had been hate instead of love - despair - revenge - dire death - it could not have sounded from her lips more like a curse. `I'll tell you,' said she, in the same hurried passionate whisper, `what real love is. It is blind devotion, unquestioning self-humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself and against the whole world, giving up your whole heart and soul to the smiter - as I did!' When she came to that, and to a wild cry that followed that, I caught her round the waist. For she rose up in the chair, in her shroud of a dress, and struck at the air as if she would as soon have struck herself against the wall and fallen dead. All this passed in a few seconds. As I drew her down into her chair, I was conscious of a scent that I knew, and turning, saw my guardian in the room. He always carried (I have not yet mentioned it, I think) a pocket-handkerchief of rich silk and of imposing proportions, which was of great value to him in his profession. I have seen him so terrify a client or a witness by ceremoniously unfolding this pocket-handkerchief as if he were immediately going to blow his nose, and then pausing, as if he knew he should not have time to do it before such client or witness committed himself, that the self-committal has followed directly, quite as a matter of course. When I saw him in the room, he had this expressive pockethandkerchief in both hands, and was looking at us. On meeting my eye, he said plainly, by a momentary and silent pause in that attitude, `Indeed? Singular!' and then put the handkerchief to its right use with wonderful effect. Miss Havisham had seen him as soon as I, and was (like everybody else) afraid of him. She made a strong attempt to compose herself, and stammered that he was as punctual as ever.

to remove her far from me

`Then you don't? Very well. It is said, at any rate. Miss Havisham will soon be expecting you at your old post, though I think that might be laid aside now, with other old belongings. Let us make one more round of the garden, and then go in. Come! You shall not shed tears for my cruelty to-day; you shall be my Page, and give me your shoulder.' Her handsome dress had trailed upon the ground. She held it in one hand now, and with the other lightly touched my shoulder as we walked. We walked round the ruined garden twice or thrice more, and it was all in bloom for me. If the green and yellow growth of weed in the chinks of the old wall had been the most precious flowers that ever blew, it could not have been more cherished in my remembrance. There was no discrepancy of years between us, to remove her far from me; we were of nearly the same age, though of course the age told for more in her case than in mine; but the air of inaccessibility which her beauty and her manner gave her, tormented me in the midst of my delight, and at the height of the assurance I felt that out patroness had chosen us for one another. Wretched boy! At last we went back into the house, and there I heard, with surprise, that my guardian had come down to see Miss Havisham on business, and would come back to dinner. The old wintry branches of chandeliers in the room where the mouldering table was spread, had been lighted while we were out, and Miss Havisham was in her chair and waiting for me. It was like pushing the chair itself back into the past, when we began the old slow circuit round about the ashes of the bridal feast. But, in the funereal room, with that figure of the grave fallen back in the chair fixing its eyes upon her, Estella looked more bright and beautiful than before, and I was under stronger enchantment. The time so melted away, that our early dinner-hour drew close at hand, and Estella left us to prepare herself. We had stopped near the centre of the long table, and Miss Havisham, with one of her withered arms stretched out of the chair, rested that clenched hand upon the yellow cloth. As Estella looked back over her shoulder before going out at the door, Miss Havisham kissed that hand to her, with a ravenous intensity that was of its kind quite dreadful. Then, Estella being gone and we two left alone, she turned to me, and said in a whisper: `Is she beautiful, graceful, well-grown? Do you admire her?' `Everybody must who sees her, Miss Havisham.'

