 Section 25 of Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman Part 2 Chapter 18 The Solitary 1. Direct to Box A-7, Allegheny City, Pennsylvania, March 25, 1894 Dear Fedja, this letter is somewhat delayed. For certain reasons I missed mailday last month. Prison life too has its ups and downs, and just now I am on the downside. We are cautioned to refrain from referring to local affairs, therefore I can tell you only that I am in solitary without work. I don't know how long I am to be kept locked up. It may be a month or a year. I hope it will not be the latter. I was not permitted to receive the magazines and delicacies you sent. We may subscribe for the daily papers, and you can easily imagine how religiously I read them from headline to the last ad. They keep me in touch, to some extent, with the living. Blessed to be the shades of Gutenberg, Hugo and Zola, even Gogol and Turgonov are in the library. It is like meeting an old friend in a strange land to find our own bazarov, discoursing in English. Page after page unfolds the past. The solitary is forgotten, the walls melt away, and again I roam with leather stocking in the primitive forest, or sorrow with poor Oliver Twist. But the captain's daughter irritates me, and Pugachev, the rebellious soul, has turned a caricature in the awkward hands of the translator. And now comes Taras Bulba. Is it our own Taras, the fearless warrior, the scourge of Turk and Tartar? How grotesque is the brave old Hetman, storming maledictions against the hated Muslims in long-winded German periods. Exasperated and offended, I turn my back upon the desecration, and open a book of poems. But instead of the requested Robert Burns, I find a volume of Wordsworth. Poseys bloom on his pages, and Rosebud sent his rhymes, but the pains of the world's labour wake no chord in his soul. Science and romance, history and travel, religion and philosophy, all come trooping into the cell in a relevant sequence, for the allowance of only one book at a time limits my choice. The variety of reading affords rich material for reflection, and helps to perfect my English. But some passage in these starry heavens suddenly brings me to earth, and the present is illumined with the direct perception of despair and the anguished questions surges through my mind. What is the use of all this study and learning? And then, but why hurry you with this tenor? I did not mean to say all this when I began. It cannot be undone. The sheet must be accounted for. Therefore it will be mailed to you. But I know, dear friend, you are also not bedded on roses. And the poor sailor? My space is all. Alex. 2. The lengthening chain of days in the solitary drags its heavy links through every change of misery. The cell is suffocating with the summer heat. Rarely does the fresh breeze from the river steal a caress upon my face. On the pretext of a draft, the unfriendly guard has closed the hall-windows opposite my cell. Not a breath of air is stirring. The leaden hours of the night are insufferable, with the foul odor of the perspiration and and excrement of a thousand bodies. Sleepless I toss on the withered mattress. The ravages of time and the weight of many inmates have demoralized it out of all semblance of a bed-tick. But the block-captain persistently ignores my request for new straw, directing me to shake it up a bit. I am fearful of repeating the experiment. The clouds of dust almost strangled me. For days the cell remained hazy with the powdered filth. Impatiently I await the morning. The yard-door will open for the marching lines, and the fresh air bewaffed past my cell. I shall stand ready to receive the precious tonic that is to give me life this day. And when the block has belched forth its striped prey and silence mounts its vigil, I may improve a favourable moment to exchange a greeting with Johnny Davis. The young prisoner is in solitary on the tear above me. Thrice's request for a high-gear machine has been refused, and the tall youth forced to work dulled over a low table. Unable to exert his best efforts in the cramped position, Johnny has repeatedly been punished with the dungeon. Last week he suffered a hemorrhage. All through the night resounds his hollow cough. Desperate with the dread of consumption, Johnny has refused to return to work. The warden, relenting in a kindly mood, permitted him to resume his original high-machine. But the boy has grown obdurate. He is determined not to go back to the shop whose officer caused him so much trouble. The prison discipline takes no cognizance of the situation. Regularly every Monday the torture is repeated. The youth is called before the deputy and assigned to the hosiery department. The unvarying refusal is followed by the dungeon, and then Johnny is placed in the solitary to be cited again before the warden, the ensuing Monday. I chafe at my helplessness to aid the boy. His course is suicidal, but the least suggestion of yielding enrages him. I'll die before I give in. He told me, from whispered talks through the waste-pipe I learn the sad story of his young life. He is nineteen, with a sentence of five years before him. His father, a breakman, was killed in a railroad collision. The suit for damages was dragged through years of litigation, leaving the widow destitute. Since the age of fourteen, young Johnny had to support the whole family. Lately he was employed as the driver of a delivery wagon, associating with a rough element, that gradually drew him into gambling. One day a shortage of twelve dollars was discovered in the boy's accounts, the mills of justice began to grind, and Johnny was speedily clad in stripes. In vain I strived to absorb myself in the library book. The shoddy heroes of Laura Jean waked no response in my heart. The superior beings of Corelli, communing with mysteriously heavenly circles stalked by, strange and inhuman. Here in the cell above me cries and moans the terrible tragedy of reality. What a monstrous thing it is, that the whole power of the commonwealth or the machinery of government is concentrated to crush this unfortunate atom. Innocently guilty too, the poor boy is, ensnared by the gaming spirit of the time, the feeble creature of vitiating environment, his fate tis sealed by a moment of weakness. Yet his deviation from the path of established ethics is but a faint reflection of the lives of the men that decreed his doom. The hypocrisy of organized society, the very foundation of its existence rests upon the negation and defiance of every professed principle of right and justice. Every feature of its face is a caricature, a travesty upon the semblance of truth. The whole life of humanity a mockery of the very name, political mastery based on violence and Jesuitry, industry gathering the harvest of human blood, commerce ascendant on the ruins of manhood, such is the morality of civilization. And over the edifice of this stupendous perversion the law sits enthroned, and religion weaves the spell of awe, and varnishes right and puzzles wrong and bids the cowering hellet in tone, thy will be done. Devoutly Johnny goes to church and prays forgiveness for his sins. The prosecutor was very hard on him, he told me. The blind mole perceives only the immediate and is embittered against the persons directly responsible for his long imprisonment. But greater minds have failed to fully grasp the iniquity of the established. My beloved Burns even seems inadequate, powerfully as he moves my spirit with his deep sympathy for the poor, the oppressed. But man's inhumanity to man is not the last word. The truth lies deeper. It is economic slavery, the savage struggle for a crumb that has converted mankind into wolves and sheep. In liberty and communism none would have the will or the power to make countless thousands mourn. Verily it is the system rather than individuals that is the source of pollution and degradation. My prison-house environment is but another manifestation of the mightest hand whose cursed touch turns everything to the brutal service of mammon. Dullness fawns upon cruelty for advancement. The savage joy, the shop-form, and cracks his whip for his mead of the gold-transmuted blood. The famished bodies in stripe, the agonized brains reeling in the dungeon night, the men buried in basket and solitary. What human hand would turn the key upon a soul in utter darkness but for the dread of a like fate and the shadow it casts before? This nightmare is but an intensified replica of the world beyond, the larger prison locked with the levers of greed, guarded by the spawn of hunger. My mind reverts insistently to the life outside. It is a herculean task to rouse apathy to the sordidness of its misery, yet if the people would but realize the depths of their degradation and be informed of the means of deliverance how joyously they would embrace anarchy, quick and decisive would be the victory of the workers against the handful of their dispoilers, an hour of sanity freed from prejudice and superstition, and the torch of liberty and the torch of liberty would flame round the world and the banner of equality and brotherhood be planted upon the hills of a regenerated humanity, if the world would but pause for one short while and understand and become free. Involuntarily I am reminded of the old rabbinical lore, only one instant of righteousness and Messiah would come upon earth. The beautiful promise had strongly appealed to me in the days of childhood. The merciful God requires so little of us, I had often pondered, why will we not abstain from sin and evil for just the twinkling of an eyelash? For weeks I went about, weighed down with the grief of impenitent Israel refusing to be saved. My eager brain pregnant with projects of hastening the deliverance, like a divine inspiration came the solution. At the stroke of the noon hour, on a pre-concerted day, all the men and women of the Jewry throughout the world should bow in prayer, for a single stroke of time, all at once, behold, the Messiah come. In agonizing perplexity, I gazed at my Hebrew tutor shaking his head. How his kindly smile quivered dismay into my thrilling heart. The children of Israel could not be saved thus, he spoke sadly, nay not even in the most circumspect manner, affording our people in the farthest corners of the earth time to prepare for the solemn moment. The Messiah will come, the good tutor kindly consoled me, it had been promised. But the hour hath not arrived, he quoted, no man hath the power to hasten the steps of the deliverer. With a sense of sobering sadness, I think of the new hope, the revolutionary Messiah. Truly the old rabbi was wise beyond his ken, it hath been given to no man to hasten the march of delivery, out of the people's need, from the womb of their suffering must be borne the hour of redemption. Necessity, necessity alone, with its iron heel, will spur numb misery to effort, and awaken the living dead. The process is torturously slow, but the gestation of a new humanity cannot be hurried by impatience. We must abide our time, meanwhile preparing the workers for the great upheaval. The errors of the past are to be guarded against, always hath apparent victory been divested of its fruits and paralyzed into defeat, because the people were fettered by their respect for property, by the superstitious awe of authority and by reliance upon leaders. These ghosts must be cast out, and the torch of reason lighted in the darkness of men's minds. Air blind rebellion can rend the midway clouds of defeat and sight the glory of the social revolution and the beyond. 