An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

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

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the lights. Sure, those were the flashes. And after all those

nights at prayer. Those meanings! 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. Some one—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 terrorized

him on the night of his arrival here and who was still here.

But he would go too. And all of these others—and himself

maybe—unless—unless——

He had seen his first man die.

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Chapter 31

IN THE meantime, however, Asa’s condition had remained

serious, and it was four entire months before it was possible

for him to sit up again or for Mrs. Griffiths to dream of

resuming her lecturing scheme. But by that time, public

interest in her and her son’s fate was considerably reduced.

No Denver paper was interested to finance her return for

anything she could do for them. And as for the public in the

vicinity of the crime, it remembered Mrs. Griffiths and her

son most clearly, and in so far as she was concerned,

sympathetically—but only, on the other hand, to think of him

as one who probably was guilty and in that case, being

properly punished for his crime—that it would be as well if

an appeal were not taken—or—if it were—that it be

refused. These guilty criminals with their interminable

appeals!

And with Clyde where he was, more and more executions—

although as he found—and to his invariable horror, no one

ever became used to such things there; farmhand Mowrer

for the slaying of his former employer; officer Riordan for

the slaying of his wife—and a fine upstanding officer too but

a minute before his death; and afterwards, within the

month, the going of the Chinaman, who seemed, for some

reason, to endure a long time (and without a word in parting

to any one—although it was well known that he spoke a few

words of English). And after him Larry Donahue, the

overseas soldier—with a grand call—just before the door

closed behind: “Good-by boys. Good luck.”

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And after him again—but, oh—that was so hard; so much

closer to Clyde—so depleting to his strength to think of

bearing this deadly life here without—Miller Nicholson—no

less. For after five months in which they had been able to

walk and talk and call to each other from time to time from

their cells and Nicholson had begun to advise him as to

books to read—as well as one important point in connection

with his own case—on appeal—or in the event of any

second trial, i.e.,—that the admission of Roberta’s letters as

evidence, as they stood, at least, be desperately fought on

the ground that the emotional force of them was detrimental

in the case of any jury anywhere, to a calm unbiased

consideration of the material facts presented by them—and

that instead of the letters being admitted as they stood they

should be digested for the facts alone and that digest—and

that only offered to the jury. “If your lawyers can get the

Court of Appeals to agree to the soundness of that you will

win your case sure.”

And Clyde at once, after inducing a personal visit on the

part of Jephson, laying this suggestion before him and

hearing him say that it was sound and that he and Belknap

would assuredly incorporate it in their appeal.

Yet not so long after that the guard, after locking his door

on returning from the courtyard whispered, with a nod in the

direction of Nicholson’s cell, “His next. Did he tell you?

Within three days.”

And at once Clyde shriveling—the news playing upon him

as an icy and congealing breath. For he had just come from

the courtyard with him where they had walked and talked of

another man who had just been brought in—a Hungarian of

Utica who was convicted of burning his paramour—in a

furnace—then confessing it—a huge, rough, dark, ignorant

man with a face like a gargoyle. And Nicholson saying he

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was more animal than man, he was sure. Yet no word

about himself. And in three days! And he could walk and

talk as though there was nothing to happen, although,

according to the guard, he had been notified the night

before.

And the next day the same—walking and talking as though

nothing had happened—looking up at the sky and breathing

the air. Yet Clyde, his companion, too sick and feverish—

too awed and terrified from merely thinking on it all night to

be able to say much of anything as he walked but thinking:

“And he can walk here. And be so calm. What sort of a man

is this?” and feeling enormously overawed and weakened.

The following morning Nicholson did not appear—but

remained in his cell destroying many letters he had

received from many places. And near noon, calling to Clyde

who was two cells removed from him on the other side: “I’m

sending you something to remember me by.” But not a

word as to his going.

And then the guard bringing two books—Robinson Crusoe

and the Arabian Nights. That night Nicholson’s removal

from his cell—and the next morning before dawn the

curtains; the same procession passing through, which was

by now an old story to Clyde. But somehow this was so

different—so intimate—so cruel. And as he passed, calling:

“God bless you all. I hope you have good luck and get out.”

And then that terrible stillness that followed the passing of

each man.

And Clyde thereafter—lonely—terribly so. Now there was

no one here—no one—in whom he was interested. He

could only sit and read—and think—or pretend to be

interested in what these others said, for he could not really

be interested in what they said. His was a mind that, freed

from the miseries that had now befallen him, was naturally

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more drawn to romance than to reality. Where he read at all

he preferred the light, romantic novel that pictured some

such world as he would have liked to share, to anything that

even approximated the hard reality of the world without, let

alone this. Now what was going to become of him

eventually? So alone was he! Only letters from his mother,

brother and sisters. And Asa getting no better, and his

mother not able to return as yet—things were so difficult

there in Denver. She was seeking a religious school in

which to teach somewhere—while nursing Asa. But she

was asking the Rev. Duncan McMillan, a young minister

whom she had encountered in Syracuse, in the course of

her work there, to come and see him. He was so spiritual

and so kindly. And she was sure, if he would but come, that