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

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.

XXXI

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 anyone⁠—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: “Goodbye boys. Good luck.”

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 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 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