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

here⁠—or the whole place would go crazy. Better breathe a little. Or walk fast. It’ll do you good.”

He moved away a few paces and began exercising his arms while Clyde stood there, saying⁠—almost loudly⁠—so shaken was he still: “We all have to be or the whole place would go crazy.” That was true, as he could see and feel after that first night. Crazy, indeed. Tortured to death, maybe, by being compelled to witness these terrible and completely destroying⁠—and for each⁠—impending tragedies. But how long would he have to endure this? How long would he?

In the course of a day or two, again he found this death house was not quite like that either⁠—not all terror⁠—on the surface at least. It was in reality⁠—and in spite of impending death in every instance, a place of taunt and jibe and jest⁠—even games, athletics, the stage⁠—all forms of human contest of skill⁠—or the arguments on every conceivable topic from death and women to lack of it, as far at least as the general low intelligence of the group permitted.

For the most part, as soon as breakfast was over⁠—among those who were not called upon to join the first group for exercise, there were checkers or cards, two games that were played⁠—not with a single set of checkers or a deck of cards between groups released from their cells, but by one of the ever present keepers providing two challenging prisoners (if it were checkers) with one checkerboard but no checkers. They were not needed. Thereafter the opening move was called by one. “I move from G 2 to E 1”⁠—each square being numbered⁠—each side lettered. The moves checked with a pencil.

Thereafter the second party⁠—having recorded this move on his own board and having studied the effect of it on his own general position, would call: “I move from E 7 to F 5.” If more of those present decided to join in this⁠—either on one side or the other, additional boards and pencils were passed to each signifying his desire. Then Shorty Bristol, desiring to aid “Dutch” Swighort, three cells down, might call: “I wouldn’t do that, Dutch. Wait a minute, there’s a better move than that.” And so on with taunts, oaths, laughter, arguments, according to the varying fortunes and difficulties of the game. And so, too, with cards. These were played with each man locked in his cell, yet quite as successfully.

But Clyde did not care for cards⁠—or for these jibing and coarse hours of conversation. There was for him⁠—and with the exception of the speech of one⁠—Nicholson⁠—alone, too much ribald and even brutal talk which he could not appreciate. But he was drawn to Nicholson. He was beginning to think after a time⁠—a few days⁠—that this lawyer⁠—his presence and companionship during the exercise hour⁠—whenever they chanced to be in the same set⁠—could help him to endure this. He was the most intelligent and respectable man here. The others were all so different⁠—taciturn at times⁠—and for the most part so sinister, crude or remote.

But then and that not more than a week after his coming here⁠—and when, because of his interest in Nicholson, he was beginning to feel slightly sustained at least⁠—the execution of Pasquale Cutrone, of Brooklyn, an Italian, convicted of the slaying of his brother for attempting to seduce his wife. He had one of the cells nearest the transverse passage, so Clyde learned after arriving, and had in part lost his mind from worrying. At any rate he was invariably left in his cell when the others⁠—in groups of six⁠—were taken for exercise. But the horror of his emaciated face, as Clyde passed and occasionally looked in⁠—a face divided into three grim panels by two gutters or prison lines of misery that led from the eyes to the corners of the mouth.

Beginning with his, Clyde’s arrival, as he learned, Pasquale had begun to pray night and day. For already, before that, he had been notified of the approximate date of his death which was to be within the week. And after that he was given to crawling up and down his cell on his hands and knees, kissing the floor, licking the feet of a brass Christ on a cross that had been given him. Also he was repeatedly visited by an Italian brother and sister fresh from Italy and for whose benefit at certain hours, he was removed to the old death house. But as all now whispered, Pasquale was mentally beyond any help that might lie in brothers or sisters.

All night long and all day long, when they were not present, he did this crawling to and fro and praying, and those who were awake and trying to read to pass the time, were compelled to listen to his mumbled prayers, the click of the beads of a rosary on which he was numbering numberless Our Fathers and Hail Marys.

And though there were voices which occasionally said: “Oh, for Christ’s sake⁠—if he would only sleep a little”⁠—still on, on. And the tap of his forehead on the floor⁠—in prayer, until at last the fatal day preceding the one on which he was to die, when Pasquale was taken from his cell here and escorted to another in the old death house beyond and where, before the following morning, as Clyde later learned, last farewells, if any, were to be said. Also he was to be allowed a few hours in which to prepare his soul for his maker.

But throughout that night what a strange condition was this that settled upon all who were of this fatal room. Few ate any supper as the departing trays showed. There was silence⁠—and after that mumbled prayers on the part of some⁠—not so greatly removed by time from Pasquale’s fate, as they knew. One Italian, sentenced for the murder of a bank watchman, became hysterical, screamed, dashed the chair and table of his cell against the bars of his door, tore the sheets of his bed to shreds and