3. A heavy nightmare oppresses my sleep. Confused sounds ring in my ears and beat upon my head. I wake in nameless dread. The cell-house is raging with uproar. Crash after crash booms through the hall. It thunders against the walls of the cell, then rolls like some monstrous drum along the galleries and abruptly ceases. In terror I cower on the bed. All is deathly still. Timidly I look around. The cell is in darkness and only a faint gas light flickers unsteadily in the corridor. Suddenly a cry cuts the silence, shrill and unearthly, bursting into wild laughter, and again the fearful thunder now bellowing from the cell above, now muttering menacingly in the distance, then dying with a growl. And all is hushed again, and only the unearthly laughter rings through the hall. Johnny! Johnny! I call in alarm. Johnny! The kid's in the hole. Comes hoarsely through the privy. This is horse-thief. Is that you, Alec? Yes, what is it, Bob? Someone breaking up housekeeping. Who? Can't tell. Maybe Smithy. What's Smithy, Bob? Crazy Smith on crank-row. Look out now. They're coming. The heavy doors of the rotunda groan on their hinges. Shadow-like giant figures glide past my cell. They walk inaudibly, felt sold and portentous. The long riot-clubs rigid at their sides, behind them others, and then the warden, a large revolver gleaming in his hand. With baited breath I listen, conscious of the presence of other men at the doors. Suddenly wailing and wild laughter pierced the night. There is the rattling of iron, violent scuffling, the sickening thud of a falling body, and all is quiet. Noiselessly the bread-cart flits by, the huge shadows bending over the body stretched on the boards. The gong booms the rising hour. The morning sun glints a ray upon the bloody trail in the hall, and hides behind the gathering mist. A squad of men in gray and black is marched from the yard. They kneel on the floor, and with sand and water scour the crimson flagstones. With great relief I learn that Crazy Smithy is not dead. He will recover, the rangeman assures me. The doctor bandaged the man's wounds, and then the prisoner, still unconscious, was dragged to the dungeon. Little by little I glean his story from my informant. Smith has been insane, at times violently, ever since his imprisonment, about four years ago. His partner, Burns, has also become deranged through worry over his sentence of twenty-five years. His madness assumed such revolting expression that the authorities caused his commitment to the insane asylum, but Smith remains on crank-roll, the warden insisting that he is shamming to gain an opportunity to escape. Four. The rare snatches of conversation with the old rangeman are events in the monotony of the solitary. Owing to the illness of Bob, communication with my friends is almost entirely suspended. In the forced idleness the hours grow heavy and languid, the days drag in unvary and sameness. By violent efforts of will I strangle the recurring thought of my long sentence and seek forgetfulness in reading. Volume after volume passes through my hands till my brain is steeped with the printed word. Page by page I recite the history of the Holy Church, the lives of the Fathers and the Saints, or read aloud to hear a human voice, the mythology of Greece and India mingling with it, for the sake of variety, a few chapters from Mill and Spencer. But in the midst of an intricate passage in the unknowable, or in the heart of a difficult mathematical problem, I suddenly become aware of my pencil drawing familiar figures on the library slate. Twenty-two times twelve equals two hundred sixty-four, what is this I wonder? And immediately I proceed, in semi-conscious manner, to finish the calculation. Two hundred sixty-four times thirty equals seven thousand nine hundred twenty days. Seven thousand nine hundred twenty times twenty-four equals one hundred ninety thousand eighty hours. One hundred ninety thousand eighty times sixty equals eleven million four hundred four thousand eight hundred minutes. Eleven million four hundred four thousand eight hundred times sixty equals six hundred forty eight million two hundred eighty eight thousand seconds. But the next moment I'm aghast at the realization that my computation allows only thirty days per month, whereas the year consists of three hundred sixty-five, sometimes even of three hundred sixty-six days, and again I repeat the process, multiplying twenty-two by three hundred sixty-five, and I'm startled to find that I have almost seven hundred million seconds to pass in the solitary. From the official calendar alongside of the rules the cheering promise faces me, good conduct shortens time. But I have been repeatedly reported and punished, they will surely deprive me of the commutation. With great care I figure out my allowance, one month on the first year, one on the second, two on the third and fourth, three on the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth, four months good time on each succeeding year. I shall therefore have to serve fifteen years and three months in this place, and then eleven months in the workhouse. I have been here now two years. It still leaves me fourteen years and two months, or more than five thousand one hundred seventy days. Appalled by the figures I paste the cell in agitation, it is hopeless. It is folly to expect to survive such a sentence, especially in view of the warden's persecution and the petty tyranny of the keepers. Thoughts of suicide and escape, wild fantasies of unforeseen developments in the world at large that will somehow result in my liberation, all struggle in confusion, leaving me faint and miserable. My absolute isolation holds no promise of deliverance. The days of illness and suffering fill me with anguish. With a sharp pang I observe the thinning of my hair. The evidence of physical decay rouses the fear of mental collapse, insanity. I shudder at the terrible suggestion and lash myself into a fever of irritation with myself, the rangemen, and every passing convict, my heart seething with hatred of the warden, the guards, the judge, and that unembodied shapeless but inexorable and merciless thing the world. In the moments of reacting calm I apply myself to philosophy and science, determinately with the desperation born of horror. But the dread ghost is ever before me. It follows me up and down the cell, mocks me with the wild laughter of crazy Smith, in the stillness of the night, and with the moaning and waking of my neighbour, suddenly gone mad. CHAPTER XIX MEMORY GUESTS Often the chaplain pauses at my door and speaks words of encouragement. I feel deeply moved by his sympathy, but my revolutionary traditions forbid the expression of my emotions, a cog in the machinery of oppression he might mistake my gratitude for the obsequiousness of the fawning convict. But I hope he feels my appreciation in the simple thank you. It is kind of him to lend me books from his private library, and occasionally also permit me an extra sheet of writing paper. Correspondence with the girl and the twin, and the unfrequent exchange of notes with my comrades are the only links that still bind me to the living. I feel weary and life-worn indifferent to the trivial incidents of existence that seem to hold such exciting interest for the other inmates. Old Sammy, the rangeman, grown nervous with the approach of liberty, inverts a hundred opportunities to unburden his heart. All day long he limps from cell to cell, pretending to scrub the door-sills or dust the bars, meanwhile chattering volubly to the solitaries. Listlessly I suffer the oft-repeated recital of the news, elaborately discussed and commented upon with impassioned earnestness. He interrupts his anathemas upon the rotten food and the thieving murderers to launch into enthusiastic details of the meal he will enjoy on the day of release, the imprisoned friends he will remember with towels and handkerchiefs. But he grows pensive at the mention of the folks at home. The old woman died of a broken heart. The boys have not written a line in three years. He fears they have sold the little farmhouse and flown to the city. But the joy of coming freedom drives away the sad thought, and he mumbles hopefully, I'll see, I'll see, and rejoices in being alive and still good for a while. And then abruptly changes the conversation and relates minutely how that poor crazy dick was yesterday found hanging in the cell, and he the first to discover him and to help the guards cut him down. And last week he was present when the physician tried to revive the little dago, and if the doctor had only returned quicker from the theater poor Joe might have been saved. He took a fit, and the screws just let him lay, waiting for the dock, they says, hope they don't kill me yet, he comments, hobbling away. The presence of death daunts the thought of self-destruction, ever stronger asserts itself the love of life, the will to be roots deeper, but the hope of escape recedes with the ebbing of my vitality. The constant harassing has forced the discontinuation of the blossoms, the eccentric warden seems to have conceived great fear of an anarchist conspiracy, special orders have been issued, placing the trio under extraordinary surveillance, suspecting our clandestine correspondence yet unable to trace it, the authorities have decided to separate us, in a manner excluding all possibility of communication. Apparently I am to be continued in the solitary indefinitely, while Nold is located in the south wing, and Bauer removed to the furthest cell on an upper gallery in the north block, the precious magazine is suspended, and only the daring of the faithful horse-thief enables us to exchange an occasional note. Amid the fantastic shapes cast by the dim candle-light I pass the long winter evenings, the prison day between 7 a.m. and 9 p.m. I divide into three parts, devoting four hours each to exercise, English, and reading, the remaining two hours occupied, with meals and cleaning up. Surrounded by grammars and dictionaries borrowed from the chaplain, I absorb myself in a sentence of Shakespeare, dissecting each word, studying origin and derivation, analyzing prefix and suffix. I find moments of exquisite pleasure in tracing some simple expression through all the vicissitudes of its existence to its Latin or Greek source. In the history of the corresponding epoch I seek the people's joys and tragedies contemporary with the fortunes of the world. Philology, with the background of history, leads me into the pastures of mythology and comparative religion through the mazes of metaphysics and warring philosophies to rationalism and evolutionary science. Oblivious of my environment I walk with the disciples of Socrates, flee Athens with the persecuted Diagoras, the atheist, and listen in ecstasy to the sweet voice Luke de Varion, or with Suetonius. I pass in review the twelve Caesars, and weep with the hostages swelling the triumph of the eternal city. But on the very threshold of clear patches, Boudoir, about to enter with the intrepid Mark Antony, I am met by three giant slaves with the command, A7, hands up, step out to be searched. For days my enfeebled nerves quiver with the shock. With difficulty I force myself to pick up the thread of my life amid the spirits of the past. The placid waters have been disturbed, and all the miasma of the quagmire seethes towards the surface and fills my cup with the bitterness of death. The release of old Sammy stirs me to the very depths. Many prisoners have come and gone during my stay, with some I merely touched hands as they passed in the darkness and disappeared, leaving no trace in my existence. But the old rangeman, with his smiling eyes and fervid optimism, has grown dear to me. He