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

even sought to strangle himself before eventually he was overpowered and removed to a cell in a different part of the building to be observed as to his sanity.

As for the others, throughout this excitement, one could hear them walking and mumbling or calling to the guards to do something. And as for Clyde, never having experienced or imagined such a scene, he was literally shivering with fear and horror. All through the last night of this man’s life he lay on his pallet, chasing phantoms. So this was what death was like here; men cried, prayed, they lost their minds⁠—yet the deadly process was in no way halted, for all their terror. Instead, at ten o’clock and in order to quiet all those who were left, a cold lunch was brought in and offered⁠—but with none eating save the Chinaman over the way.

And then at four the following morning⁠—the keepers in charge of the deadly work coming silently along the main passage and drawing the heavy green curtains with which the cells were equipped so that none might see the fatal procession which was yet to return along the transverse passage from the old death house to the execution room. And yet with Clyde and all the others waking and sitting up at the sound.

It was here, the execution! The hour of death was at hand. This was the signal. In their separate cells, many of those who through fear or contrition, or because of innate religious convictions, had been recalled to some form of shielding or comforting faith, were upon their knees praying. Among the rest were others who merely walked or muttered. And still others who screamed from time to time in an incontrollable fever of terror.

As for Clyde he was numb and dumb. Almost thoughtless. They were going to kill that man in that other room in there. That chair⁠—that chair that he had so greatly feared this long while was in there⁠—was so close now. Yet his time as Jephson and his mother had told him was so long and distant as yet⁠—if ever⁠—ever it was to be⁠—if ever⁠—ever⁠—

But now other sounds. Certain walkings to and fro. A cell door clanking somewhere. Then plainly the door leading from the old death house into this room opening⁠—for there was a voice⁠—several voices indistinct as yet. Then another voice a little clearer as if someone praying. That telltale shuffling of feet as a procession moved across and through that passage. “Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.”

“Mary, Mother of Grace, Mary, Mother of Mercy, St. Michael, pray for me; my good Angel, pray for me.”

“Holy Mary, pray for me; St. Joseph, pray for me. St. Ambrose, pray for me; all ye saints and angels, pray for me.”

“St. Michael, pray for me; my good Angel, pray for me.”

It was the voice of the priest accompanying the doomed man and reciting a litany. Yet he was no longer in his right mind they said. And yet was not that his voice mumbling too? It was. Clyde could tell. He had heard it too much recently. And now that other door would be opened. He would be looking through it⁠—this condemned man⁠—so soon to be dead⁠—at it⁠—seeing it⁠—that cap⁠—those straps. Oh, he knew all about those by now though they should never come to be put upon him, maybe.

“Goodbye, Cutrone!” It was a hoarse, shaky voice from some nearby cell⁠—Clyde could not tell which. “Go to a better world than this.” And then other voices: “Goodbye, Cutrone. God keep you⁠—even though you can’t talk English.”

The procession had passed. That door was shut. He was in there now. They were strapping him in, no doubt. Asking him what more he had to say⁠—he who was no longer quite right in his mind. Now the straps must be fastened on, surely. The cap pulled down. In a moment, a moment, surely⁠—

And then, although Clyde did not know or notice at the moment⁠—a sudden dimming of the lights in this room⁠—as well as over the prison⁠—an idiotic or thoughtless result of having one electric system to supply the death voltage and the incandescence of this and all other rooms. And instantly a voice calling:

“There she goes. That’s one. Well, it’s all over with him.”

And a second voice: “Yes, he’s topped off, poor devil.”

And then after the lapse of a minute perhaps, a second dimming lasting for thirty seconds⁠—and finally a third dimming.

“There⁠—sure⁠—that’s the end now.”

“Yes. He knows what’s on the other side now.”

Thereafter silence⁠—a deadly hush with later some murmured prayers here and there. But with Clyde cold and with a kind of shaking ague. He dared not think⁠—let alone cry. So that’s how it was. They drew the curtains. And then⁠—and then. He was gone now. Those three dimmings of the lights. Sure, those were the flashes. And after all those nights at prayer. Those moanings! Those beatings of his head! And only a minute ago he had been alive⁠—walking by there. But now dead. And some day he⁠—he!⁠—how could he be sure that he would not? How could he?

He shook and shook, lying on his couch, face down. The keepers came and ran up the curtains⁠—as sure and secure in their lives apparently as though there was no death in the world. And afterwards he could hear them talking⁠—not to him so much⁠—he had proved too reticent thus far⁠—but to some of the others.

Poor Pasquale. This whole business of the death penalty was all wrong. The warden thought so. So did they. He was working to have it abolished.

But that man! His prayers! And now he was gone. His cell over there was empty and another man would be put in it⁠—to go too, later. Someone⁠—many⁠—like Cutrone, like himself⁠—had been in this one⁠—on this pallet. He sat up⁠—moved to the chair. But he⁠—they⁠—had sat on that⁠—too. He stood up⁠—only to sink down on the pallet again. “God! God! God! God!” he now exclaimed to himself⁠—but not aloud⁠—and yet not unlike that other man who had so