I have a heart to be stabbed in or shot in

The garden was too overgrown and rank for walking in with ease, and after we had made the round of it twice or thrice, we came out again into the brewery yard. I showed her to a nicety where I had seen her walking on the casks, that first old day, and she said, with a cold and careless look in that direction, `Did I?' I reminded her where she had come out of the house and given me my meat and drink, and she said, `I don't remember.' `Not remember that you made me cry?' said I. `No,' said she, and shook her head and looked about her. I verily believe that her not remembering and not minding in the least, made me cry again, inwardly - and that is the sharpest crying of all. `You must know,' said Estella, condescending to me as a brilliant and beautiful woman might, `that I have no heart - if that has anything to do with my memory.' I got through some jargon to the effect that I took the liberty of doubting that. That I knew better. That there could be no such beauty without it. `Oh! I have a heart to be stabbed in or shot in, I have no doubt,' said Estella, `and, of course, if it ceased to beat I should cease to be. But you know what I mean. I have no softness there, no - sympathy - sentiment - nonsense.' What was it that was borne in upon my mind when she stood still and looked attentively at me? Anything that I had seen in Miss Havisham? No. In some of her looks and gestures there was that tinge of resemblance to Miss Havisham which may often be noticed to have been acquired by children, from grown person with whom they have been much associated and secluded, and which, when childhood is passed, will produce a remarkable occasional likeness of expression between faces that are otherwise quite different. And yet I could not trace this to Miss Havisham. I looked again, and though she was still looking at me, the suggestion was gone. What was it? `I am serious,' said Estella, not so much with a frown (for her brow was smooth) as with a darkening of her face; `if we are to be thrown much together, you had better believe it at once. No!' imperiously stopping me as I opened my lips. `I have not bestowed my tenderness anywhere. I have never had any such thing.' In another moment we were in the brewery so long disused, as she pointed to the high gallery where I had seen her going out on that same first day, and told me she remembered to have been up there, and to have seen me standing scared below. As my eyes followed her white hand, again the same dim suggestion that I could not possibly grasp, crossed me. My involuntary start occasioned her to lay her hand upon my arm. Instantly the ghost passed once more, and was gone. What was it? `What is the matter?' asked Estella. `Are you scared again?' `I should be, if I believed what you said just now,' I replied, to turn it off.

for it seemed to have a boyish look

It was settled that I should stay there all the rest of the day, and return to the hotel at night, and to London to-morrow. When we had conversed for a while, Miss Havisham sent us two out to walk in the neglected garden: on our coming in by-and-by, she said, I should wheel her about a little as in times of yore. So, Estella and I went out into the garden by the gate through which I had strayed to my encounter with the pale young gentleman, now Herbert; I, trembling in spirit and worshipping the very hem of her dress; she, quite composed and most decidedly not worshipping the hem of mine. As we drew near to the place of encounter, she stopped and said: `I must have been a singular little creature to hide and see that fight that day: but I did, and I enjoyed it very much.' `You rewarded me very much.' `Did I?' she replied, in an incidental and forgetful way. `I remember I entertained a great objection to your adversary, because I took it ill that he should be brought here to pester me with his company.' `He and I are great friends now.' `Are you? I think I recollect though, that you read with his father?' `Yes.' I made the admission with reluctance, for it seemed to have a boyish look, and she already treated me more than enough like a boy. `Since your change of fortune and prospects, you have changed your companions,' said Estella. `Naturally,' said I. `And necessarily,' she added, in a haughty tone; `what was fit company for you once, would be quite unfit company for you now.' In my conscience, I doubt very much whether I had any lingering intention left, of going to see Joe; but if I had, this observation put it to flight. `You had no idea of your impending good fortune, in those times?' said Estella, with a slight wave of her hand, signifying in the fighting times. `Not the least.' The air of completeness and superiority with which she walked at my side, and the air of youthfulness and submission with which I walked at hers, made a contrast that I strongly felt. It would have rankled in me more than it did, if I had not regarded myself as eliciting it by being so set apart for her and assigned to her.

as a sign to me to sit down there

She gave me her hand. I stammered something about the pleasure I felt in seeing her again, and about my having looked forward to it for a long, long time. `Do you find her much changed, Pip?' asked Miss Havisham, with her greedy look, and striking her stick upon a chair that stood between them, as a sign to me to sit down there. `When I came in, Miss Havisham, I thought there was nothing of Estella in the face or figure; but now it all settles down so curiously into the old--' `What? You are not going to say into the old Estella?' Miss Havisham interrupted. `She was proud and insulting, and you wanted to go away from her. Don't you remember?' I said confusedly that that was long ago, and that I knew no better then, and the like. Estella smiled with perfect composure, and said she had no doubt of my having been quite right, and of her having been very disagreeable. `Is he changed?' Miss Havisham asked her. `Very much,' said Estella, looking at me. `Less coarse and common?' said Miss Havisham, playing with Estella's hair. Estella laughed, and looked at the shoe in her hand, and laughed again, and looked at me, and put the shoe down. She treated me as a boy still, but she lured me on. We sat in the dreamy room among the old strange influences which had so wrought upon me, and I learnt that she had but just come home from France, and that she was going to London. Proud and wilful as of old, she had brought those qualities into such subjection to her beauty that it was impossible and out of nature - or I thought so - to separate them from her beauty. Truly it was impossible to dissociate her presence from all those wretched hankerings after money and gentility that had disturbed my boyhood - from all those ill-regulated aspirations that had first made me ashamed of home and Joe - from all those visions that had raised her face in the glowing fire, struck in out of the iron on the anvil, extracted it from the darkness of night to look in at the wooden window of the forge and flit away. In a word, it was impossible for me to separate her, in the past or in the present, from the innermost life of my life.

