An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

because of this very great tragedy in the family, had been

made ill—so ill indeed that the letters from Frank and Julia

were becoming very disturbing. It was possible that he

might not get well at all. Some help was necessary there.

And in consequence, in addition to paying her own

expenses here, Mrs. Griffiths was literally compelled to

deduct other reducing sums from this, her present and only

source of income. It was terrible—considering Clyde’s

predicament—but nevertheless must she not sustain

herself in every way in order to win to victory? She could

not reasonably abandon her husband in order to aid Clyde

alone.

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Yet in the face of this—as time went on, the audiences

growing smaller and smaller until at last they constituted

little more than a handful—and barely paying her expenses

—although through this process none-the-less she finally

managed to put aside—over and above all her expenses—

eleven hundred dollars. Yet, also, just at this time, and in a

moment of extreme anxiety, Frank and Julia wiring her that

if she desired to see Asa again she had better come home

at once. He was exceedingly low and not expected to live.

Whereupon, played upon by these several difficulties and

there being no single thing other than to visit him once or

twice a week—as her engagements permitted—which she

could do for Clyde, she now hastily conferred with Belknap

and Jephson, setting forth her extreme difficulties.

And these, seeing that eleven hundred dollars of all she

had thus far collected was to be turned over to them, now,

in a burst of humanity, advised her to return to her

husband. Decidedly Clyde would do well enough for the

present seeing that there was an entire year—or at least

ten months before it was necessary to file the record and

the briefs in the case. In addition another year assuredly

must elapse before a decision could be reached. And no

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

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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—foul 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.

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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 non-committal, 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

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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.

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