by Theodore Dreiser 39 страница

"You gotta wife, hain't you?"

"Yes," replied Cowperwood.

"Well, the rules here are that your wife or your friends kin come to see

you once in three months, and your lawyer--you gotta lawyer hain't yuh?"

"Yes, sir," replied Cowperwood, amused.

"Well, he kin come every week or so if he likes--every day, I

guess--there hain't no rules about lawyers. But you kin only write one

letter once in three months yourself, an' if you want anything like

tobaccer or the like o' that, from the store-room, you gotta sign an

order for it, if you got any money with the warden, an' then I can git

it for you."

The old man was really above taking small tips in the shape of money.

He was a hold-over from a much more severe and honest regime, but

subsequent presents or constant flattery were not amiss in making him

kindly and generous. Cowperwood read him accurately.

"Very well, Mr. Chapin; I understand," he said, getting up as the old

man did.

"Then when you have been here two weeks," added Chapin, rather

ruminatively (he had forgot to state this to Cowperwood before), "the

warden 'll come and git yuh and give yuh yer regular cell summers

down-stairs. Yuh kin make up yer mind by that time what y'u'd like tuh

do, what y'u'd like to work at. If you behave yourself proper, more'n

like they'll give yuh a cell with a yard. Yuh never can tell."

He went out, locking the door with a solemn click; and Cowperwood stood

there, a little more depressed than he had been, because of this latest

intelligence. Only two weeks, and then he would be transferred from this

kindly old man's care to another's, whom he did not know and with whom

he might not fare so well.

"If ever you want me for anything--if ye're sick or sumpin' like that,"

Chapin now returned to say, after he had walked a few paces away, "we

have a signal here of our own. Just hang your towel out through these

here bars. I'll see it, and I'll stop and find out what yuh want, when

I'm passin'."

Cowperwood, whose spirits had sunk, revived for the moment.

"Yes, sir," he replied; "thank you, Mr. Chapin."

The old man walked away, and Cowperwood heard his steps dying down

the cement-paved hall. He stood and listened, his ears being greeted

occasionally by a distant cough, a faint scraping of some one's feet,

the hum or whir of a machine, or the iron scratch of a key in a lock.

None of the noises was loud. Rather they were all faint and far away.

He went over and looked at the bed, which was not very clean and without

linen, and anything but wide or soft, and felt it curiously. So here

was where he was to sleep from now on--he who so craved and appreciated

luxury and refinement. If Aileen or some of his rich friends should see

him here. Worse, he was sickened by the thought of possible vermin.

How could he tell? How would he do? The one chair was abominable. The

skylight was weak. He tried to think of himself as becoming accustomed

to the situation, but he re-discovered the offal pot in one corner, and

that discouraged him. It was possible that rats might come up here--it

looked that way. No pictures, no books, no scene, no person, no space to

walk--just the four bare walls and silence, which he would be shut into

at night by the thick door. What a horrible fate!

He sat down and contemplated his situation. So here he was at last in

the Eastern Penitentiary, and doomed, according to the judgment of the

politicians (Butler among others), to remain here four long years and

longer. Stener, it suddenly occurred to him, was probably being put

through the same process he had just gone through. Poor old Stener!

What a fool he had made of himself. But because of his foolishness he

deserved all he was now getting. But the difference between himself and

Stener was that they would let Stener out. It was possible that already

they were easing his punishment in some way that he, Cowperwood, did not

know. He put his hand to his chin, thinking--his business, his house,

his friends, his family, Aileen. He felt for his watch, but remembered

that they had taken that. There was no way of telling the time. Neither

had he any notebook, pen, or pencil with which to amuse or interest

himself. Besides he had had nothing to eat since morning. Still, that

mattered little. What did matter was that he was shut up here away from

the world, quite alone, quite lonely, without knowing what time it

was, and that he could not attend to any of the things he ought to

be attending to--his business affairs, his future. True, Steger would

probably come to see him after a while. That would help a little. But

even so--think of his position, his prospects up to the day of the fire

and his state now. He sat looking at his shoes; his suit. God! He got

up and walked to and fro, to and fro, but his own steps and movements

sounded so loud. He walked to the cell door and looked out through the

thick bars, but there was nothing to see--nothing save a portion of two

cell doors opposite, something like his own. He came back and sat in his

single chair, meditating, but, getting weary of that finally, stretched

himself on the dirty prison bed to try it. It was not uncomfortable

entirely. He got up after a while, however, and sat, then walked,

then sat. What a narrow place to walk, he thought. This was

horrible--something like a living tomb. And to think he should be here

now, day after day and day after day, until--until what? Until

the Governor pardoned him or his time was up, or his fortune eaten

away--or--

So he cogitated while the hours slipped by. It was nearly five o'clock

before Steger was able to return, and then only for a little while.