not thinking at all

It was thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred. "At last we are alone. My Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness. Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself." Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention. "You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your composure now. Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you, as the object most desirable; and I believe Marianne will be the most happy with him of the two." Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because satisfied that none, founded on an impartial consideration of their age, characters, or feelings, could be given: but her mother must always be carried away by her imagination, on any interesting subject; and, therefore, instead of an enquiry, she passed it off with a smile. "He opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled. It came out quite unawares, quite undesignedly. I, you may well believe, could talk of nothing but my child:- he could not conceal his distress; I saw that it equalled my own; and he, perhaps thinking thatmere friendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy; or rather, not thinking at all, I suppose, giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for Marianne. He has loved her, my Elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing her." Here, however, Elinor perceived, not the language, not the professions of Colonel Brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose. "His regard for her, infinitely surpassing any thing that Willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant, whichever we are to call it, has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear Marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man! and without selfishness, without encouraging a hope! could he have seen her happy with another. Such a noble mind! such openness, such sincerity! No one can be deceived in him." "Colonel Brandon's character," said Elinor, "as an excellent man, is well established." "I know it is," replied her mother, seriously, "or, after such a warning, I should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased by it. But his coming for me, as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men." "His character, however," answered Elinor, "does not rest on one act of kindness, to which his affection for Marianne, were humanity out of the case, would have prompted him.

She dreaded the performance of it

Elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an apprehension of its robbing Marianne of farther sleep: but Mrs. Dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life of a child was at stake; and Marianne, satisfied in knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around her. Mrs. Dashwood would sit up with her all night; and Elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed. But the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits. Willoughby, "poor Willoughby," as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts: she would not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before. But her promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful. She dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on Marianne might be; doubted whether, after such an explanation, she could ever be happy with another; and for a moment wished Willoughby a widower. Then, remembering Colonel Brandon, reproved herself, felt that to his sufferings and his constancy, far more than to his rival's, the reward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than Mrs. Willoughby's death. The shock of Colonel Brandon's errand at Barton had been much softened to Mrs. Dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her uneasiness about Marianne, that she had already determined to set out for Cleveland on that very day without waiting for any further intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival, that the Careys were then expected every moment to fetch Margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection. Marianne continued to mend every day; and the brilliant cheerfulness of Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world. Elinor could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs, without sometimes wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward. But Mrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment, which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it. Marianne was restored to her, from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby had contributed to place her; and in her recovery she had yet another source of joy, unthought of by Elinor.

which it was no merit to possess

Willoughby- he whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men- Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself, to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight: by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner, which it was no merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less. When at last she returned to the unconscious Marianne, she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of her hopes. Elinor's heart was full. The past, the present, the future, Willoughby's visit, Marianne's safety, and her mother's expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herself to her sister. Short was the time, however, in which that fear could affect her; for within half an hour after Willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another carriage. Eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it. Mrs. Dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced almost the conviction of Marianne's being no more, had no voice to enquire after her, no voice even for Elinor: but she, waiting neither for salutation nor enquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and her mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness as she had been before by her fears. She was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her friend; and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak, embraced Elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals to press Colonel Brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the moment. He shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own. As soon as Mrs. Dashwood had recovered herself, to see Marianne was her first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.

had involved him in a real attachment

My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all." Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too early an independence, and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and vain- extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment. The attachment, from which against honor, against feeling, against every better interest, he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said"There is no use in staying here; I must be off." "Are you going back to town?" "No- to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a day or two. Good-by." He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers: he pressed it with affection. "And you do think something better of me than you did?" said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece, as if forgetting he was to go. Elinor assured him that she did; that she forgave, pitied, wished him well- was even interested in his happiness- and added some gentle counsel as to the behavior most likely to promote it. His answer was not very encouraging. "As to that," said he, "I must rub through the world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means- it may put me on my guard- at least it may be something to live for. Marianne, to be sure, is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty again-" Elinor stopped him with a reproof. "Well," he replied, "once more good-by. I shall now go away and live in dread of one event." "What do you mean?" "Your sister's marriage." "You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now." "But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should be the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear- but I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate good-will, by showing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good-byGod bless you!" And with these words he almost ran out of the room. Chapter 45 ELINOR, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister.