shared with me his hopes and fears, divided his extra slice of cornbread and strove to cheer me in his own homely manner. I miss his genial presence. Something has gone out of my life with him, leaving a void, saddening, gnawing. In thought I follow my friend through the gates of the prison, out into the free, the alluring outside, the charmed circle that holds the promise of life and joy and liberty, like a horrible nightmare the somber walls fade away, and only a dark shadow vibrates in my memory, like a hidden menace, faint, yet ever present and terrible. The sun glows brilliant in the heavens, shell-like wavelets float upon the azure, and sweet odours are everywhere about me, all the longing of my soul wells up with violent passion, and in a sudden transport of joy I fling myself upon the earth and weep and kiss it in prayerful bliss. The candle sputters, hisses, and dies. I sit in the dark, silently lifts the veil of time. The little New York flat rises before me. The girl is returning home, the roses of youth groan pallet amid the shadows of death. Only her eyes grow firmer and deeper, a look of challenge in her saddened face. As on an open page I read the suffering of her prison experience, the sharper lines of steadfast purpose, the joys and sorrows of our mutual past unfold before me, and again I live in the old surroundings, the memorable scene of our first meeting, in the little cafe at Saxe, projects clearly. The room is chilly in the November dusk, as I return from work and secure my accustomed place. One by one the old habituaries drop in, and presently I am in a heated discussion with two Russian refugees at the table opposite. The door opens, and a young woman enters. Well-knit, with the ruddy vigor of youth, she diffuses an atmosphere of strength and vitality, no wonder who the newcomer may be. Two years in the movement have familiarized me with the personnel of the revolutionary circles of the metropolis. This girl is evidently a stranger. I am quite sure I have never met her at our gatherings. I motion to the passing proprietor. He smiles, anticipating my question. You want to know who the young lady is? he whispers. I'll see, I'll see. Somehow I find myself at her table. Without constraint we soon converse like old acquaintances, and I learn that she left her home in Rochester to escape the stifling provincial atmosphere. She is a dressmaker and hopes to find work in New York. I like her simple frank confidence. The comrade on her lips thrills me. She is one of us, then, with a sense of pride in the movement I enlarge upon the activities of our circle. There are important meetings shot to attend. Many people to meet. Hasselmann is conducting a course in sociology. Schultz is giving splendid lectures. Have you heard most? I ask suddenly. No, you must hear, our grand old man. He speaks tomorrow. Will you come with me? Eagly I look forward to the next evening and hasten to the cafe. It is frosty outdoors as I walk the narrow dark streets in animated discussion with comrade Rochester. The ancient sidewalks are uneven and crack in spots crusted with filth. As we cross the lancy street, the girl slips and almost falls. When I catch her in my arms just in time to prevent her head striking the curb-stone, you have saved my life. She smiles at me, her eyes dancing vivaciously. With great pride I introduce my new friend to the intelligentsia of the ghetto among the exiles of the colony. Ah, the exultation, the joy of being! The whole history of revolutionary Russia is mirrored in our circles. Every shade of temperamental nihilism and political view is harboured there. I see Hartman, surrounded by the halo of conspirative mystery, at his side is the Veliko Russian, with flowing beard and powerful frame of the older generation of the Narado Voiletsi, and there is Chevitz, big and broad of feature, the typical Dvorianian who has cast in his lot with the proletariat. The line of contending faiths is not drawn sharply in the colony. Keon is amongst us, stentorian of voice and bristling with aggressive vitality. Solotorov, his pale student face, peculiarly luminous, Miller, poetically eloquent, and his strangely named brother Brandes, looking consumptive from his experience in the Odessa prison. Timerman and Aleenikov, Rinka and Weinstein, all are united in enthusiasm for the common cause. Types from Tuganov and Chernyshovsky, from Dostoevsky and Nek Rassov, mingling the seeming confusion of reality, individualised with varying shade and light, and other elements are in the colony, the splashed quivers of the simmering waters of Tsardom, shapes in the making, still being needed in the mold of old tradition and new environment, who knows what shall be the amalgam, someday to be recast by the master hand of a new Tuganov. Often the solitary hours are illumined by scenes of the past, with infinite detail I live again through the years of the inspiring friendship that held the girl, the twin and myself in the closest bonds of revolutionary aspiration and personal intimacy. How full of interest and rich promise was life in those days, so far away went after the hours of humiliating drudgery in the factory I would hasten to the little room in Suffolk Street, small and narrow with its diminutive table and solitary chair, a cage-like bedroom would be transfigured into the sanctified chamber of fate, holding the balance of the world's wheel. Only two could sit on the little cot, the third on the rickety chair, and if somebody else called we would stand around the room, filling the air with the glowing hope of our young hearts, in the firm consciousness that we were hastening the steps of progress, advancing the glorious dawn. The memory of life outside intensifies the misery of the solitary, I brood over the uselessness of my suffering, my mission in life terminated with the attendent act. What good can my continued survival do? My propagandistic value as a living example of class injustice and political persecution is not of sufficient importance to impose upon me the duty of existence, and even if it were, the almost three years of my imprisonments have served the purpose. Escape is out of consideration, so long as I remain constantly underlocked at key the subject of special surveillance. Communication with Noldenbauer too is daily growing more difficult. My health is failing fast. I am barely able to walk. What is the use of all this misery and torture? What is the use? In such moments I stand on the brink of eternity. Is it sheer apathy and languor that hold the weak thread of life or nature's law and the inherent spirit of resistance? Were I not in the enemy's power I should unhesitatingly cross the barrier, but as a pioneer of the cause I must live and struggle. Yet life without activity or interest is terrifying. I long for sympathy and affection, with an aching heart I remember my comrades and friends, and the girl, more and more my mind dwells upon tender memories. I wake at night with a passionate desire for the sight of a sweet face, the touch of a soft hand. A wild yearning fills me for the women I have known as they pass in my mind's eye, from the time of my early youth to the last kiss of feminine lips. With a thrill I recall each bright look and tender accent my heart beats tumultuously as I meet little Nadja on the way to school, pretending I do not see her. I turn around to admire the golden locks floating in the breeze when I surprise her stealthily watching me. I adore her secretly, but proudly decline my chums offer to introduce me. How foolish of me! But I know no timid shrinking as I wait on a cold winter evening for our neighbour's servant-girl to cross the yard, and how unceremoniously I embrace her. She is not a borisnya. I need not mask my feelings, and she is so primitive. She accuses me of knowing things not fit for a boy of my age, but she kisses me again, and passion wakes at the caress of the large coarse hand. My eldritch street, platonic sweetheart, stands before me, and I tingle with every sensual emotion of my first years in New York. Out of the New Haven days rises the image of Luba, sweeping me with an unutterable longing for the unattained, and again I live through the experiences of the past, passionately visualising every detail with images that flatter my erotic palette, and weave exquisite allurement about the urge of sex. CHAPTER XXI. A DAY IN THE SELLHOUSE. 2K AND G. Good news! I was let out of the cell this morning. The coffee-boy on my range went home yesterday, and I was put in his place. It's lucky the old deputy died. He was determined to keep me in solitary. In the absence of the warden, Benny grieves the new deputy told me he will risk giving me a job, but he has issued strict orders. I should not be permitted to step into the yard. I will therefore still be under special surveillance, and I shall not be able to see you. But I am in touch with our faithful, and we can now resume a more regular correspondence. Over a year in solitary it's almost like liberty to be out of the cell. 2. My position as a coffee-boy affords many opportunities for closer contact with the prisoners. I assist the rangeman in taking care of a row of sixty-four cells situated on the ground floor and lettered K. Above it are, successively, I, H, G, and F, located on the yard side of the cellhouse. On the opposite side, facing the river, the ranges are labeled A, B, C, D, and E. The galleries form parallelograms about each double cell row, bridged at the centre. They permit easy access to the several ranges. The ten tiers, with a total of six hundred and forty cells, are contained within the outer stone building and comprise the north block of the penitentiary. It connects with the south wing, by means of the rotunda. Cell ranges, south block. The bottom tiers A and K serve as receiving ranges. Here every new arrival is temporarily celled before he is assigned to work, and transferred to the gallery occupied by his shop-fellows. On these ranges are also located the men undergoing special punishment in basket and solitary. The lower end of the two ranges is designated bug-house row. It contains the cranks, among whom are classed inmates in different stages of mental aberration. My various duties of sweeping the hall, dusting the cell doors, and assisting at feeding enable me to become acquainted and to form friendships. I marvel at the inadequacy of my previous notions of the criminal. I resent the presumption of science that pretends to evolve the intricate convolutions of a living human brain out of the shape of a digit cut from a dead hand and labels it criminal type. Daily association dispels the myth of the species and reveals the individual. Growing intimacy discovers the humanity beneath fibers coarsened by lack of opportunity and brutalised by misery and fear. There is one ready, Butch, a rosy, cheek young fellow of twenty-one, as Frank's spoken a boy has ever honoured a striped suit, a jolly criminal as Butch, with his irrepressible smile and gay song, he was just dying to take his girl for a ride, he relates to me. But he couldn't afford it. He earned only seven dollars per week, as Butcher's boy. He always gave his mother every penny he made. But the girl kept taunting him because he couldn't spend anything on her. And I goes to work and swipes a rig and say, Alec, you ought to see me drive to me girl's house big like. And I goes, put on your glad duds, Kate, I says, I'll give you the drive of your life. And I did. You bet your sweet life I did. But when he returned the rig to its owner, Butch was arrested. Just a prank, your honour, I says to the judge. What do you think, Alec? Thought I'd