An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser (i can read book club .TXT) 📕

the gray and restraining walls of Auburn itself⁠—with, once he was presented to a clerk in the warden’s office and his name and crime entered in the books⁠—himself assigned to two assistants, who saw to it that he was given a prison bath and hair cut⁠—all the wavy, black hair he so much admired cut away⁠—a prison-striped uniform and hideous cap of the same material, prison underwear and heavy gray felt shoes to quiet the restless prison tread in which in time he might indulge, together with the number, 77221.

And so accoutered, immediately transferred to the death house proper, where in a cell on the ground floor he was now locked⁠—a squarish light clean space, eight by ten feet in size and fitted with sanitary plumbing as well as a cot bed, a table, a chair and a small rack for books. And here then, while he barely sensed that there were other cells about him⁠—ranging up and down a wide hall⁠—he first stood⁠—and then seated himself⁠—now no longer buoyed by the more intimate and sociable life of the jail at Bridgeburg⁠—or those strange throngs and scenes that had punctuated his trip here.

The hectic tensity and misery of these hours! That sentence to die; that trip with all those people calling to him; that cutting of his hair downstairs in that prison barber shop⁠—and by a convict; the suit and underwear that was now his and that he now had on. There was no mirror here⁠—or anywhere⁠—but no matter⁠—he could feel how he looked. This baggy coat and trousers and this striped cap. He threw it hopelessly to the floor. For but an hour before he had been clothed in a decent suit and shirt and tie and shoes, and his appearance had been neat and pleasing as he himself had thought as he left Bridgeburg. But now⁠—how must he look? And tomorrow his mother would be coming⁠—and later Jephson or Belknap, maybe. God!

But worse⁠—there, in that cell directly opposite him, a sallow and emaciated and sinister-looking Chinaman in a suit exactly like his own, who had come to the bars of his door and was looking at him out of inscrutable slant eyes, but as immediately turning and scratching himself⁠—vermin, maybe, as Clyde immediately feared. There had been bedbugs at Bridgeburg.

A Chinese murderer. For was not this the death house? But as good as himself here. And with a garb like his own. Thank God visitors were probably not many. He had heard from his mother that scarcely any were allowed⁠—that only she and Belknap and Jephson and any minister he chose might come once a week. But now these hard, white-painted walls brightly lighted by wide unobstructed skylights by day and as he could see⁠—by incandescent lamps in the hall without at night⁠—yet all so different from Bridgeburg⁠—so much more bright or harsh illuminatively. For there, the jail being old, the walls were a gray-brown, and not very clean⁠—the cells larger, the furnishings more numerous⁠—a table with a cloth on it at times, books, papers, a chess- and checkerboard⁠—whereas here⁠—here was nothing, these hard narrow walls⁠—the iron bars rising to a heavy solid ceiling above⁠—and that very, very heavy iron door which yet⁠—like the one at Bridgeburg, had a small hole through which food would be passed, of course.

But just then a voice from somewhere:

“Hey! we got a new one wid us, fellers! Ground tier, second cell, east.” And then a second voice: “You don’t say. Wot’s he like?” And a third: “Wot’s yer name, new man? Don’t be scared. You ain’t no worse off than the rest of us.” And then the first voice, answering number two: “Kinda tall and skinny. A kid. Looks a little like mamma’s boy, but not bad at dat. Hey, you! Tell us your name!”

And Clyde, amazed and dumb and pondering. For how was one to take such an introduction as this? What to say⁠—what to do? Should he be friendly with these men? Yet, his instinct for tact prompting him even here to reply, most courteously and promptly: “Clyde Griffiths.” And one of the first voices continuing: “Oh, sure! We know who you are. Welcome, Griffiths. We ain’t as bad as we sound. We been readin’ a lot about you, up dere in Bridgeburg. We thought you’d be along pretty soon now.” And another voice: “You don’t want to be too down. It ain’t so worse here. At least de place is all right⁠—a roof over your head, as dey say.” And then a laugh from somewhere.

But Clyde, too horrified and sickened for words, was sadly gazing at the walls and door, then over at the Chinaman, who, silent at his door, was once more gazing at him. Horrible! Horrible! And they talked to each other like that, and to a stranger among them so familiarly. No thought for his wretchedness, his strangeness, his timidity⁠—the horror he must be suffering. But why should a murderer seem timid to anyone, perhaps, or miserable? Worst of all they had been speculating here as to how long it would be before he would be along which meant that everything concerning him was known here. Would they nag⁠—or bully⁠—or make trouble for one unless one did just as they wished? If Sondra, or any one of all the people he had known, should see or even dream of him as he was here now⁠ ⁠… God!⁠—And his own mother was coming tomorrow.

And then an hour later, now evening, a tall, cadaverous guard in a more pleasing uniform, putting an iron tray with food on it through that hole in the door. Food! And for him here. And that sallow, rickety Chinaman over the way taking his. Whom had he murdered? How? And then the savage scraping of iron trays in the various cells! Sounds that reminded him more of hungry animals being fed than men. And some of these men were actually talking as they ate and scraped. It sickened him.

“Gee! It’s a wonder them guys