Let me be able to fancy that a better

She knew I had no regard for her when we married. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And now do you pity me, Miss Dashwood? Or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I,- be it only one degree,- am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my guilt?" "Yes, you have certainly removed something- a little. You have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know- the misery that you have inflicted- I hardly know what could have made it worse." "Will you repeat to your sister, when she is recovered, what I have been telling you? Let me be a little lightened, too, in her opinion as well as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my penitence;- tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her; and, if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever." "I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called your justification. But you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness." "Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton; and when he saw who I was, for the first time these two months, he spoke to me. That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to, though probably he did not think it would, vex me horridly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Clevelanda letter that morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent- the Palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. I was too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the undiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister was dying, and dying, too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments- for how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed? One person I was sure would represent me as capable of any thing. What I felt was dreadful!

I had hardly thought about it

The expression on his face changed. The annoyance passed out of it and for a moment he looked almost pleased. A sort of intellectual warmth, the joy of the pedant who has found out some useless fact, shone through the dirt and scrubby hair. 'Has it ever occurred to you,' he said, 'that the whole history of English poetry has been determined by the fact that the English language lacks rhymes?' No, that particular thought had never occurred to Winston. Nor, in the circumstances, did it strike him as very important or interesting. 'Do you know what time of day it is?' he said. Ampleforth looked startled again. 'I had hardly thought about it. They arrested me -- it could be two days ago -- perhaps three.' His eyes flitted round the walls, as though he half expected to find a window somewhere. 'There is no difference between night and day in this place. I do not see how one can calculate the time.' They talked desultorily for some minutes, then, without apparent reason, a yell from the telescreen bade them be silent. Winston sat quietly, his hands crossed. Ampleforth, too large to sit in comfort on the narrow bench, fidgeted from side to side, clasping his lank hands first round one knee, then round the other. The telescreen barked at him to keep still. Time passed. Twenty minutes, an hour -- it was difficult to judge. Once more there was a sound of boots outside. Winston's entrails contracted. Soon, very soon, perhaps in five minutes, perhaps now, the tramp of boots would mean that his own turn had come. The door opened. The cold-faced young officer stepped into the cell. With a brief movement of the hand he indicated Ampleforth. 'Room 101,' he said. Ampleforth marched clumsily out between the guards, his face vaguely perturbed, but uncomprehending. What seemed like a long time passed. The pain in Winston's belly had revived. His mind sagged round and round on the same trick, like a ball falling again and again into the same series of slots. He had only six thoughts. The pain in his belly; a piece of bread; the blood and the screaming; O'Brien ; Julia; the razor blade. There was another spasm in his entrails, the heavy boots were approaching. As the door opened, the wave of air that it created brought in a powerful smell of cold sweat. Parsons walked into the cell. He was wearing khaki shorts and a sports-shirt. This time Winston was startled into self-forgetfulness. 'You here!' he said. Parsons gave Winston a glance in which there was neither interest nor surprise, but only misery. He began walking jerkily up and down, evidently unable to keep still. Each time he straightened his pudgy knees it was apparent that they were trembling. His eyes had a wide-open, staring look, as though he could not prevent himself from gazing at something in the middle distance. 'What are you in for?' said Winston.