die when he said three years. That was foolish, of course. But there's no use crying over spilt milk. But you know, the worst of it is, me girl went back on me. Wouldn't that jar you, eh? Well, I'll try hard to forget the minks. She's a sweet girl, though, you bet. And there's young Rush, the descendant of the celebrated family of the great American physician. The delicate features, radiant with spirituality, bear a striking resemblance to Shelley. The limping gate recalls the tragedy of Byron. He is in for murder. He sits at the door, an open book in his hands. The page is moist with the tears silently trickling down his face. He smiles at my approach, and his expressive eyes light up the darkened cell, like a glimpse of the sun breaking through the clouds. He was wooing a girl on a summer night. The skiff suddenly upturned, right opposite here. He points to the river, near McKee's rocks. He was dragged out unconscious. They told him the girl was dead, and that he was her murderer. He reaches for the photograph on his table, and bursts into sobs. Daily I sweep the length of the hall, advancing from cell to cell, with deliberate stroke, all the while watching for an opportunity to exchange a greeting with the prisoners. My mind reverts to poor Wingie, how he cheered me in the first days of misery, how kind he was. In gentler tones I speak to the unfortunate, and encourage the new arrivals, or indulge some demented prisoner in a harmless whim. The dry sweeping of the hallway raises a cloud of dust, and loud coughing follows in my wake, taking advantage of the old block-captains cold in the head. I consciously hint at the danger of germs looking in the dust-laden atmosphere. A little wet saw-dust on the floor, Mr. Mitchell, and you wouldn't catch cold so often. Capital idea, he thinks, and thereafter I guard the precious supply under the bed in my cell. In little ways I seek to help the men in solitary. Every trifle means so much. Long Joe, the rangeman, whose duty it is to attend to their needs, is engrossed with his own troubles. The poor fellow is serving twenty-five years, and he is much worried by Wild Bill and Big Head Wilson. They are constantly demanding to see the warden. It is remarkable that they are never refused. The guards seem to stand in fear of them. Wild Bill is a self-confessed invert, and there are peculiar rumours concerning his intimacy with the warden. Recently Bill complained of indigestion, and a guard sent me to deliver some delicacies to him from the warden's table, he remarked with a sly wink, and Wilson is jocularly referred to as the deputy, even by the officers. He is still in stripes, but he seems to wield some powerful influence over the new deputy. He openly defies the rules, upbrades the guards, and issues orders. He is the warden's runner, clad with the authority of his master. The prisoners regard Bill and Wilson as stools, and cordially hate them. But none dare offend them. Poor Joe is constantly harassed by deputy Wilson. There seems to be bitter enmity between the two, on account of a young prisoner who prefers the friendship of Joe. Worried by the complex intrigues of life in the block, the rangeman is indifferent to the unfortunate's in the cells. Butch is devoured by bedbugs, and praying Andy's mattress is flattened into a pancake. The simple-minded lifetimer is being neglected. He has not yet recovered from the assault by Johnny Smith, who hit him on the head with a hammer. I urge the rangeman to report to the captain the need of bedbugging Butch's cell, of supplying Andy with the new mattress, and of notifying the doctor of the increasing signs of insanity among the solitaries. 3. Breakfast is over. The lines form in lock, step, and march to the shops. Broom in hand, rangeman in assistance, step upon the galleries, and commence to sweep the floors. Officers pass among the tiers, closely scrutinising each cell. Now and then they pause, facing a delinquent. They note his number, and unlock the door, and the prisoner joins the sickline on the ground floor. One by one the men augment the row. They walk slowly bent and coughing, painfully limping down the steep flights. From every range they come, the old and decrepit, the young consumptives, the lame and asthmatic, a tottering old negro, an idiotic white boy, all look withered and dejected. A ghastly line, palsied and blier-eyed, blanched in the valley of death. The return to door opens noisily, and the doctor enters, accompanied by Deputy Warden Greaves, an assistant Deputy Hopkins. Behind them is a prisoner dressed in dark gray and carrying a medicine-box. Dr. Boyce glances at the long line and knits his brow. He looks at his watch, and the frown deepens. He has much to do. Since the death of the senior doctor, the young graduate is a sole physician of the big prison, he must make the rounds of the shops before noon and visit the patients in the hospital before the Warden or the deputy drops in. Mr. Greaves sits down at the officer's desk, near the hall entrance. The assistant Deputy, pad in hand, places himself at the head of the sickline. The doctor leans against the door of the rotunda facing the deputy. The block officers stand within call at respectful distances. Two-fifty-five, the assistant Deputy calls out. A slender young man leaves the line and approaches the doctor. He is tall and well-featured, the large-eyed lustrous in the pale face. He speaks in a hoarse voice. Dr., there's something to matter with my side. I have pains and I cough bad at night and in the morning. All right. The doctor interrupts without looking up from his notebook. Give him some salts, he adds, with a nod to his assistant. Next, the deputy calls. Will you please excuse me from the shop for a few days? The sick prisoner pleads at tremor in his voice. The physician glances questioningly at the deputy. The latter cries impatiently. Next, next man, striking the desk twice in quick succession with the knuckles of his hand. Return to the shop, the doctor says to the prisoner. Next, the deputy calls, spurting a stream of tobacco juice in the direction of the Cuspidore. It strikes sideways and splashes over the foot of the approaching new patient. A young negro is neck covered with bulging tumours. Number, the doctor inquires. One-thirty-seven, A-one-thirty-seven. The deputy mumbles, his head thrown back to receive a fresh handful of scrapped tobacco. Guess I has got the big neck. I has missed a voice, the negro says hoarsely. Salts, return to work. Next, A-one-twenty-six. A young man with a parchment-like face, seer and yellow walked painfully from the line. Doctor, I seem to be getting worse here, and I'm afraid... What's the trouble? Pain's in the stomach, getting so terrible, eh? Give him a plaster. Next. Plaster, hell! The prisoner breaks out in a fury, his face growing livid. Look at this, will ya? With a quick motion, he pulls his shirt up to his head. His chest and back are entirely covered with porous plasters, not an inch of skin is visible. Damn your plasters, he cries with sudden sobs. I ain't got no more room for plasters, I'm burning here dying, and you won't do nothing for me. And guards pounce upon the man, and drag him into the rotunda. One by one, the sick prisoner's approach the doctor. He stands, head bent, penciling, rarely glancing up. The elongated, ascetic face wears a preoccupied look. He draws mechanically in monosyllables. Next. Number. Salts. Plaster. Salts. Next. Occasionally he glances at his watch. His brows knit closer, the heavy furrow deepens, and the austere face grows more severe and rigid. Now and then, he turns his eyes upon the deputy warden, sitting opposite, his jaws incessantly working, a thin stream of tobacco trickling down his chin, and heavily streaking the grey beard. Cheeks protruding, mouthful of juice, the deputy mumbles unintelligently, turns to expectorate, suddenly shouts, next, and gives two quick knocks on the desk, signalling to the physician to order the man to work. Only the withered and the lame are temporarily excused. The deputy striking the desk thrice to convey the permission to the doctor. Dejected and forlorn, the sick line is conducted to the shops, coughing and wheezing and moaning, only to repeat the ordeal the following morning. Quite often, breaking down at the machine, or fainting at the task, the men are carried on a stretcher to the hospital to receive a respite from the killing toil, a short intermission, or a happier eternal reprieve. The lame and the feeble, too withered to be useful in the shops, are sent back to their quarters and locked up for the day. Only these, the permitted delinquents, the insane, the men in solitary, and the sweepers remain within the inner walls during working hours. The pall of silence descends upon the house of death. 4. The guards creep stealthily along the tears. Officer George Dean, lank and tall tiptoes past the cells, his sharply hooked nose in advance, his evil-looking eyes appearing through the bars, scrutinizing every inmate, suddenly the heavy jaws snap. Hey! You! 11.39! On to bed again! What? Sick! Hell! No dinner! Noisily he pretends to return to the desk in front. Quietly steals into the niche of a cell door and stands motionless, alertly listening. A suppressed murmur proceeds from the upper galleries, cautiously the guard advances, hastily passes several cells, pauses a moment, and then quickly steps into the center of the hall, shouting, Cells 47! K! I! H! Talking through the pipe! Got you this time, all right! He grins broadly as he returns to the desk and reports to the blocked captain. The guards ascend the galleries, levers are pulled, doors opened with a bang, and the three prisoners are marched to the office. For days their cells remain vacant, the men are in the dungeon. Gaunt and cadaverous guard Hughes makes the rounds of the tears on a tour of inspection. With bleary eyes sunk deep in his head, he gazes intently through the bars. The men are out at work. Leisurely he walks along, stepping from cell to cell. Here tearing a picture off the wall, there gathering a few scraps of paper. As I pass along the hall, he slams a door on the range above and appears upon the gallery, his pockets bulged with confiscated goods. He glances around as the deputy enters from the yard. Hey, Jasper! the guard calls. The colored trustee scampers up the stairs. Take this to the front. The officer hands him a dilapidated magazine, two pieces of cornbread, a little square of cheese, and several candles that some weak-eyed prisoner had saved up by sitting in the dark for weeks. Shote to the deputy, the officer says in an undertone. I'm doing business all right. The trustee laughs boisterously. Yasser, yasser, dat you sure am. The guard steps into the next cell, throwing a quick look to the front. The deputy is disappearing through the rotunda door. The officer casts his eye about the cell. The table is littered with magazines and papers. A piece of matting, stolen from the shops, is on the floor. On the bed are some bananas and a bunch of grapes. Forbidden fruit. The guard steps back to the gallery, a faint smile on his thin lips. He reaches for the heart-shaped wooden block hanging above the cell. It bears the legend, painted in black, A-480. On the reverse side, the officer reads, Collins Hamilton, dated. His watery eyes strain to decipher the pencil marks paled by the damp white-washed wall. Jasper, he calls, come up here. The trustee hastens to him. You know who this man is, Jasper? A-480? I sure knows. Adam Hamilton, the bank bezler. Where's he working? What he want to work for. He am the captain's clerk. In the office he am. All