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

the city by two bridges⁠—a half dozen blocks apart⁠—one of them directly at this depot, a wide traffic bridge across which traveled a car-line following the curves of Central Avenue, dotted here and there with stores and small homes.

But Central Avenue was quite alive with traffic, pedestrians and automobiles. Opposite diagonally from the hotel, which contained a series of wide plate-glass windows, behind which were many chairs interspersed with palms and pillars, was the dry-goods emporium of Stark and Company, a considerable affair, four stories in height, and of white brick, and at least a hundred feet long, the various windows of which seemed bright and interesting, crowded with as smart models as might be seen anywhere. Also there were other large concerns, a second hotel, various automobile showrooms, a moving picture theater.

He found himself ambling on and on until suddenly he was out of the business district again and in touch with a wide and tree-shaded thoroughfare of residences, the houses of which, each and every one, appeared to possess more room space, lawn space, general ease and repose and dignity even than any with which he had ever been in contact. In short, as he sensed it from this brief inspection of its very central portion, it seemed a very exceptional, if small city street⁠—rich, luxurious even. So many imposing wrought-iron fences, flower-bordered walks, grouped trees and bushes, expensive and handsome automobiles either beneath porte-cocheres within or speeding along the broad thoroughfare without. And in some neighboring shops⁠—those nearest Central Avenue and the business heart where this wide and handsome thoroughfare began, were to be seen such expensive-looking and apparently smart displays of the things that might well interest people of means and comfort⁠—motors, jewels, lingerie, leather goods and furniture.

But where now did his uncle and his family live? In which house? What street? Was it larger and finer than any of these he had seen in this street?

He must return at once, he decided, and report to his uncle. He must look up the factory address, probably in that region beyond the river, and go over there and see him. What would he say, how act, what would his uncle set him to doing? What would his cousin Gilbert be like? What would he be likely to think of him? In his last letter his uncle had mentioned his son Gilbert. He retraced his steps along Central Avenue to the depot and found himself quickly before the walls of the very large concern he was seeking. It was of red brick, six stories high⁠—almost a thousand feet long. It was nearly all windows⁠—at least that portion which had been most recently added and which was devoted to collars. An older section, as Clyde later learned, was connected with the newer building by various bridges. And the south walls of both these two structures, being built at the water’s edge, paralleled the Mohawk. There were also, as he now found, various entrances along River Street, a hundred feet or more apart⁠—and each one, guarded by an employee in uniform⁠—entrances numbered one, two and three⁠—which were labeled “for employees only”⁠—an entrance numbered four which read “office”⁠—and entrances five and six appeared to be devoted to freight receipts and shipments.

Clyde made his way to the office portion and finding no one to hinder him, passed through two sets of swinging doors and found himself in the presence of a telephone girl seated at a telephone desk behind a railing, in which was set a small gate⁠—the only entrance to the main office apparently. And this she guarded. She was short, fat, thirty-five and unattractive.

“Well?” she called as Clyde appeared.

“I want to see Mr. Gilbert Griffiths,” Clyde began a little nervously.

“What about?”

“Well, you see, I’m his cousin. Clyde Griffiths is my name. I have a letter here from my uncle, Mr. Samuel Griffiths. He’ll see me, I think.”

As he laid the letter before her, he noticed that her quite severe and decidedly indifferent expression changed and became not so much friendly as awed. For obviously she was very much impressed not only by the information but his looks, and began to examine him slyly and curiously.

“I’ll see if he’s in,” she replied much more civilly, and plugging at the same time a switch which led to Mr. Gilbert Griffiths’ private office. Word coming back to her apparently that Mr. Gilbert Griffiths was busy at the moment and could not be disturbed, she called back: “It’s Mr. Gilbert’s cousin, Mr. Clyde Griffiths. He has a letter from Mr. Samuel Griffiths.” Then she said to Clyde: “Won’t you sit down? I’m sure Mr. Gilbert Griffiths will see you in a moment. He’s busy just now.”

And Clyde, noting the unusual deference paid him⁠—a form of deference that never in his life before had been offered him⁠—was strangely moved by it. To think that he should be a full cousin to this wealthy and influential family! This enormous factory! So long and wide and high⁠—as he had seen⁠—six stories. And walking along the opposite side of the river just now, he had seen through several open windows whole rooms full of girls and women hard at work. And he had been thrilled in spite of himself. For somehow the high red walls of the building suggested energy and very material success, a type of success that was almost without flaw, as he saw it.

He looked at the gray plaster walls of this outer waiting chamber⁠—at some lettering on the inner door which read: “The Griffiths Collar & Shirt Company, Inc. Samuel Griffiths, Pres. Gilbert Griffiths, Sec’y.”⁠—and wondered what it was all like inside⁠—what Gilbert Griffiths would be like⁠—cold or genial, friendly or unfriendly.

And then, as he sat there meditating, the woman suddenly turned to him and observed: “You can go in now. Mr. Gilbert Griffiths’ office is at the extreme rear of this floor, over toward the river. Any one of the clerks inside will show you.”

She half rose as if to open the door for him, but Clyde, sensing the intent, brushed by her.