He had been arranging for Cowperwood's appearance on the following

Thursday, Friday, and Monday in his several court proceedings. When he

was gone, however, and the night fell and Cowperwood had to trim his

little, shabby oil-lamp and to drink the strong tea and eat the rough,

poor bread made of bran and white flour, which was shoved to him

through the small aperture in the door by the trencher trusty, who was

accompanied by the overseer to see that it was done properly, he really

felt very badly. And after that the center wooden door of his cell was

presently closed and locked by a trusty who slammed it rudely and said

no word. Nine o'clock would be sounded somewhere by a great bell, he

understood, when his smoky oil-lamp would have to be put out promptly

and he would have to undress and go to bed. There were punishments,

no doubt, for infractions of these rules--reduced rations, the

strait-jacket, perhaps stripes--he scarcely knew what. He felt

disconsolate, grim, weary. He had put up such a long, unsatisfactory

fight. After washing his heavy stone cup and tin plate at the hydrant,

he took off the sickening uniform and shoes and even the drawers of

the scratching underwear, and stretched himself wearily on the bed. The

place was not any too warm, and he tried to make himself comfortable

between the blankets--but it was of little use. His soul was cold.

"This will never do," he said to himself. "This will never do. I'm not

sure whether I can stand much of this or not." Still he turned his face

to the wall, and after several hours sleep eventually came.

Chapter LIV

Those who by any pleasing courtesy of fortune, accident of birth,

inheritance, or the wisdom of parents or friends, have succeeded in

avoiding making that anathema of the prosperous and comfortable, "a

mess of their lives," will scarcely understand the mood of Cowperwood,

sitting rather gloomily in his cell these first days, wondering what, in

spite of his great ingenuity, was to become of him. The strongest have

their hours of depression. There are times when life to those endowed

with the greatest intelligence--perhaps mostly to those--takes on a

somber hue. They see so many phases of its dreary subtleties. It is

only when the soul of man has been built up into some strange

self-confidence, some curious faith in its own powers, based, no doubt,

on the actual presence of these same powers subtly involved in the body,

that it fronts life unflinchingly. It would be too much to say that

Cowperwood's mind was of the first order. It was subtle enough in all

conscience--and involved, as is common with the executively great, with

a strong sense of personal advancement. It was a powerful mind, turning,

like a vast searchlight, a glittering ray into many a dark corner; but

it was not sufficiently disinterested to search the ultimate dark.

He realized, in a way, what the great astronomers, sociologists,

philosophers, chemists, physicists, and physiologists were meditating;

but he could not be sure in his own mind that, whatever it was, it was

important for him. No doubt life held many strange secrets. Perhaps it

was essential that somebody should investigate them. However that might

be, the call of his own soul was in another direction. His business was

to make money--to organize something which would make him much money,

or, better yet, save the organization he had begun.

But this, as he now looked upon it, was almost impossible. It had been

too disarranged and complicated by unfortunate circumstances. He might,

as Steger pointed out to him, string out these bankruptcy proceedings

for years, tiring out one creditor and another, but in the meantime the

properties involved were being seriously damaged. Interest charges

on his unsatisfied loans were making heavy inroads; court costs were

mounting up; and, to cap it all, he had discovered with Steger that

there were a number of creditors--those who had sold out to Butler, and

incidentally to Mollenhauer--who would never accept anything except the

full value of their claims. His one hope now was to save what he could

by compromise a little later, and to build up some sort of profitable

business through Stephen Wingate. The latter was coming in a day or two,

as soon as Steger had made some working arrangement for him with

Warden Michael Desmas who came the second day to have a look at the new

prisoner.

