An American Tragedy Theodore Dreiser (whitelam books .TXT) 📖

doubt before that time the additional part of the appeal fee could be raised. Or, if not⁠—well, then⁠—anyhow (seeing how worn and distrait she was at this time) she need not worry. Messrs. Belknap and Jephson would see to it that her son’s interests were properly protected. They would file an appeal and make an argument⁠—and do whatever else was necessary to insure her son a fair hearing at the proper time.

And with that great burden off her mind⁠—and two last visits to Clyde in which she assured him of her determination to return as speedily as possible⁠—once Asa was restored to strength again and she could see her way to financing such a return⁠—she now departed only to find that, once she was in Denver once more, it was not so easy to restore him by any means.

And in the meantime Clyde was left to cogitate on and make the best of a world that at its best was a kind of inferno of mental ills⁠—above which⁠—as above Dante’s might have been written⁠—“abandon hope⁠—ye who enter here.”

The somberness of it. Its slow and yet searing psychic force! The obvious terror and depression⁠—constant and unshakeable of those who, in spite of all their courage or their fears, their bravado or their real indifference (there were even those) were still compelled to think and wait. For, now, in connection with this coldest and bitterest form of prison life he was in constant psychic, if not physical contact, with twenty other convicted characters of varying temperaments and nationalities, each one of whom, like himself, had responded to some heat or lust or misery of his nature or his circumstances. And with murder, a mental as well as physical explosion, as the final outcome or concluding episode which, being detected, and after what horrors and wearinesses of mental as well as legal contest and failure, such as fairly paralleled his own, now found themselves islanded⁠—immured⁠—in one or another of these twenty-two iron cages and awaiting⁠—awaiting what?

How well they knew. And how well he knew. And here with what loud public rages and despairs or prayers⁠—at times. At others⁠—what curses⁠—foal or coarse jests⁠—or tales addressed to all⁠—or ribald laughter⁠—or sighings and groanings in these later hours when the straining spirit having struggled to silence, there was supposedly rest for the body and the spirit.

In an exercise court, beyond the farthermost end of the long corridor, twice daily, for a few minutes each time, between the hours of ten and five⁠—the various inmates in groups of five or six were led forth⁠—to breathe, to walk, to practice calisthenics⁠—or run and leap as they chose. But always under the watchful eyes of sufficient guards to master them in case they attempted rebellion in any form. And to this it was, beginning with the second day, that Clyde himself was led, now with one set of men and now with another. But with the feeling at first strong in him that he could not share in any of these public activities which, nevertheless, these others⁠—and in spite of their impending doom⁠—seemed willing enough to indulge in.

The two dark-eyed sinister-looking Italians, one of whom had slain a girl because she would not marry him; the other who had robbed and then slain and attempted to burn the body of his father-in-law in order to get money for himself and his wife! And big Larry Donahue⁠—square-headed, square-shouldered⁠—big of feet and hands, an overseas soldier, who, being ejected from a job as night watchman in a Brooklyn factory, had lain for the foreman who had discharged him⁠—and then killed him on an open common somewhere at night, but without the skill to keep from losing a service medal which had eventually served to betray and identify him. Clyde had learned all this from the strangely indifferent and noncommittal, yet seemingly friendly guards, who were over these cells by night and by day⁠—two and two, turn about⁠—who relieved each other every eight hours. And police officer Riordan of Rochester, who had killed his wife because she was determined to leave him⁠—and now, himself, was to die. And Thomas Mowrer, the young “farmer” or farm hand, as he really was, whom Clyde on his first night had heard moaning⁠—a man who had killed his employer with a pitchfork⁠—and was soon to die now⁠—as Clyde heard, and who walked and walked, keeping close to the wall⁠—his head down, his hands behind his back⁠—a rude, strong, loutish man of about thirty, who looked more beaten and betrayed than as though he had been able to torture or destroy another. Clyde wondered about him⁠—his real guilt.

Again Miller Nicholson, a lawyer of Buffalo of perhaps forty years of age who was tall and slim and decidedly superior looking⁠—a refined, intellectual type, one you would have said was no murderer⁠—any more than Clyde⁠—to look at, who, none-the-less was convicted of poisoning an old man of great wealth and afterwards attempting to convert his fortune to his own use. Yet decidedly with nothing in his look or manner, as Clyde felt, at least, which marked him as one so evil⁠—a polite and courteous man, who, noting Clyde on the very first morning of his arrival here, approached and said: “Scared?” But in the most gentle and solicitous tone, as Clyde could hear and feel, even though he stood blank and icy⁠—afraid almost to move⁠—or think. Yet in this mood⁠—and because he felt so truly done for, replying: “Yes, I guess I am.” But once it was out, wondering why he had said it (so weak a confession) and afterwards something in the man heartening him, wishing that he had not.

“Your name’s Griffiths, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my name’s Nicholson. Don’t be frightened. You’ll get used to it.” He achieved a cheerful, if wan smile. But his eyes⁠—they did not seem like that⁠—no smile there.

“I don’t suppose I’m so scared either,” replied Clyde, trying to modify his first, quick and unintended confession.

“Well, that’s good. Be game. We all have to be