right, Jasper. The guard carefully closes the clerk's door and enters the adjoining cell. It looks clean and orderly. The stone floor is bare and the bedding smooth. The library book, tin can and plate, are neatly arranged on the table. The officer ransacks the bed, throws the blankets on the floor, and stamps his feet upon the pillow in search of secreted contraband. He reaches up to the wooden shelf on the wall and takes down the little bag of scrap tobacco, the weekly allowance of the prisoners. He empties a goodly part into his hand, shakes it up and thrusts it into his mouth. He produces a prison plug from his pocket, bites off a piece, spits in the direction of the privy and yawns, looks at his watch, deliberates a moment, spurts a stream of juice into the corner, and cautiously steps out on the gallery. He surveys the field, leans over the railing and squints at the front. The chairs at the officer's desk are vacant. The guard retreats into the cell, yawns and stretches, and looks at his watch again. It is only nine o'clock. He picks up the library book, listlessly examines the cover, flings the book on the shelf, spits disgustedly, then takes another chew and sprawls down on the bed. Five. At the head of the hall, senior officer Woods and Assistant Deputy Hopkins sit at the desk of superb physique and glowing vitality, Mr. Woods wears his new honours as captain of the block with aggressive self-importance. He has recently been promoted from the shop to the charge of the North Wing on the morning shift, from five a.m. to one p.m. Every now and then he leaves his chair, walks majestically down the hallway, crosses the open centre and returns past the opposite cell row. With studied dignity he resumes his seat and addresses his superior, the Assistant Deputy, in measured low tones. The latter listens gravely, his head slightly bent, his sharp grey eyes restless above the heavy-rimmed spectacles. As Mr. Hopkins, angular and stoop-shouldered, rises to expectorate into the nearby sink, he aspires the shining face of Jasper on an upper gallery. The Assistant Deputy smiles, produces a large apple from his pocket and, holding up to view, asks, How does this strike you, Jasper? Looks to this nigger like a watermelon, Colonel. Woods struggles to suppress a smile, Hopkins laughs and motions to the negro. The trusty joins him at the desk. I'll bet the Coon could get away with this apple in two bites, the Assistant Deputy says to Woods. Hardly possible, the latter remarks doubtfully. You don't know this darky Scott? Hopkins rejoins. I know him for the last, let me see, fifteen, eighteen, twenty years. That's when you first came here, eh, Jasper? Yes, sir, about that. In the old prison, then, Woods inquires. Yes, of course. You was there, Jasper, when Shoebox Miller got out, wasn't you? You remember good, Colonel? That I was, sure enough. And mighty slick it was, Bress me, to have himself nailed in that Shoebox and mech his getaway. Yes, yes, and this is your fourth time since then, I believe. No, sir, no, sir. There you am, wrong, Colonel. You were ammunition damn bad. Just just free times, just free. Come off, it's four. Free, Colonel, no more. Do you think Mr. Hopkins, Jasper, could eat the apple in two bites? Woods reminds him. I'm sure he can. There's nothing in the eating line that Coon couldn't do. Here, Jasper, you get the apple. If you make it in two bites, don't disgrace me now. The negro grins, but he big, Colonel, but I'm going to try powerful hard. With a heroic effort, he stretches his mouth till his face looks like a veritable cavern, reaching from ear to ear and edged by large, shimmering tusks. With both hands he inserts the big apple, and his sharp teeth come down with a loud snap. He chews, quickly swallows, repeats a performance, and then holds up his hands. The apple has disappeared, the assistant deputy roars with laughter. What did I tell you, eh, Scott? What did I tell you? Ho, ho, ho! The tears glisten in his eye. They amuse themselves with the negro trusty by the hour. He relates his experiences, tells humorous anecdotes, and the officers are merry. Now and then Deputy Warden Greaves drops in. Wood rises. Have a seat, Mr. Greaves. That's all right, that's all right, Scott. The deputy mumbles, his eye searching for the cuspidore. Sit down, Scott. I'm as young as any of you. With mincing step, he walks into the first cell, reserved for the guards, pulls a bottle from his hip pocket, takes several quick gulps, wobbles back to the desk, and sinks heavily into Wood's seat. Jasper, go bring me a chew. He turns to the trusty. Yes, sir. Scrap, deputy. Yeah, never plug, too. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Immediately. What are you men doing here? The deputy blusters at the two subordinates. Wood's frown squares his shoulders, glances at the deputy, and then relaxes into a dignified smile. Assistant Hopkins looks sternly at the deputy Warden from above his glasses. That's all right, grieves, he says, familiarly. A touch of scorn in his voice. Say, you should have seen that nigger Jasper swallow a great big apple in two bites, as big as your head, I'll swear. That show? Deputy nods sleepily. The negro comes running up with a paper of scrap in one hand, a plug in the other. The deputy slowly opens his eyes. He walks unsteadily to the cell, remains there a few minutes, and returns with both hands fumbling at his hip pocket. He spits viciously at the sink, sits down, fills his mouth with tobacco, glances at the floor, and demands hoarsely. Where's all them spittoons, A. U. Men? Just being clean, Mr. Greaves, Wood replies. Clean? That was the same story. I ordered ya. Ordered? Hey, bring spittoon, Jasper. He wags his head drowsily. He means he ordered spittoons by the wagon-load Hopkins says with a wink at Wood's. It was the very first order he gave me when he became deputy, after Jimmy Payne died. Tell ya, Scott, we won't soon see another deputy like old Jimmy. He was deputy, all right, every inch of him. Wouldn't stand for the old man, the warden, into firm with him, either. Not like this here. He points contemptuously at the snoring Greaves. Here, Benny! He raises his voice and slaps the deputy on the knee. Here's Jasper with just spittoon. Greaves wakes with a start and gazes stupidly about, presently noticing the trusty with the large cuspador, and spurts a long jet at it. Say, Jasper! Hopkins calls to the retiring negro. The deputy wants to hear that story, you told us a while ago about. You got the left-hound foot of a she-rabbit on a moonlit night in a graveyard. Who should I want to hear? The deputy bristles suddenly wide awake. Yes, you do, Greaves. The rabbit foot brings good luck, you know. This coon here wears it on his neck. Show it to the deputy, Jasper. Prisoner Wilson, the warden's favourite messenger, enters from the yard with quick energetic step. He passes the officers at the desk, entirely ignoring their presence, and walks nonchalantly down the hall, his unnaturally large head set close up on the heavy, almost necklace shoulders. Hey, you, Wilson, what are you after? The deputy shouts after him. Without replying, Wilson continues on his way. Deputy Wilson, the negro jeers, with a look of hatred and envy, assistant deputy Hopkins rises in his seat. Wilson, he calls with a quiet sternness. Mr. Greaves is speaking to you. Come back at once. His face purple with anger. Wilson retraces his steps. What do you want, deputy? He demands savagely. The deputy looks uneasy and fidgets in his chair, but catching the severe eye of Hopkins, he shouts vehemently. What do you want in the block? On Captain Edward S. Wright's business, Wilson replies with a sneer. Well, go ahead, but next time I call you, you better come back. The warden told me to hurry. I'll report to him that you detain me with an idle question. Wilson snarls back. That'll do, Wilson, the assistant deputy warns him. Wait till I see the Captain. Wilson growls as he depart. If I had my way, I'd knock his damn block off the assistant mutters. Such impudence and a convict cannot be tolerated, would comments. The Captain won't hear a word against Wilson, the deputy says meekly. Hopkins frowns. They sit in silence. The negro busies himself, wiping the yellow-stained floor around the cuspidore. The deputy ambles stiffly to the open cell. Woods rises, steps back to the wall, and looks up to the top galleries. No one is about. He crosses to the other side and scans the bottom range. Long and dismal stretches the hall. In melancholy white and gray, the gloomy cell building, brooding in the center, like some monstrous hunchback without life or motion. Woods resumes his seat. Quiet as a chirp, he remarks with evident satisfaction. You're doing well, Scott. The deputy ambles doing well. A faint metallic sound breaks upon the stillness, the officers prick up their ears. The rasping continues and grows louder. The negro trusty tiptoes up the tears. Somebody with his spoon on the door. The deputy remarks indifferently. The block captains motions to me. See who's wrapping there, will you? I walk quickly along the hall. By keeping close to the wall, I can see up to the doors of the third gallery. Here and there a nose protrudes in the air. The bleached face glued to the bars. The eyes glassy. The wrapping grows louder as I advance. Who is it? I call. Up here, 18C. Is that you, Ed? Yes. Got a bad hemorrhage. Tell the screw I must see the doctor. I run to the desk. Mr. Woods I report. 18C got a hemorrhage. Can't stop it. He needs the doctor. Let him wait. The deputy growls. Dr. Hour is over. He should have reported in the morning. His assistant deputy flares up. What shall I tell him, Mr. Woods? I ask. Nothing. Get back to your cell. Perhaps you better go up and take a look, Scott, the deputy suggests. Mr. Woods strides along the gallery, pauses a moment at 18C and returns. Nothing much. A bit of blood. I ordered him to report on sick list in the morning. A middle-aged prisoner with confident bearing and polished manner enters from the yard. It is the French Count, one of the clerks in the front office. Good morning, gentlemen. He greets the officers. He leans familiarly over the deputy's chair, remarking, I've been hunting half an hour for you. The captain is a bit ruffled this morning. He is looking for you. The deputy hurriedly arises. Where is he? He asks anxiously. In the office, Mr. Greaves. You know what's about? What? Quick now. They caught Wild Bill right in the act, out in the yard there, back of the shed. The deputy stumps heavily out into the yard. Who's the kid? The assistant deputy inquires and amuses twinkling his eye. Bobby. Who? A boy in the light-wash gang? Yes, Fatty Bobby. The clatter on the upper tier grows loud and violent. The sick man is striking his tin can on the bars and shaking the door. Woods hastens to see 18. You stop that, you hear? He commands angrily. I'm sick. I want the doctor. This isn't doctor hour. You'll see him in the morning. I may be dead in the morning. I want him now. You won't see him. That's all. You keep quiet there. Furiously the prisoner wraps on the door. The hall reverberates with hollow booming. The block-captain returns to the desk, his face crimson. He whispers to the assistant deputy. The latter nods his head. Wood claps his hands, deliberately, slowly. One, two, three. Guards hurriedly descend from the galleries and advance to the desk. The rangemen appear at their doors. Everybody to his cell. Officers, lock him in. Woods commands. You can stay here, Jasper. The assistant deputy remarks to the trustee. The rangemen step into their cells. The levers are pulled. The door is locked. I hear