How awful! Looking straight in front of him and coming toward us, I saw his face. Tragic and appalling. I will see it for a long time.
We visit the industries. There is something ironical about their location with the mountains for a background, but the effect is good, they can get a sense of freedom. A good system here, with the wardens tolerant. They seem to understand. I whisper to one.
"Is Jim Larkin here?" He is in the boot department, and we go to see him for a moment. There is a rule against it, but on this occasion the rule is waived.
Larkin struts up. Large, about six feet two inches, a fine, strapping Irishman. Introduced, he talks timidly.
He can't stay, mustn't leave his work. Is happy. Only worried about his wife and children in Ireland. Anxious about them, otherwise fit.
There are four more years for him. He seems deserted even by his party, though there is an effort being made to have his sentence repealed. After all, he is no ordinary criminal. Just a political one.
He asks about my reception in England. "Glad to meet you, but I must get back."
Frank tells him he will help to get his release. He smiles, grips Frank's hand hard. "Thanks." Harris tells me he is a cultured man and a fine writer.
But the prison marked him. The buoyancy and spirit that must have gone with those Irish eyes are no more. Those same eyes are now wistful, where they once were gay. He hasn't been forgotten. Our visit has helped. There may be a bit of hope left to him.
We go to the solitary-confinement cell, where trouble makers are kept.