The Gadfly by Ethel Voynich (top fiction books of all time .txt) 📕

Surely not many. He must have been filing for hours⁠—interminable hours⁠—yes, of course, that was what made his arm ache⁠—And how it ached; right through to the very bone! But it could hardly be the filing that made his side ache so; and the throbbing, burning pain in the lame leg⁠—was that from filing?

He started up. No, he had not been asleep; he had been dreaming with open eyes⁠—dreaming of filing, and it was all still to do. There stood the window-bars, untouched, strong and firm as ever. And there was ten striking from the clock-tower in the distance. He must get to work.

He looked through the spyhole, and, seeing that no one was watching, took one of the files from his breast.

No, there was nothing the matter with him⁠—nothing! It was all imagination. The pain in his side was indigestion, or a chill, or some such thing; not much wonder, after three weeks of this insufferable prison food and air. As for the aching and throbbing all over, it was partly nervous trouble and partly want of exercise. Yes, that was it, no doubt; want of exercise. How absurd not to have thought of that before!

He would sit down a little bit, though, and let it pass before he got to work. It would be sure to go over in a minute or two.

To sit still was worse than all. When he sat still he was at its mercy, and his face grew gray with fear. No, he must get up and set to work, and shake it off. It should depend upon his will to feel or not to feel; and he would not feel, he would force it back.

He stood up again and spoke to himself, aloud and distinctly:

“I am not ill; I have no time to be ill. I have those bars to file, and I am not going to be ill.”

Then he began to file.

A quarter-past ten⁠—half-past ten⁠—a quarter to eleven⁠—He filed and filed, and every grating scrape of the iron was as though someone were filing on his body and brain. “I wonder which will be filed through first,” he said to himself with a little laugh; “I or the bars?” And he set his teeth and went on filing.

Half-past eleven. He was still filing, though the hand was stiff and swollen and would hardly grasp the tool. No, he dared not stop to rest; if he once put the horrible thing down he should never have the courage to begin again.

The sentinel moved outside the door, and the butt end of his carbine scratched against the lintel. The Gadfly stopped and looked round, the file still in his lifted hand. Was he discovered?

A little round pellet had been shot through the spyhole and was lying on the floor. He laid down the file and stooped to pick up the round thing. It was a bit of rolled paper.

It was a long way to go down and down, with the black waves rushing about him⁠—how they roared⁠—!

Ah, yes! He was only stooping down to pick up the paper. He was a bit giddy; many people are when they stoop. There was nothing the matter with him⁠—nothing.

He picked it up, carried it to the light, and unfolded it steadily.

“Come tonight, whatever happens; the Cricket will be transferred tomorrow to another service. This is our only chance.”

He destroyed the paper as he had done the former one, picked up his file again, and went back to work, dogged and mute and desperate.

One o’clock. He had been working for three hours now, and six of the eight bars were filed. Two more, and then, to climb⁠—

He began to recall the former occasions when these terrible attacks had come on. The last had been the one at New Year; and he shuddered as he remembered those five nights. But that time it had not come on so suddenly; he had never known it so sudden.

He dropped the file and flung out both hands blindly, praying, in his utter desperation, for the first time since he had been an atheist; praying to anything⁠—to nothing⁠—to everything.

“Not tonight! Oh, let me be ill tomorrow! I will bear anything tomorrow⁠—only not tonight!”

He stood still for a moment, with both hands up to his temples; then he took up the file once more, and once more went back to his work.

Half-past one. He had begun on the last bar. His shirtsleeve was bitten to rags; there was blood on his lips and a red mist before his eyes, and the sweat poured from his forehead as he filed, and filed, and filed⁠—

After sunrise Montanelli fell asleep. He was utterly worn out with the restless misery of the night and slept for a little while quietly; then he began to dream.

At first he dreamed vaguely, confusedly; broken fragments of images and fancies followed each other, fleeting and incoherent, but all filled with the same dim sense of struggle and pain, the same shadow of indefinable dread. Presently he began to dream of sleeplessness; the old, frightful, familiar dream that had been a terror to him for years. And even as he dreamed he recognized that he had been through it all before.

He was wandering about in a great empty place, trying to find some quiet spot where he could lie down and sleep. Everywhere there were people, walking up and down; talking, laughing, shouting; praying, ringing bells, and clashing metal instruments together. Sometimes he would get away to a little distance from the noise, and would lie down, now on the grass, now on a wooden bench, now on some slab of stone. He would shut his eyes and cover them with both hands to keep out the light; and would say to himself: “Now I will get to sleep.” Then the crowds would come sweeping up to him, shouting, yelling, calling him by name, begging him: “Wake up! Wake up, quick; we want you!”

Again: he was in a great palace, full of