An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

work he might not soon have the time again. He now

ambled out into Central Avenue, the very heart of Lycurgus,

which in this section was crossed by several business

streets, which together with Central Avenue for a few

blocks on either side, appeared to constitute the business

center—all there was to the life and gayety of Lycurgus.

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Chapter 5

BUT once in this and walking about, how different it all

seemed to the world to which so recently he had been ac

customed. For here, as he had thus far seen, all was on a

so much smaller scale. The depot, from which only a half

hour before he had stepped down, was so small and dull,

untroubled, as he could plainly see, by much traffic. And the

factory section which lay opposite the small city—across the

Mohawk—was little more than a red and gray assemblage

of buildings with here and there a smokestack projecting

upward, and connected with 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

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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-cochères 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

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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

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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. “That’s all right.

Thanks,” he said most warmly, and opening the glass-

plated door he gazed upon a room housing many over a

hundred employees—chiefly young men and young

women. And all were apparently intent on their duties

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before them. Most of them had green shades over their

eyes. Quite all of them had on short alpaca office coats or

sleeve protectors over their shirt sleeves. Nearly all of the

young women wore clean and attractive gingham dresses

or office slips. And all about this central space, which was

partitionless and supported by round white columns, were

offices labeled with the names of the various minor officials

and executives of the company—Mr. Smillie, Mr. Latch, Mr.

Gotboy, Mr. Burkey.

Since the telephone girl had said that Mr. Gilbert Griffiths

was at the extreme rear, Clyde, without much hesitation,

made his way along the railed-off aisle to that quarter,

where upon a half-open door he read: “Mr. Gilbert Griffiths,

Sec’y.” He paused, uncertain whether to walk in or not, and

then proceeded to tap. At once a sharp, penetrating voice

called: “Come,” and he entered and faced a youth who

looked, if anything, smaller and a little older and certainly

much colder and shrewder than himself—such a youth, in

short, as Clyde would have liked to imagine himself to be—

trained in an executive sense, apparently authoritative and

efficient. He was dressed, as Clyde noted at once, in a

bright gray suit of a very pronounced pattern, for it was

once more approaching spring. His hair, of a lighter shade

than Clyde’s, was brushed and glazed most smoothly back

from his temples and forehead, and his eyes, which Clyde,

from the moment he had opened the door had felt drilling

him, were of a clear, liquid, grayish-green blue. He had on a