Desmas was a large man physically--Irish by birth, a politician by

training--who had been one thing and another in Philadelphia from a

policeman in his early days and a corporal in the Civil War to a

ward captain under Mollenhauer. He was a canny man, tall, raw-boned,

singularly muscular-looking, who for all his fifty-seven years looked

as though he could give a splendid account of himself in a physical

contest. His hands were large and bony, his face more square than

either round or long, and his forehead high. He had a vigorous growth

of short-clipped, iron-gray hair, and a bristly iron-gray mustache,

very short, keen, intelligent blue-gray eyes; a florid complexion;

and even-edged, savage-looking teeth, which showed the least bit in

a slightly wolfish way when he smiled. However, he was not as cruel a

person as he looked to be; temperamental, to a certain extent hard, and

on occasions savage, but with kindly hours also. His greatest weakness

was that he was not quite mentally able to recognize that there were

mental and social differences between prisoners, and that now and then

one was apt to appear here who, with or without political influences,

was eminently worthy of special consideration. What he could recognize

was the differences pointed out to him by the politicians in special

cases, such as that of Stener--not Cowperwood. However, seeing that

the prison was a public institution apt to be visited at any time by

lawyers, detectives, doctors, preachers, propagandists, and the public

generally, and that certain rules and regulations had to be enforced (if

for no other reason than to keep a moral and administrative control over

his own help), it was necessary to maintain--and that even in the face

of the politician--a certain amount of discipline, system, and order,

and it was not possible to be too liberal with any one. There were,

however, exceptional cases--men of wealth and refinement, victims

of those occasional uprisings which so shocked the political leaders

generally--who had to be looked after in a friendly way.

Desmas was quite aware, of course, of the history of Cowperwood and

Stener. The politicians had already given him warning that Stener,

because of his past services to the community, was to be treated with

special consideration. Not so much was said about Cowperwood, although

they did admit that his lot was rather hard. Perhaps he might do a

little something for him but at his own risk.

"Butler is down on him," Strobik said to Desmas, on one occasion. "It's

that girl of his that's at the bottom of it all. If you listened to

Butler you'd feed him on bread and water, but he isn't a bad fellow.

As a matter of fact, if George had had any sense Cowperwood wouldn't be

where he is to-day. But the big fellows wouldn't let Stener alone. They

wouldn't let him give Cowperwood any money."

Although Strobik had been one of those who, under pressure from

Mollenhauer, had advised Stener not to let Cowperwood have any more

money, yet here he was pointing out the folly of the victim's course.

The thought of the inconsistency involved did not trouble him in the

least.

Desmas decided, therefore, that if Cowperwood were persona non grata to

the "Big Three," it might be necessary to be indifferent to him, or at

least slow in extending him any special favors. For Stener a good chair,

clean linen, special cutlery and dishes, the daily papers, privileges

in the matter of mail, the visits of friends, and the like. For

Cowperwood--well, he would have to look at Cowperwood and see what he

thought. At the same time, Steger's intercessions were not without their

effect on Desmas. So the morning after Cowperwood's entrance the warden

received a letter from Terrence Relihan, the Harrisburg potentate,

indicating that any kindness shown to Mr. Cowperwood would be duly

appreciated by him. Upon the receipt of this letter Desmas went up and

looked through Cowperwood's iron door. On the way he had a brief talk

with Chapin, who told him what a nice man he thought Cowperwood was.

Desmas had never seen Cowperwood before, but in spite of the shabby

uniform, the clog shoes, the cheap shirt, and the wretched cell, he was

impressed. Instead of the weak, anaemic body and the shifty eyes of the

average prisoner, he saw a man whose face and form blazed energy and

power, and whose vigorous erectness no wretched clothes or conditions

could demean. He lifted his head when Desmas appeared, glad that any

form should have appeared at his door, and looked at him with large,

clear, examining eyes--those eyes that in the past had inspired so

much confidence and surety in all those who had known him. Desmas was

stirred. Compared with Stener, whom he knew in the past and whom he had

met on his entry, this man was a force. Say what you will, one vigorous

man inherently respects another. And Desmas was vigorous physically. He

eyed Cowperwood and Cowperwood eyed him. Instinctively Desmas liked him.

He was like one tiger looking at another.

Instinctively Cowperwood knew that he was the warden. "This is Mr.

Desmas, isn't it?" he asked, courteously and pleasantly.