The steel door opened with a clang

It should have been easy, but he always lost count at some point or another. More often he wondered where he was, and what time of day it was. At one moment he felt certain that it was broad daylight outside, and at the next equally certain that it was pitch darkness. In this place, he knew instinctively, the lights would never be turned out. It was the place with no darkness: he saw now why O'Brien had seemed to recognize the allusion. In the Ministry of Love there were no windows. His cell might be at the heart of the building or against its outer wall; it might be ten floors below ground, or thirty above it. He moved himself mentally from place to place, and tried to determine by the feeling of his body whether he was perched high in the air or buried deep underground. There was a sound of marching boots outside. The steel door opened with a clang. A young officer, a trim black-uniformed figure who seemed to glitter all over with polished leather, and whose pale, straight-featured face was like a wax mask, stepped smartly through the doorway. He motioned to the guards outside to bring in the prisoner they were leading. The poet Ampleforth shambled into the cell. The door clanged shut again. Ampleforth made one or two uncertain movements from side to side, as though having some idea that there was another door to go out of, and then began to wander up and down the cell. He had not yet noticed Winston's presence. His troubled eyes were gazing at the wall about a metre above the level of Winston's head. He was shoeless; large, dirty toes were sticking out of the holes in his socks. He was also several days away from a shave. A scrubby beard covered his face to the cheekbones, giving him an air of ruffianism that went oddly with his large weak frame and nervous movements. Winston roused hirnself a little from his lethargy. He must speak to Ampleforth, and risk the yell from the telescreen. It was even conceivable that Ampleforth was the bearer of the razor blade. 'Ampleforth,' he said. There was no yell from the telescreen. Ampleforth paused, mildly startled. His eyes focused themselves slowly on Winston. 'Ah, Smith!' he said. 'You too!' 'What are you in for?' 'To tell you the truth -- ' He sat down awkwardly on the bench opposite Winston. 'There is only one offence, is there not?' he said. 'And have you committed it?' 'Apparently I have.' He put a hand to his forehead and pressed his temples for a moment, as though trying to remember something. 'These things happen,' he began vaguely. 'I have been able to recall one instance -- a possible instance. It was an indiscretion, undoubtedly. We were producing a definitive edition of the poems of Kipling. I allowed the word "God" to remain at the end of a line. I could not help it!' he added almost indignantly, raising his face to look at Winston. 'It was impossible to change the line. The rhyme was "rod". Do you realize that there are only twelve rhymes to "rod" in the entire language? For days I had racked my brains. There was no other rhyme.'

he overheard amid the din of

'Smith?' said the woman. 'Thass funny. My name's Smith too. Why,' she added sentimentally, 'I might be your mother!' She might, thought Winston, be his mother. She was about the right age and physique, and it was probable that people changed somewhat after twenty years in a forced-labour camp. No one else had spoken to him. To a surprising extent the ordinary criminals ignored the Party prisoners. 'The polits,' they called them, with a sort of uninterested contempt. The Party prisoners seemed terrified of speaking to anybody, and above all of speaking to one another. Only once, when two Party members, both women, were pressed close together on the bench, he overheard amid the din of voices a few hurriedly-whispered words; and in particular a reference to something called 'room one-oh-one', which he did not understand. It might be two or three hours ago that they had brought him here. The dull pain in his belly never went away, but sometimes it grew better and sometimes worse, and his thoughts expanded or contracted accordingly. When it grew worse he thought only of the pain itself, and of his desire for food. When it grew better, panic took hold of him. There were moments when he foresaw the things that would happen to him with such actuality that his heart galloped and his breath stopped. He felt the smash of truncheons on his elbows and iron-shod boots on his shins; he saw himself grovelling on the floor, screaming for mercy through broken teeth. He hardly thought of Julia. He could not fix his mind on her. He loved her and would not betray her; but that was only a fact, known as he knew the rules of arithmetic. He felt no love for her, and he hardly even wondered what was happening to her. He thought oftener of O'Brien, with a flickering hope. O'Brien might know that he had been arrested. The Brotherhood, he had said, never tried to save its members. But there was the razor blade; they would send the razor blade if they could. There would be perhaps five seconds before the guard could rush into the cell. The blade would bite into him with a sort of burning coldness, and even the fingers that held it would be cut to the bone. Everything came back to his sick body, which shrank trembling from the smallest pain. He was not certain that he would use the razor blade even if he got the chance. It was more natural to exist from moment to moment, accepting another ten minutes' life even with the certainty that there was torture at the end of it. Sometimes he tried to calculate the number of porcelain bricks in the walls of the cell.

