WOODER.Yes,sir.It's Christmas doing it,in my opinion.
THE GOVERNOR.[To himself]Queer,that!
WOODER.Beg pardon,sir?
THE GOVERNOR.Christmas!
He turns towards the window,leaving WOODER looking at him with a sort of pained anxiety.
WOODER.[Suddenly]Do you think we make show enough,sir?If you'd like us to have more holly?
THE GOVERNOR.Not at all,Mr.Wooder.
WOODER.Very good,sir.
The DOCTOR has come out of FALDER's Cell,and the GOVERNORbeckons to him.
THE GOVERNOR.Well?
THE DOCTOR.I can't make anything much of him.He's nervous,of course.
THE GOVERNOR.Is there any sort of case to report?Quite frankly,Doctor.
THE DOCTOR.Well,I don't think the separates doing him any good;but then I could say the same of a lot of them--they'd get on better in the shops,there's no doubt.
THE GOVERNOR.You mean you'd have to recommend others?
THE DOCTOR.A dozen at least.It's on his nerves.There's nothing tangible.That fellow there [pointing to O'CLEARY'S cell],for instance--feels it just as much,in his way.If I once get away from physical facts--I shan't know where I am.Conscientiously,sir,Idon't know how to differentiate him.He hasn't lost weight.Nothing wrong with his eyes.His pulse is good.Talks all right.
THE GOVERNOR.It doesn't amount to melancholia?
THE DOCTOR.[Shaking his head]I can report on him if you like;but if I do I ought to report on others.
THE GOVERNOR.I see.[Looking towards FALDER'S cell]The poor devil must just stick it then.
As he says thin he looks absently at WOODER.
WOODER.Beg pardon,sir?
For answer the GOVERNOR stares at him,turns on his heel,and walks away.There is a sound as of beating on metal.
THE GOVERNOR.[Stopping]Mr.Wooder?
WOODER.Banging on his door,sir.I thought we should have more of that.
He hurries forward,passing the GOVERNOR,who follows closely.
The curtain falls.
SCENE III
FALDER's cell,a whitewashed space thirteen feet broad by seven deep,and nine feet high,with a rounded ceiling.The floor is of shiny blackened bricks.The barred window of opaque glass,with a ventilator,is high up in the middle of the end wall.In the middle of the opposite end wall is the narrow door.In a corner are the mattress and bedding rolled up [two blankets,two sheets,and a coverlet].Above them is a quarter-circular wooden shelf,on which is a Bible and several little devotional books,piled in a symmetrical pyramid;there are also a black hair brush,tooth-brush,and a bit of soap.In another corner is the wooden frame of a bed,standing on end.There is a dark ventilator under the window,and another over the door.
FALDER'S work [a shirt to which he is putting buttonholes]is hung to a nail on the wall over a small wooden table,on which the novel "Lorna Doone"lies open.Low down in the corner by the door is a thick glass screen,about a foot square,covering the gas-jet let into the wall.There is also a wooden stool,and a pair of shoes beneath it.Three bright round tins are set under the window.
In fast-failing daylight,FALDER,in his stockings,is seen standing motionless,with his head inclined towards the door,listening.He moves a little closer to the door,his stockinged feet making no noise.He stops at the door.He is trying harder and harder to hear something,any little thing that is going on outside.He springs suddenly upright--as if at a sound-and remains perfectly motionless.Then,with a heavy sigh,he moves to his work,and stands looking at it,with his head doom;he does a stitch or two,having the air of a man so lost in sadness that each stitch is,as it were,a coming to life.Then turning abruptly,he begins pacing the cell,moving his head,like an animal pacing its cage.He stops again at the door,listens,and,placing the palms of hip hands against it with his fingers spread out,leans his forehead against the iron.Turning from it,presently,he moves slowly back towards the window,tracing his way with his finger along the top line of the distemper that runs round the wall.He stops under the window,and,picking up the lid of one of the tins,peers into it.It has grown very nearly dark.Suddenly the lid falls out of his hand with a clatter--the only sound that has broken the silence--and he stands staring intently at the wall where the stuff of the shirt is hanging rather white in the darkness--he seems to be seeing somebody or something there.There is a sharp tap and click;the cell light behind the glass screen has been turned up.The cell is brightly lighted.FALDER is seen gasping for breath.
A sound from far away,as of distant,dull beating on thick metal,is suddenly audible.FALDER shrinks back,not able to bear this sudden clamour.But the sound grows,as though some great tumbril were rolling towards the cell.And gradually it seems to hypnotise him.He begins creeping inch by inch nearer to the door.The banging sound,travelling from cell to cell,draws closer and closer;FALDER'S hands are seen moving as if his spirit had already joined in this beating,and the sound swells till it seems to have entered the very cell.He suddenly raises his clenched fists.Panting violently,he flings himself at his door,and beats on it.
The curtain falls.