"Yes, sir, I'm the man," replied Desmas interestedly. "These rooms are

not as comfortable as they might be, are they?" The warden's even teeth

showed in a friendly, yet wolfish, way.

"They certainly are not, Mr. Desmas," replied Cowperwood, standing

very erect and soldier-like. "I didn't imagine I was coming to a hotel,

however." He smiled.

"There isn't anything special I can do for you, is there, Mr.

Cowperwood?" began Desmas curiously, for he was moved by a thought that

at some time or other a man such as this might be of service to him.

"I've been talking to your lawyer." Cowperwood was intensely gratified

by the Mr. So that was the way the wind was blowing. Well, then, within

reason, things might not prove so bad here. He would see. He would sound

this man out.

"I don't want to be asking anything, Warden, which you cannot reasonably

give," he now returned politely. "But there are a few things, of course,

that I would change if I could. I wish I might have sheets for my bed,

and I could afford better underwear if you would let me wear it. This

that I have on annoys me a great deal."

"They're not the best wool, that's true enough," replied Desmas,

solemnly. "They're made for the State out here in Pennsylvania

somewhere. I suppose there's no objection to your wearing your own

underwear if you want to. I'll see about that. And the sheets, too. We

might let you use them if you have them. We'll have to go a little slow

about this. There are a lot of people that take a special interest in

showing the warden how to tend to his business."

"I can readily understand that, Warden," went on Cowperwood briskly,

"and I'm certainly very much obliged to you. You may be sure that

anything you do for me here will be appreciated, and not misused, and

that I have friends on the outside who can reciprocate for me in the

course of time." He talked slowly and emphatically, looking Desmas

directly in the eye all of the time. Desmas was very much impressed.

"That's all right," he said, now that he had gone so far as to be

friendly. "I can't promise much. Prison rules are prison rules. But

there are some things that can be done, because it's the rule to do them

for other men when they behave themselves. You can have a better chair

than that, if you want it, and something to read too. If you're in

business yet, I wouldn't want to do anything to stop that. We can't have

people running in and out of here every fifteen minutes, and you can't

turn a cell into a business office--that's not possible. It would break

up the order of the place. Still, there's no reason why you shouldn't

see some of your friends now and then. As for your mail--well, that will

have to be opened in the ordinary way for the time being, anyhow. I'll

have to see about that. I can't promise too much. You'll have to wait

until you come out of this block and down-stairs. Some of the cells

have a yard there; if there are any empty--" The warden cocked his eye

wisely, and Cowperwood saw that his tot was not to be as bad as he

had anticipated--though bad enough. The warden spoke to him about the

different trades he might follow, and asked him to think about the one

he would prefer. "You want to have something to keep your hands busy,

whatever else you want. You'll find you'll need that. Everybody here

wants to work after a time. I notice that."

Cowperwood understood and thanked Desmas profusely. The horror of

idleness in silence and in a cell scarcely large enough to turn around

in comfortably had already begun to creep over him, and the thought of

being able to see Wingate and Steger frequently, and to have his mail

reach him, after a time, untampered with, was a great relief. He was

to have his own underwear, silk and wool--thank God!--and perhaps

they would let him take off these shoes after a while. With these

modifications and a trade, and perhaps the little yard which Desmas had

referred to, his life would be, if not ideal, at least tolerable. The

prison was still a prison, but it looked as though it might not be so

much of a terror to him as obviously it must be to many.

During the two weeks in which Cowperwood was in the "manners squad,"

in care of Chapin, he learned nearly as much as he ever learned of the

general nature of prison life; for this was not an ordinary penitentiary

in the sense that the prison yard, the prison squad, the prison

lock-step, the prison dining-room, and prison associated labor make the

ordinary penitentiary. There was, for him and for most of those confined

there, no general prison life whatsoever. The large majority were

supposed to work silently in their cells at the particular tasks

assigned them, and not to know anything of the remainder of the life

which went on around them, the rule of this prison being solitary

confinement, and few being permitted to work at the limited number of

outside menial tasks provided. Indeed, as he sensed and as old Chapin

soon informed him, not more than seventy-five of the four hundred

prisoners confined here were so employed, and not all of these

regularly--cooking, gardening in season, milling, and general cleaning

being the only avenues of escape from solitude. Even those who so worked

were strictly forbidden to talk, and although they did not have to wear

the objectionable hood when actually employed, they were supposed

to wear it in going to and from their work. Cowperwood saw them

occasionally tramping by his cell door, and it struck him as strange,

uncanny, grim. He wished sincerely at times since old Chapin was so

genial and talkative that he were to be under him permanently; but it

was not to be.