the tread of many feet on the third gallery. Now they cease. The doll is quiet. C-18, step out here. The door slams. There is noisy shuffling and stamping, and the dull heavy thuds of striking clubs. A loud cry and a moan. They drag the prisoner along the range and down the stairway. The rotundador creaks, and the clamour dies away. A few minutes elapses in silence. Now someone whispers through the pipes. Insane solitaries bark and crow. Loud coughing drowns the noises, and then the rotundador opens with a plaintive screech. The rangemen are unlocked. I stand at the open door of my cell. The negro trustee dusts and brushes the officers, their backs and arms covered with whitewash, as if they had been rubbed against the wall. Their clothes cleaned and smoothed. The guards lull in the chairs and sit on the desk. They look somewhat ruffled and flustered. Jasper enlarges upon the pecan gossip. Wild Bill, notorious invert and protégé of the warden, he relates, had been hanging around the kids from the stocking shop. He has been after Fatty Bobby for quite a while, and he is forever pestering Lady Sally and young Davis too. The guards are astir with curiosity. They ply the negro with questions. He responds eagerly, raises his voice, and gesticulates excitedly. There is merriment and laughter at the officer's desk. Six. Dinner hour is approaching. Officer Gerst, in charge of the kitchen squad, enters a cell house. Behind him, a score of prisoners carry large wooden tubs filled with steaming liquid. The negro trustee, his nostrils expanded and eyes glistening, sniffs the air and announces with a grin, Duke's mixture for dinner to-day. The scene becomes animated at the front, tables are noisily moved about, the tin plate rattles and men talk and shout. With a large ladle the soup is dished out from the tubs and the pans, bent and rusty, stacked up in long rows. The deputy warden flounces in, splutters some orders that remain ignored and looks critically at the dinner pans. He produces a pocket-knife and ambles along the tables, spearing a potato here, a bit of floating vegetable there. Guard Hughes, his inspection of the cells completed, saunters along, casting greedy eyes at the food. He hovers about, waiting for the deputy to leave. The latter stands, hands dug into his pocket, short legs wide apart, scraggie-beard keeping time with the moving jaws. Guard Hughes winks at one of the kitchen men and slinks into an open cell. The prisoner fusses about, pretends to move the empty tubs out of the way, and then quickly snatches a pan of soup and passes it to the guard. Negro Jasper, alert and watchful, strolls by Woods, surreptitiously whispering. The officer walks to the open cell and surprises the guard, his head thrown back, a large pan covering his face. Woods smiles disdainfully, the prisoners giggle and chuckle. Chief Jim, the head cook, a Pittsburgh saloon-keeper serving 12 years for murder, promonades down the range. Large bellied and white capped, he wears an air of prosperity and independence. With swelling chest, stomach protruding and hand-wrapped in his dirty apron, the chief walks leisurely along the cells, nodding and exchanging greetings. He pauses at a door, its cell 9A. The fat kid, Jim leans against the wall, is back toward the dinner tables. Presently his hand steals between the bars. Now and then he glances toward the front and steps closer to the door. He draws a large bundle from his bosom, hastily tears it open and produces a piece of cooked meat, several raw onions, some cakes. One by one he passes the delicacies to the young prisoner, forcing them through the narrow openings between the bars. He lifts his apron, fans the door sill, and carefully wipes the ironwork, and he smiles, cast a searching look to the front, grips the bars with both hands, and vanishes into the deep niche. As suddenly he appears to view again, he takes several steps, then pauses at another cell. Standing away from the door, he speaks loudly and laughs boisterously, his hands fumbling beneath the apron. Soon he leaves, advancing to the dinner tables. He approaches the rangeman, lifts his eyebrows questioningly and winks. The man nods affirmatively and retreats into his cell. The chief dives into the bosom of his shirt and flings a bundle through the open door. He hauls at his hand, whispering, Two bits, broke now? Be sure you pay me tomorrow. That steak there is worth a plunk. The gong tolls the dinner hour. The Negro trustee snatches two pans and hastens away. The guards unlock the prisoners, accepting the men in solitary, who are deprived of the sole meal of the day. The line forms in single file and advances slowly to the tables. Then, pan in hand, the men circle the block to the center, ascend the galleries, and are locked in their cells. The loud tempo of many feet marching in step sounds from the yard. The shop workers enter, receive the pan of soup, and walk to the cells. Some sniff the air, make a rye face, and pass on empty-handed. There is much suppressed murmuring and whispering. Gradually the sounds die away. It is the noon hour. Every prisoner is counted and locked in. Only the trustees are about. The afternoon brings a breath of relief. Old Jimmy Mitchell, rough-spoken and kind, heads the second shift of officers on duty from one till nine p.m. The venerable captain of the block trudges past the cells, stroking his flowing white beard and profusely swearing at the men. But the prisoners love him. He frowns upon clubbing and discourages trouble-seeking guards. Head downward he thumps heavily along the hall on his first round of the bottom ranges, presently a voice hails him. Oh, Mr. Mitchell, come here, please. Damn your soul to hell! The officer rages. Don't you know better than to bother me when I'm counting, eh? Shut up now! God damn you, you mix me all up! He returns to the front and begins to count again, pointing his finger at each occupied cell. This duty over, and his report filed, he returns to the offending prisoner. What the hell do you want, butch? Mr. Mitchell, my shoes are on the bum. I'm walking on my socks. Where the devil do you think you're going anyhow to a ball? Papa Mitchell, be good now, won't you? The youth coaxes. Go take a thump to yourself, will you? The officer walks off heavy-browed and thoughtful, but pauses a short distance from the cell to hear Butch mumbling discontentedly. The block-captain retraces his steps and facing the boy's storms at him. What did you say? Damn the old skunk! That's what you said, eh? You come on out of there. With much sore violence he inserts the key into the lock, pulls the door open with a bang, and hails a passing guard. Mr. Kelly, quick, take this loafer out and give him a pair of shoes. He starts down the range when someone calls from an upper tier. Jimmy, Jimmy, come on up here. Now, Jimmy, you damn carcass for you! The old man bellows angrily. Where the hell are you? Here, on B, 20B, right over you. The officer steps back to the wall and looks up toward the second gallery. What in the name of Jesus Christ do you want, Slim? Awful cramps in me stomach. Get me some cramp mixture, Jim. Cramps in your head? That's what you got, you big bum, you. Where the hell do you get your cramp mixture when you were spilling around in a freight car, eh? I got booze then, the prisoner retorts. Like hell you did! You were damn lucky to get a lousy handout out the back door, your ordinary pimple on God's good earth. The hell you say? A handout was a damn sight better than a rotten slush I get here. I wouldn't have a bellyache if it wasn't for the hogwash they gave us today. Lay down now, you talk like a horse's rosette! It's the old man's favourite expression. In his rich vocabulary a picturesque metaphor and simile, but there is no sting in the brusque speech, no rancour in the scowling eyes. On the way to the desk he pauses to whisper to the block-trustee, John, you better run down to the dispensary and get that big stiff some cramp mixture. Happening to glance into a cell Mitchell notices a new arrival, a bald-headed man, his back against the door. There you! The block-captain shouts at him, startling the green prisoner off his chair. Take that bald thing out of there or I'll run you in for decent exposure. He chuckles at the man's fright like a boy pleased with a naughty prank and ascends the upper tears. Duster in hand I walk along the range. The guards are engaged on the galleries, examining cells, overseeing the moving of the newly-graded inmates to the south wing, or chatting with the trustees, the chairs at the officer's desk are vacant, keeping alert watch on the rotunda doors I walk from cell to cell, whiling away the afternoon hours in conversation. Johnny, the friendly runner, loiters at the desk, now and then glancing into the yard and giving me the office by sharply snapping his fingers to warn me of danger. I ply the duster diligently while the deputy and his assistants linger about, surrounded by the trustees imparting information gathered during the day. Gradually they disperse, called into a shop where a fight is in progress or nosing about the kitchen and assiduously killing time. The coast is clear, and I return to pick up the thread of interrupted conversation, but the subjects of common interest are soon exhausted, the oft-repeated tirade against the rotten grub, the stale punk and the hogwash, vehement cursing of the brutal screws, the stomach robber of a warden, and the unreliability of his promises, the exchange of gossip, and then back again to berating the food and the treatment. Within the narrow circle runs the interminable tale, coloured by individual temperament, intensified by the length of sentence. The whole is dominated by a deep sense of unmerited suffering and bitter resentment, often breathing dire vengeance against those whom they consider responsible for their misfortune, including the police, the prosecutor, the informer, the witnesses, and in rare instances, the trial judge. But as the longed-for release approaches, the note of hope and liberty rings clearer, stronger, with the swelling undercurrent of frank and irrepressible sex desire. Prison Memoirs of an Anarchist by Alexander Berkman Part II Chapter XXI THE DEEDS OF THE GOOD TO THE EVIL The new arrivals are forlorn and dejected, a look of fear and despair in their eyes. The long timers among them seem dazed, as if with some terrible shock and fall upon the bed in stupor-like sleep. The boys from the reformatories, some mere children in their teens, weep and moan and tremble at the officer's footstep. Only the repeaters and old timers preserve their composure, scoff at the fresh fish, nod at old acquaintances, and exchange vulgar pleasantries with the guards. But all soon grow nervous and irritable, and stand at the door, gleaning against the bars, an expression of bewildered hopelessness or anxious expectancy on their faces. They yearn for companionship, and are pathetically eager to talk, to hear the sound of a voice, to unbuzzle their heavy hearts. I am minutely familiar with every detail of their case, their life history, their hopes and fears, through the endless weeks and months on the range, their tragedies are the sole subject of conversation, a glance into the mournful faces, pressed close against the bars, and the panorama of misery rises before me. The cell-house grows more desolate, bleaker, the air gloomier, and more depressing. There is Joe Zappe, his bright eyes lighting up with a faint smile as I pause at his door. Hello, Alec! He greets me in his sweet sad voice. He knows me from the jail. His father and elder brother have been executed, and he commuted to