An American Tragedy - Theodore Dreiser (librera reader txt) š
- Author: Theodore Dreiser
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As for the others, throughout this excitement, one could hear them walking and mumbling or calling to the guards to do something. And as for Clyde, never having experienced or imagined such a scene, he was literally shivering with fear and horror. All through the last night of this manās life he lay on his pallet, chasing phantoms. So this was what death was like here; men cried, prayed, they lost their mindsā āyet the deadly process was in no way halted, for all their terror. Instead, at ten oāclock and in order to quiet all those who were left, a cold lunch was brought in and offeredā ābut with none eating save the Chinaman over the way.
And then at four the following morningā āthe keepers in charge of the deadly work coming silently along the main passage and drawing the heavy green curtains with which the cells were equipped so that none might see the fatal procession which was yet to return along the transverse passage from the old death house to the execution room. And yet with Clyde and all the others waking and sitting up at the sound.
It was here, the execution! The hour of death was at hand. This was the signal. In their separate cells, many of those who through fear or contrition, or because of innate religious convictions, had been recalled to some form of shielding or comforting faith, were upon their knees praying. Among the rest were others who merely walked or muttered. And still others who screamed from time to time in an incontrollable fever of terror.
As for Clyde he was numb and dumb. Almost thoughtless. They were going to kill that man in that other room in there. That chairā āthat chair that he had so greatly feared this long while was in thereā āwas so close now. Yet his time as Jephson and his mother had told him was so long and distant as yetā āif everā āever it was to beā āif everā āeverā ā
But now other sounds. Certain walkings to and fro. A cell door clanking somewhere. Then plainly the door leading from the old death house into this room openingā āfor there was a voiceā āseveral voices indistinct as yet. Then another voice a little clearer as if someone praying. That telltale shuffling of feet as a procession moved across and through that passage. āLord have mercy. Christ have mercy.ā
āMary, Mother of Grace, Mary, Mother of Mercy, St. Michael, pray for me; my good Angel, pray for me.ā
āHoly Mary, pray for me; St. Joseph, pray for me. St. Ambrose, pray for me; all ye saints and angels, pray for me.ā
āSt. Michael, pray for me; my good Angel, pray for me.ā
It was the voice of the priest accompanying the doomed man and reciting a litany. Yet he was no longer in his right mind they said. And yet was not that his voice mumbling too? It was. Clyde could tell. He had heard it too much recently. And now that other door would be opened. He would be looking through itā āthis condemned manā āso soon to be deadā āat itā āseeing itā āthat capā āthose straps. Oh, he knew all about those by now though they should never come to be put upon him, maybe.
āGoodbye, Cutrone!ā It was a hoarse, shaky voice from some nearby cellā āClyde could not tell which. āGo to a better world than this.ā And then other voices: āGoodbye, Cutrone. God keep youā āeven though you canāt talk English.ā
The procession had passed. That door was shut. He was in there now. They were strapping him in, no doubt. Asking him what more he had to sayā āhe 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, surelyā ā
And then, although Clyde did not know or notice at the momentā āa sudden dimming of the lights in this roomā āas well as over the prisonā āan 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:
āThere she goes. Thatās one. Well, itās all over with him.ā
And a second voice: āYes, heās topped off, poor devil.ā
And then after the lapse of a minute perhaps, a second dimming lasting for thirty secondsā āand finally a third dimming.
āThereā āsureā āthatās the end now.ā
āYes. He knows whatās on the other side now.ā
Thereafter silenceā āa deadly hush with later some murmured prayers here and there. But with Clyde cold and with a kind of shaking ague. He dared not thinkā ālet alone cry. So thatās how it was. They drew the curtains. And thenā āand then. He was gone now. Those three dimmings of the lights. Sure, those were the flashes. And after all those nights at prayer. Those moanings! Those beatings of his head! And only a minute ago he had been aliveā āwalking by there. But now dead. And some day heā āhe!ā āhow 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 curtainsā āas sure and secure in their lives apparently as though there was no death in the world. And afterwards he could hear them talkingā ānot to him so muchā āhe had proved too reticent thus farā ābut 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 itā āto go too, later. Someoneā āmanyā ālike Cutrone, like himselfā āhad been in this oneā āon this pallet. He sat upā āmoved to the chair. But heā ātheyā āhad sat on thatā ātoo. He stood upā āonly to sink down on the pallet again. āGod! God! God! God!ā he now exclaimed to himselfā ābut not aloudā āand yet not unlike that other man who had so
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