The Man Behind the Bars

by Winifred Louise Taylor

There, on a Sunday morning two months later, I first met Wilson. I think it was the glance of the dark-gray eyes under long, sweeping black lashes that first attracted me. But it was the expression of the face, the quiet, dignified courtesy of manner, and the candid statement of his history that made the deeper impression. Simply and briefly he gave me the outlines of his past; and he spoke with deep, concentrated bitterness of the crushing, terrible life in prison. His unspoken loneliness—he had lost all trace of his mother—and his illness, almost ignored but evident, appealed to my sympathy and prompted me to offer to write to him. He thought it would be a pleasure to receive letters, but assured me that he could write nothing worth reading in return.

Long afterward I asked what induced him to reply to my questions so frankly and sincerely. His answer was: "Because I knew if I lied to you, it would make it harder for you to believe the next man you talked with, who might tell you the truth." During all that Sunday afternoon and evening Wilson remained in my thoughts, and the next afternoon—Hallowe'en, as it happened—found me again at the hospital. I stopped for a few moments at the bedside of a young prisoner who was flushed with hectic fever and wildly rebellious over the thought of dying in prison—he lived to die an honest man in freedom, in the dress of a civilized being and not in the barbarous, zebra-like suit then worn in the prison. I remained for a longer time beside the bed of a man who was serving a sentence of imprisonment for life for a crime of which he was innocent. After twelve years his innocence was proved; he was released a crippled invalid, with no means of support except by hands robbed of their power to work. The State makes no reparation for an unspeakable wrong like this, far more cruel than death.

When I turned to look for Wilson he was sitting apart from the other men, with a vacant chair beside him. Joining him beside that west window, flooded with the golden light of an autumn sunset, I took the vacant seat intended for me; and the hour that followed so influenced Wilson's future that he adopted that day—Hallowe'en—as his birthday. He knew the year but not the month in which he was born.

I have not the slightest recollection of what I said while we sat beside the window. But even now I can see Wilson's face as he listened with silent attention, not meeting my eyes. I think I spoke of his personal responsibility for the life he had lived. I am certain that I said nothing about swearing and that I asked no promises.

But thoughts not in my mind were suggested to him. For when I ceased speaking he raised his eyes, and looking at me intently he said: "I can't promise to be a Christian; my life has been too bad for that; but I want to promise you that I will give up swearing and try to have pure thoughts. I can promise you that, because these things lie in my own power; but there's too much wickedness between me and God for me ever to be a Christian."

His only possession was the kingdom of his thoughts; without reservation it was offered to his friend, and with the sure understanding that she would value it.

It was a surprise when I received Wilson's first letter to see the unformed writing and the uncertain spelling; but the spirit of the man could be traced, even through the inadequate medium. In earnestness and simplicity he was seeking to fulfil his promise, finding, as he inevitably must, that he had committed himself to more than his promise. It was not long before he wrote that he had begun a new life altogether "for your sake and for my own." His "thoughts" gave him great trouble, for the old channels were still open, and his cell-mate's mind was steeped in wickedness. But he made the best of the situation, and instead of seeking to ward off evil he took the higher course of sharing his own better thoughts with his cell-mate, over whom he acquired a strong influence. Steadfastly he sought to overcome evil with good. Very slowly grew his confidence in himself; and his great anxiety seemed to be lest I should think him better than he was.

Like all persons with tuberculosis Wilson was sanguine of recovery; and as he went back to work in one of the shops the day after I left, and always wrote hopefully, I took it for granted that his health was improving.

Six months only passed before we met again, and I was wholly unprepared for the startling change in Wilson's appearance. His cough and the shortness of his breath were distressing. But the poor fellow was so delighted to see me that he tried to set his own condition entirely aside.

We had a long talk in the twilight of that lovely May evening, and again we were seated beside a window, through which the light and sounds of spring came in. I learned then how hard life was for that dying man. He was still subject to the strict discipline of the most strictly disciplined prison in the country: compelled to rise at five in the morning and go through the hurried but exact preparations for the day required of well men. He was kept on the coarse prison fare, forced to march breathlessly in the rapid lock-step of the gang of strong men with whom he worked, and kept at work in the shop all through the long days. The strain on nerve and will and physical strength was never relaxed.