Cezanne's Quarry by Barbara Pope

Author:Barbara Pope [Pope, Barbara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 193364883X
Amazon: 193364883X
Publisher: Pegasus
Published: 2008-06-10T18:30:00+00:00

Sunday, August 23

Our wives and our daughters are raised, governed by our enemies. Enemies of the modern spirit, of liberty and of the future. It would serve no purpose to cite such and such a preacher or such and such a sermon. One voice to speak of liberty, fifty thousand to speak against it.

—Jules Michelet, The Priest, Woman and the Family, 18456

17

IT WAS THE ITCHING THAT WOULD finally do him in. And the heat. And the stench. And the tragic absurdity of his fate. Westerbury scratched at his beard, trying to pry loose the lice and their eggs. He began pacing again, back and forth, back and forth, the length and width of his tiny cell. How long would they keep him here? How long must he endure the waiting, not knowing, not being able to talk to another living soul? His steps quickened, and, with them, the infernal pounding in his chest. He could feel his teeth grinding against each other. He pulled at his hair in a mad attempt to rid himself of the vermin and vent his frustrations. He wanted to shout and pound on the thick iron door, demanding to be let go. But that would be useless, and it would show them that they were winning. He could not let them win.

Calm down, calm down, he told himself. Weaker men than you, and certainly men with less intelligence, without philosophy, have survived such confinement, and survived it for years. Stoicism—the philosophy of Marcus Aurelius—is what he must aspire to. Wisdom, Justice, Fortitude, Temperance. Wasn’t that it? To practice them would lead to tranquility and make him a worthy follower of the greatest of all Romans. But, Westerbury paused mid-thought, at least Aurelius had a great country estate to run to when the battles, plots, and conspiracies became too much to bear. In this foreign land, Westerbury had only his wits.

He sat back on the thick board suspended by two chains. This piece of wood, covered by an inch of matted vermin-infested straw, and one thin woolen cloth, was his bed, his chair, and his table. They allowed him no books, no pen, and no paper. Not even a chamber pot. Westerbury glanced toward the filthy hole in the corner, where the odor of his own urine and feces mingled with that of other unfortunates who had occupied the cell before him. Barbarous race. Barbarous, sewerless, lawless, insalubrious, arrogant race. Why bother to even think about being treated like an educated man when they can’t even treat you like a human being?

Westerbury felt the tears building again. Sniffling, he watched the dust glisten and dance in the streams of light that flowed from the tiny square window high in his cell. It was almost noon on Sunday. The daily meals and the changing light were the only way he kept track of time. By his count, he had been here for three days and three nights. The wardens came only two times each endless day, slid open the slot in the big iron door, ladled water into his cup and pushed a bowl of mush toward him.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.