SOLITUDE is no barrier whatever to sin. Such prayers as Robinson's are
a disgrace to those who provoke them, but a calamity to him who utters
them. Robinson was now a far worse man than ever he had been out of
prison. The fiend had fixed a claw in his heart, and we may be sure
he felt the recoil of his ill prayers. He hated the human race, which
produced such creatures as Hawes and nothing to keep them in check.
“From this hour I speak no more to any of those beasts!”
Such was his resolve, made with clinched teeth and nails. And he curled
himself up like a snake and turned his back upon mankind, and his face
to the wall. Robinson had begun his career in this place full of hopes.
He hoped by good conduct to alleviate his condition as he had done in
other jails; conscious of various talents, he hoped by skill as well as
by good conduct to better his condition even in a jail. Such hopes are
a part of our nature, and were not in his case unreasonable. These
hopes were soon extinguished. He came down to a confident hope that
by docility and good conduct he should escape all evils except those
inseparable from a prisoner's lot.
When he discovered that Hawes loved to punish his prisoners, and indeed
could hardly get through the day without it, and that his crank was an
unavoidable trap to catch the prisoners and betray them to punishment,
he sunk lower and lower in despondency, till at last there was but one
bit of blue hope in all his horizon. He still hoped something against
tyranny and cruelty from the representative of the gospel of mercy in
the place. But when his reverence told him nothing was to be expected
from that quarter, his last hope went out and he was in utter darkness.
Yet Mr. Jones was not a hypocrite nor a monster; he was only a
commonplace man--a thing molded by circumstances instead of molding
them. In him the official outweighed the apostle, for a very good
reason--he was commonplace. This was his defect. His crime was
misplacing his commonplace self. A man has a right to be commonplace
in the middle of the New Forest, or in the great desert, or at
Fudley-cum-Pipes in the fens of Lincolnshire. But at the helm of a
struggling nation, or in the command of an army in time of war, or at
the head of the religious department of a jail, fighting against human
wolves, tigers and foxes, to be commonplace is an iniquity and leads to
crime.
The man was a humane man. It was not in his nature to be cruel to a
prisoner, and his humanity was, like himself, negative not positive,
passive not active--of course; it was commonplace humanity.
After looking on in silence for a twelvemonth or two he remonstrated
against Hawes's barbarity. He would have done more; he would have
stopped it--if it could have been stopped without any trouble. Cold
water was thrown on his remonstrance; he cooled directly!
Now cold water and hot fire have been thrown on men battling for causes
no higher nor holier than this, yet neither has fire been able to wither
nor water to quench their honest zeal. But this good soul on being
sprinkled laid down his arms; he was commonplace. Moreover, he was
guilty of something beside cowardice. He let a small egotistical pique
sully as well as betray a great cause. “The justices have thrown cold
water on my remonstrance--very well, gentlemen, torture your prisoners
ad libitum; I shall interfere no more; we shall see which was in the
right, you or I.”
This was a narrow little view of wide and terrible consequences; it was
infinitesimal egotism--the spirit and essence of commonplace.
His inclinations were good, but feeble--he was commonplace. His heart
was good, but tepid--he was commonplace. Had he loved the New Testament
and the Saviour of mankind, he would have fought Hawes tooth and nail;
he could not have helped it. But he did not love either; he only liked
them--he was commonplace. When the thief cursed this man, he was guilty
of an extravagance as well as a crime; the man was not worth cursing--he
was commonplace.
The new chaplain arrived soon after these events. The new chaplain was
accompanied by his friend, the Rev. James Lepel, chaplain of a jail
in the north of England. After five years' unremitting duty he was now
enjoying a week's leave of absence.
The three clergymen visited the cells. Mr. Lepel cross-examined several
prisoners. The new chaplain spoke little, but seemed observant, and once
or twice made a note. Now it so happened that almost the last cell they
entered was Tom Robinson's. They found him sitting all of a heap in a
corner, moody and sullen.
At sight of three black coats and white ties the thief opened his eyes,
and with a sort of repugnance turned his back on the intruders.
“Come, my lad,” said the turnkey sternly, “no tricks, if you please.
Turn round,” cried he savagely, “and make your bow to the gentlemen.”
Robinson wheeled round with flashing eyes, and checking an evident
desire to dash at them, instantly made a bow so very low, so very
obsequious, and, by a furtive expression, so contemptuous, that Mr.
Lepel colored with indignation and moved toward the door in silence.
The turnkey muttered, “He has been very strange this few days past. Mr.
Fry thinks he is hardly safe.” Then, turning to the new chaplain, the
man, whose name was Evans, said, “Better not go into his cell, sir,
without one of us with you.”
“What is the matter with him?” inquired the reverend gentleman.
“Oh, I don't know as there is anything the matter with him; only he has
been disciplined once or twice, and it goes down the wrong way with some
of them at first starting. Governor says he will have to be put in the
dark cell if he does not get better.”
“The dark cell? hum! Pray what is the effect of the dark cell on a
prisoner?”
“Well, sir, it cows them more than anything.”
“Where are your dark cells?”
“They are down below, sir. You can look at them after the kitchen.”
“I must go into the town,” said Mr. Lepel, looking at his watch. “I
promised to dine with my relations at three o'clock.”
“Come and see the oubliettes first. We have seen everything else.”
“With all my heart!”
They descended below the ground-floor, and then Evans unlocked a massive
tight-fitting door opening upon what appeared to be a black substance;
this was, however, no substance--but vacancy without any degree of
light. The light crossing the threshold from the open door seemed to cut
a slice out of it.
The newcomers looked into it. Mr. Lepel with grim satisfaction, the
other with awe and curiosity.
“When shall you be back, Lepel?” inquired he thoughtfully.
“Oh, before nine o'clock.”
“Then perhaps you will both do me the honor to drink a cup of tea with
me,” said Mr. Jones, courteously.
“With pleasure.”
“Good-by, then, for the present,” said the new chaplain.
“Why, where are you going?”
“In here.”
“What, into the dark cell?”
“Yes!”
“Well!” ejaculated Evans.
“You won't stay there long.”
“Until you return, Lepel.”
“What a fancy!”
Mr. Jones looked not a little surprised. The turnkey grinned. The
reverend gentleman stepped at once into the cell and was lost to sight.
“Do not let me out before eight o'clock,” said his voice, “and you,
Lepel, inquire for me as soon as you return, for I feel a little
nervous. Now shut the door.”
The door was closed on the reverend gentleman, and the little group
outside, after looking at one another with a humorous expression,
separated, and each went after his own affairs.
Evans lingered behind, and took a look at the massy door, behind
which for the first time a man had gone voluntarily, and after grave
deliberation delivered himself at long intervals of the two following
profound reflections:
“Well! I'm blest!!”
“Well! I'm blowed!!”