His two weeks soon passed--drearily enough in all conscience but

they passed, interlaced with his few commonplace tasks of bed-making,

floor-sweeping, dressing, eating, undressing, rising at five-thirty, and

retiring at nine, washing his several dishes after each meal, etc. He

thought he would never get used to the food. Breakfast, as has been

said, was at six-thirty, and consisted of coarse black bread made of

bran and some white flour, and served with black coffee. Dinner was at

eleven-thirty, and consisted of bean or vegetable soup, with some coarse

meat in it, and the same bread. Supper was at six, of tea and bread,

very strong tea and the same bread--no butter, no milk, no sugar.

Cowperwood did not smoke, so the small allowance of tobacco which was

permitted was without value to him. Steger called in every day for two

or three weeks, and after the second day, Stephen Wingate, as his new

business associate, was permitted to see him also--once every day, if he

wished, Desmas stated, though the latter felt he was stretching a point

in permitting this so soon. Both of these visits rarely occupied more

than an hour, or an hour and a half, and after that the day was long. He

was taken out on several days on a court order, between nine and five,

to testify in the bankruptcy proceedings against him, which caused the

time in the beginning to pass quickly.

It was curious, once he was in prison, safely shut from the world for

a period of years apparently, how quickly all thought of assisting him

departed from the minds of those who had been most friendly. He was

done, so most of them thought. The only thing they could do now would

be to use their influence to get him out some time; how soon, they could

not guess. Beyond that there was nothing. He would really never be of

any great importance to any one any more, or so they thought. It was

very sad, very tragic, but he was gone--his place knew him not.

"A bright young man, that," observed President Davison of the Girard

National, on reading of Cowperwood's sentence and incarceration. "Too

bad! Too bad! He made a great mistake."

Only his parents, Aileen, and his wife--the latter with mingled feelings

of resentment and sorrow--really missed him. Aileen, because of her

great passion for him, was suffering most of all. Four years and three

months; she thought. If he did not get out before then she would be

nearing twenty-nine and he would be nearing forty. Would he want her

then? Would she be so attractive? And would nearly five years change his

point of view? He would have to wear a convict suit all that time, and

be known as a convict forever after. It was hard to think about, but

only made her more than ever determined to cling to him, whatever

happened, and to help him all she could.

Indeed the day after his incarceration she drove out and looked at the

grim, gray walls of the penitentiary. Knowing nothing absolutely of the

vast and complicated processes of law and penal servitude, it seemed

especially terrible to her. What might not they be doing to her Frank?

Was he suffering much? Was he thinking of her as she was of him? Oh, the

pity of it all! The pity! The pity of herself--her great love for him!

She drove home, determined to see him; but as he had originally told

her that visiting days were only once in three months, and that he would

have to write her when the next one was, or when she could come, or when

he could see her on the outside, she scarcely knew what to do. Secrecy

was the thing.

The next day, however, she wrote him just the same, describing the drive

she had taken on the stormy afternoon before--the terror of the

thought that he was behind those grim gray walls--and declaring

her determination to see him soon. And this letter, under the new

arrangement, he received at once. He wrote her in reply, giving the

letter to Wingate to mail. It ran:

My sweet girl:--I fancy you are a little downhearted to think I cannot

be with you any more soon, but you mustn't be. I suppose you read

all about the sentence in the paper. I came out here the same

morning--nearly noon. If I had time, dearest, I'd write you a long

letter describing the situation so as to ease your mind; but I haven't.

It's against the rules, and I am really doing this secretly. I'm here,

though, safe enough, and wish I were out, of course. Sweetest, you must

be careful how you try to see me at first. You can't do me much service

outside of cheering me up, and you may do yourself great harm. Besides,

I think I have done you far more harm than I can ever make up to you and

that you had best give me up, although I know you do not think so, and

I would be sad, if you did. I am to be in the Court of Special Pleas,

Sixth and Chestnut, on Friday at two o'clock; but you cannot see me

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