All the dirty jobs were done by

He sat still again, his hands crossed on his knee. Before being brought here he had been taken to another place which must have been an ordinary prison or a temporary lock-up used by the patrols. He did not know how long he had been there; some hours at any rate; with no clocks and no daylight it was hard to gauge the time. It was a noisy, evil-smelling place. They had put him into a cell similar to the one he was now in, but filthily dirty and at all times crowded by ten or fifteen people. The majority of them were common criminals, but there were a few political prisoners among them. He had sat silent against the wall, jostled by dirty bodies, too preoccupied by fear and the pain in his belly to take much interest in his surroundings, but still noticing the astonishing difference in demeanour between the Party prisoners and the others. The Party prisoners were always silent and terrified, but the ordinary criminals seemed to care nothing for anybody. They yelled insults at the guards, fought back fiercely when their belongings were impounded, wrote obscene words on the floor, ate smuggled food which they produced from mysterious hiding-places in their clothes, and even shouted down the telescreen when it tried to restore order. On the other hand some of them seemed to be on good terms with the guards, called them by nicknames, and tried to wheedle cigarettes through the spyhole in the door. The guards, too, treated the common criminals with a certain forbearance, even when they had to handle them roughly. There was much talk about the forced-labour camps to which most of the prisoners expected to be sent. It was 'all right' in the camps, he gathered, so long as you had good contacts and knew the ropes. There was bribery, favouritism, and racketeering of every kind, there was homosexuality and prostitution, there was even illicit alcohol distilled from potatoes. The positions of trust were given only to the common criminals, especially the gangsters and the murderers, who formed a sort of aristocracy. All the dirty jobs were done by the politicals. There was a constant come-and-go of prisoners of every description: drug-peddlers, thieves, bandits, black-marketeers, drunks, prostitutes. Some of the drunks were so violent that the other prisoners had to combine to suppress them. An enormous wreck of a woman, aged about sixty, with great tumbling breasts and thick coils of white hair which had come down in her struggles, was carried in, kicking and shouting, by four guards, who had hold of her one at each corner. They wrenched off the boots with which she had been trying to kick them, and dumped her down across Winston's lap, almost breaking his thigh-bones. The woman hoisted herself upright and followed them out with a yell of 'F -- bastards!' Then, noticing that she was sitting on something uneven, she slid off Winston's knees on to the bench. 'Beg pardon, dearie,' she said. 'I wouldn't 'a sat on you, only the buggers put me there. They dono 'ow to treat a lady, do they?' She paused, patted her breast, and belched. 'Pardon,' she said, 'I ain't meself, quite.' She leant forward and vomited copiously on the floor. 'Thass better,' she said, leaning back with closed eyes. 'Never keep it down, thass what I say. Get it up while it's fresh on your stomach, like.' She revived, turned to have another look at Winston and seemed immediately to take a fancy to him. She put a vast arm round his shoulder and drew him towards her, breathing beer and vomit into his face. 'Wass your name, dearie?' she said. 'Smith,' said Winston.

the same person any longer

He was still recognizable, but he was not the same person any longer. His body had straightened, and seemed to have grown bigger. His face had undergone only tiny changes that had nevertheless worked a complete transformation. The black eyebrows were less bushy, the wrinkles were gone, the whole lines of the face seemed to have altered; even the nose seemed shorter. It was the alert, cold face of a man of about five-and-thirty. It occurred to Winston that for the first time in his life he was looking, with knowledge, at a member of the Thought Police. He did not know where he was. Presumably he was in the Ministry of Love, but there was no way of making certain. He was in a high-ceilinged windowless cell with walls of glittering white porcelain. Concealed lamps flooded it with cold light, and there was a low, steady humming sound which he supposed had something to do with the air supply. A bench, or shelf, just wide enough to sit on ran round the wall, broken only by the door and, at the end opposite the door, a lavatory pan with no wooden seat. There were four telescreens, one in each wall. There was a dull aching in his belly. It had been there ever since they had bundled him into the closed van and driven him away. But he was also hungry, with a gnawing, unwholesome kind of hunger. It might be twenty-four hours since he had eaten, it might be thirty-six. He still did not know, probably never would know, whether it had been morning or evening when they arrested him. Since he was arrested he had not been fed. He sat as still as he could on the narrow bench, with his hands crossed on his knee. He had already learned to sit still. If you made unexpected movements they yelled at you from the telescreen. But the craving for food was growing upon him. What he longed for above all was a piece of bread. He had an idea that there were a few breadcrumbs in the pocket of his overalls. It was even possible -- he thought this because from time to time something seemed to tickle his leg -- that there might be a sizeable bit of crust there. In the end the temptation to find out overcame his fear; he slipped a hand into his pocket. 'Smith!' yelled a voice from the telescreen. '6079 Smith W.! Hands out of pockets in the cells!'