life because of youth. He is barely eighteen, but his hair has turned white. He has been acting clearly of late. At night I often hear him muttering and walking, walking incessantly and muttering. There is a peculiar look about his eyes, restless, roving. Alec! he says suddenly. We want to tell you something. You don't tell nobody, yes? I sure that I'll keep his confidence. He begins to talk quickly, excitedly. Nobody there, Alec? No screw? Last night me see my brother. Yes, see Gianni. Jesus Christo, me see my poor brother in the cellar here, and then me father he come. Brother and father, they stay there, on the floor, and so quiet, like a dead, and then they come and lay down in my bed. Oh, Jesus Christo, me so afraid, me cry and pray. You not know what it mean? No? Me tell you. It mean me die. Me die soon. His eyes glow with a somber fire, a hectic flush on his face. He knits his brows as I essay to calm him, and continues hurriedly. Sh! Waited me tell you all. You know what, if for my father and Gianni come out of the grave? Me tell you. They call it for revenge, because they innocente. Me tell you truth. See, we all work in the mine, the coal mine. Me and my father and Gianni all work hard, and make one dollar, maybe dollar a quarter the day, and beg a American man, him come and bother my father. My father him no want of trouble. Him old man, no bother nobody. And the American man him make a two dollars, and maybe two fifty the day. And him bother my father all the time, bother him and kick him to the legs, and steal my brother's shovel, and hide father's hat, and make a trouble for my countrymen, and call his dirty dagos. And one day him and two Irish, they all drunk, and smash my father. An American man, an Irish horror. Dago, SOB, afraid of fight. And our American man him take a bigger pickaxe, and when I hit my father, and my father him run, and me and my border and friend we fight. And American man him fall, and we all go way home. Then please come and arrest me and father and brother, and say we kill an American man. Me and my brother no use knife, maybe my friend do. Me no no, him no arresta, him go home in Italia. My father and brother they save nine to seven dollar, and me save twenty five, and got a lair. Him no good, and no talk much in court. We poor men, no can take case in order court. And father him hang, and Gianni hang, and me get life. My father and brother they come last a night from the grave, because the inocente, and one are Avenge, and me got a macro Avenge. Me no rest, got a... The sharp snapping of Gianni the runner warns me of danger, and I hastily leave. The melancholy figures line the doors as I walk up and down the hall. The blanched faces peer wistfully through the bars, or leaned ejectedly against the wall, a vacant stare in the dim eyes. Each calls to mind the stories of misery and distress, the scenes of brutality and torture I witness in the prison house, like ghastly nightmares the shadows pass before me. There is silent nick, restlessly pacing his cage, never ceasing, his lips sealed in brutish muteness. For three years he has not left the cell, nor uttered a word. The stolid features are cut and bleeding. Last night he had attempted suicide, and the guards beat him, and left him unconscious on the floor. There is crazy hunky, the Austrian. Every morning as the officer unlocks his door to hand in the loaf of bread, he makes a wild dash for the yard, shouting, Me wife, where is me wife? He rushes toward the front, and desperately grabs the door handle. The double iron gate is securely locked, a look of blank amazement on his face. He slowly returns to the cell. The guards await him with malicious smile. Suddenly they rush upon him, black jacks in hand, Me wife, me seen her! The Austrian cries. The blood gushing from his mouth and nose, they kick him into the cell. Me wife, waiting in the yard! He moans. In the next cell is Tommy Wellman, adjoining him, Jim Grant. They are boys recently transferred from the reformatory. They cower in the corner in terror of the scene. With tearful eyes they relate their story. Orphans in the slums of Allegheny, they have been sent to the reform school at Morganza for snatching fruit off a corner stand. Maltreated and beaten they sought to escape. Childishly they set fire to the dormitory, almost in sight of the keepers. I say as to me chum says I. Tommy narrates with boys' glee. Kid says I, let's fire the lousy joint. There'll be lots of fun, and we'll make our getaway into excitement. They were taken to court, and the good judge sentenced them to five years to the penitentiary. Glad to get out of that dump, Tommy comments. It was just fierce. They paddled and starved as something terrible. In the basket cell a young colored man grovels on the floor. It is Lancaster, number 8523. He was serving seven years and working every day in the match-shop. Slowly the days passed, and at last the long four hour of release arrived. But Lancaster was not discharged. He was kept at his task, the warden informing him that he had lost six months of his good time for defective work. The light-hearted negro grew sullen and morose. Often the silence of the cell-house was pierced by his anguished cry in the night. My time's up! Time's up! I want to go home!" The guards would take him from the cell and place him in the dungeon. One morning in a fit of frenzy he attacked Captain McVeigh, the officer of the shop. The captain received a slight scratch on the neck, and Lancaster was kept chained to the wall of the dungeon for ten days. He returned to the cell, a driveling imbecile. The next day they dressed him in his citizen clothes, Lancaster mumbling, Going home! Going home! The warden and several officers accompanied him to court, on the way coaching the poor idiot to answer yes to the question, Do you plead guilty? He received, seven years, the extreme penalty of the law, for the attempted murder of a keeper. They brought him back to the prison and locked him up in a basket-cell. The barred door covered with a wire screen that almost entirely excludes light and air. He received no medical attention, and is fed on a bread and water diet. The witless negro crawls on the floor, unwashed and unkempt, scratching with his nails, fantastic shapes on the stone, and babbling stupidly, Going, Jesus, going to Jerusalem! See, he rides the holy ass! He's going to his father's home! Going home! Going home! As I pass he looks up, perplexed wonder on his face. His brows meet in a painful attempt to collect his wandering thoughts, and he draws with pathetic sing-song, Going home! Going home! Jesus, going to father's home! Guards raise their hands to their nostrils as they approach the cell. The poor imbecile evacuates on the table, the chair and the floor, twice a month he has taken to the bathroom. His clothes are stripped, and the hose is turned on the crazy negro. The cell of little Sammy is vacant. He was number 9521, a young man from Altoona. I knew him quite well. He was a kind boy and a diligent worker, but now and then he would fall into a fit of melancholy. He would then sit motionless on the chair, a blank stare on his face, neglecting food and work. These spells generally lasted two or three days, Sammy refusing to leave the cell. Old Jimmy McPaine, the dead deputy, on such occasions, commanded the prisoner to the shop, while Sammy sat and stared in a daze. McPaine would order the stubborn kid to the dungeon, and every time Sammy got his head working he was dragged silent and motionless to the cellar. The new deputy has followed the established practice and last evening, at Musicower, while the men were scraping their instruments, little Sammy was found on the floor of the cell, his throat hacked from ear to ear. At the coroner's inquest the warden testified that the boy was considered mentally defective, that he was therefore excused from work, and never punished. Returning to my cell in the evening, my gaze meets the printed rules on the wall. The prison authorities desire to treat every prisoner in their charge with humanity and kindness. The aim of all prison discipline is, by enforcing the law, to restrain the evil, and to protect the innocent from further harm, to so apply the law upon the criminal, as to produce a cure from his moral infirmities, by calling out the better principles of his nature. End of Section 28, Recording by Stephen Harvey Chapter 22 The Grist of the Prison Mill 1. The comparative freedom of the range familiarizes me with the workings of the institution, and brings me in close contact with the authorities. The personnel of the guards is of very inferior character. I find their average intelligence considerably lower than that of the inmates, especially does the element recruited from the police and the detective service lack sympathy with the unfortunate in their charge. They are mostly men discharged from city employment because of habitual drunkenness or flagrant brutality and corruption. Their attitude toward the prisoners is summed up in coercion and suppression. They look upon the men as willless objects of iron-handed discipline, exact, unquestioning obedience and absolute submissiveness to a peremptory whims and harbor personal animosity towards the last plant. The more intelligent among the officers scorn inferior duties and crave advancement, the authority and remuneration of a deputy wardenship is alluring to them, and every keeper considers himself the fittest for the vacancy. But the coveted prize is awarded to the guard, most feared by the inmates and most subservient to the warden, a direct incitement to brutality on the one hand, to sycophancy on the others. A number of the officers are veterans of the Civil War, several among them had suffered incarceration in Libby prison. These often manifest a more sympathetic spirit. The great majority of the keepers, however, have been employed in the penitentiary from fifteen to twenty-five years, some even for a longer period, like Officer Stuart, who has been a guard for forty years. This element is unspeakably callous and cruel. The prisoners discuss among themselves the ages of the old guards and speculate on the days allotted them. The death of one of them is hailed with joy. Seldom they are discharged. Still more seldom do they resign. The appearance of a new officer sheds hope into the dismal lives. New guards, unless drafted from the police bureau, are almost without exception lenient and forbearing, often exceedingly humane. The inmates vie with each other in showing complacence to the candidate. It is a point of honour in their unwritten ethics to treat him white. They frown upon the fellow convict who seeks to take advantage of the green screw by misusing his kindness or exploiting his ignorance of the prison rules. But the older officers secretly resent the infusion of new blood. They strive to discourage the applicant by exaggerating the dangers of the position and depreciating its financial desirability for an ambitious young man. They impress upon him the warden's unfairness to the guards and the lack of opportunity for advancement. Often they dissuade the new man and he disappears from the prison horizon. But if he persists in remaining, the old keepers expostulate with him in pretending friendliness upon his leniency, chide him for a soft-hearted tender foot, and approve every opportunity to initiate him into the practices of brutality. The system is known in the prison as breaking in. The new man is constantly drafted in the clubbing squad, the older officers setting the example of cruelty, refusal to participate signifies insubordination to his superiors and the shirking of routine duty and results in immediate discharge. But such instances are extremely rare. Within the memory of the oldest officer, Mr. Stewart, it happened only once, and the man was sickly. Slowly the poison is instilled into the new guard. Within a short time the prisoners notice the first signs of change. He grows less tolerant and chummy, more irritated and distant. Presently he fears himself the objective espionage by the favourites trustees of his fellow officers. In some mysterious manner the warden is aware of his every step, berating him for speaking unduly long to this prison, or forgiving another half a banana, the remnant of his lunch. In a moment of commiseration and pity the officer is moved by the terrible pleadings of misery to carry a message to the sick wife or child of a prisoner. The latter confides the secret to some friend, or carelessly brags of his intimacy with the guard, and soon the keeper faces the warden on charges, and is deprived of a month's pay. Repeated misplacement of confidence, occasional betrayal by a prisoner seeking the good graces of the warden, and the new officer grows embittered against the species convict. The instinct of self-preservation, harassed and menaced on every side, becomes more assertive, and the guard is soon drawn into the vortex of the system. 2. Daily I behold the machinery at work, grinding and pulverizing, brutalizing the officers, dehumanizing the inmates, far removed from the strife and struggle of the larger world, I yet witness its miniature replica, more agonizing and merciless, within the walls. A perfected model it is, this prison life, with its apparent uniformity and dull passivity, but between the torpid surface smolder the fires of being. Now crackling faintly under a done smothering smoke, now blazing forth with the ruthlessness of despair, hidden by the veil of discipline rages the struggle of fiercely contending wills, and intricate meshes are woven in the quagmire of darkness and suppression. Intrigue and counterplot, violence and corruption are rampant in cellhouse and shop. The prisoners spy upon each other and in turn upon the officers. The latter encourages the trustees in unearthing the secret doings of the inmates, and the stools enviously compete with each other in supplying information to the keepers. Often they deliberately unveil the trustful prisoner into a fake plot to escape, help and encourage him in the preparations, and at the critical moment denounce him to the authorities. The luckless man is severely punished, usually remaining in utter ignorance of the intrigue. The provocateur is rewarded with greater liberty and special privileges. Frequently his treachery proves the stepping stone to freedom, aided by the warden's official recommendation of the model prisoner to the state board of pardons. The stools and the trustees are an essential element in the government of the prison, with their exception every officer has one or more on his staff. They assist him in his duties, perform most of his work, and make out the reports for the illiterate guards. Occasionally they are even called upon to help the clubbing squad. The more intelligent stools enjoy the confidence of the deputy and his assistants, and then advance to the favour of the warden. The latter places more reliance upon his favourite trustees than upon the guards. I have about a hundred paid officers to keep watch over the prisoners, the warden informs new applicant, and two hundred volunteers to watch both. The volunteers are vested with unofficial authority, often exceeding that of the inferior officers. They invariably secure the sinecures of the prison, involving little work and affording opportunity for espionage. They are runners, messengers, yard and office men. Other desirable positions, clerkships and the like, are awarded to influential prisoners such as bankers and bezlers and boodlers. These are known in the institution as holding political jobs. Together with the stools they are scorned by the initiated prisoners as the pets. The professional craftiness of the con man stands him in good stead in the prison. A shrewd judge of human nature, quick-witted and self-confident, he applies the practised cunning of his vocation to secure whatever privileges and perquisites the institution affords. His evident intelligence and diploma powerfully impress the guards. His well-affected deference to authority flatters them. They are awed by his wonderful facility of expression and great attainments in the mysterious world of bakarat and confidence games. At heart they envy the high priest of easy money and are proud to befriend him in his need. The officers exert themselves to please him, secure light work for him, and surreptitiously favour him with delicacies and even money. His game is won. The con has now secured the friendship and confidence of his keepers and will continue to exploit them by pretended warm interest in their physical complaints, their family troubles, and their whispered ambition of promotion and fear of the warden's discrimination. The more intelligent officers are the easiest victims of his wiles, but even the higher officials, more difficult to approach, do not escape the confidence man. His business has perfected his sense of orientation. He quickly rends the veil of appearance and scans the undercurrents. He frets at his imprisonment and hints at high social connections. His real identity is a great secret. He wishes to save his wealthy relatives from public disgrace. A careless slip of the tongue betrays his college education. With a deprecating nod he confesses that his father is a state senator. He is the only black sheep in his family, yet they are good to him and will not disown him, but he must not bring notoriety upon them. Eager for special privileges and the liberty of the trustees or fearful of punishment, the con man matures his campaign. He writes a note to a fellow prisoner. With much detail and thorough knowledge of prison conditions, he exposes all the ins and outs of the institution. In elegant English he criticizes the management, dwells upon the ignorance and brutality of the guards, and charges the warden and the board of prison inspectors with graft, individually and collectively. He denounces the warden as a stomach robber of poor unfortunate. The counties pay from twenty-five to thirty cents per day for each inmate. The federal government, for its quota of men, fifty cents per person. Why are the prisoners given qualitatively and quantitatively inadequate food, he demands. Does not the state appropriate thousands of dollars for the support of the penitentiary beside the money we received from the counties? With keen scalpel the con man dissects the anatomy of the institution. One by one he analyzes the industries, showing the most intimate knowledge. The hosiery department produces so and so many dozens of stockings per day. They are not stamped convict made, as the law requires. The labels attached are misleading and calculated to decoy the innocent buyer. The character of the product in the several match shops is similarly an infraction of the statutes of the great state of Pennsylvania for the protection of free labor. The broom shop is leased by contract to a firm of manufacturers known as Lang Brothers. The law expressly forbids contract labor in prisons. The stamp convict made on the brooms is pasted over with a label, concealing the source of manufacture. Thus the con man runs on in his note, with much sure secrecy he entrusts it to a notorious stool for delivery to a friend. Soon the writer is called before the warden. In the latter's hands is the note. The offender smiles complacently. He is aware the authorities are terrorized by the disclosure of such intimate familiarity with the secrets of the prison house, in the possession of an intelligent, possibly well connected man, he must be propitiated at all cost. The con man joins the politicians. The ingenuity of imprisoned intelligence treads devious paths, all leading to the highway of enlarged liberty and privilege. The old-timer veteran of oft-repeated experience easily avoids hard labor. He has many friends in the prison, is familiar with the keepers, and is welcomed by them like a prodigal coming home. The officers are glad to renew the old acquaintance and talk over old times. It brings interest into their tedious existence, often as gray and monotonous as the prisoners. The seasoned yagman, constitutionally and on principle opposed to toil, rarely works, generally suffering a comparatively short sentence, he looks upon his imprisonment as, in a measure, arrest cure from the wear and tear of tramp life. Above average intelligence, he scorns work in general, prison labor in particular. He avoids it with unstinted expense of energy and effort. As a last resort, he plays the jigger card, producing an artificial wound on leg or arm, having every appearance of syphilitic excrescence. He pretends to be frightened by the infection and prevails upon the physician to examine him. The doctor wonders at the wound, closely resembling the dreaded disease. Ever had syphilis, he demands. The prisoner protests indignantly. Perhaps in the family, the medicus suggests. The patient looks diffident, blushes, cries. No, never! That assumes a guilty look. The doctor is now convinced the prisoner is a victim of syphilis. The man is excused from work indefinitely. The wily yeg, now a patient, secures a snap in the yard and adapts prison conditions to his habits of life. He sedulously courts the friendship of some young inmate and wins his admiration by ghost stories of great daring and cunning. He puts the boy next to the ropes and constitutes himself his protector against the abuse of the guards and the advances of other prisoners. He guides the youth steps through the maze of conflicting rules and finally initiates him into the higher wisdom of the road. The path of the gun is smoothed by his colleagues in the prison. Even before his arrival, the esprit decor of the profession is at work, securing a soft birth for the expected friend. If noted for success and skill, he enjoys the respect of the officers and the admiration of a retinue of aspiring young crooks of lesser experience and reputation. With conscious superiority he instructs them in the finesse of his trade, practices them in nimble fingered touches, and imbues them with the philosophy of the plenitude of suckers whom the good God has put upon the earth to afford the thief an honest living. His sentence nearing completion, the gun grows thoughtful, carefully scans the papers, forms plans for his first job, arranges dates with his partners, and gathers messages for their mall buzzers, women thieves. He is gravely concerned with the somewhat roughened condition of his hands and the possible dulling of his sensitive fingers. He maneuvers, generally successfully, for lighter work to limber up a bit, jollies the officers and cajoles the warden for new shoes made to measure in the local shops, and insists on the ten dollar allowance to prisoners received from counties outside of Allegheny. Upon their discharge, prisoners tried and convicted in the county of Allegheny, in which the western penitentiary is located, receive only five dollars. He argues the need of money to leave the state. Often he does leave. More frequently a number of charges against the man are held in reserve by the police, and he is arrested at the gate by detectives who have been previously notified by the prison authorities. Great bulk of the inmates, accidental and occasional offenders direct from the field, factory, and mine, plod along in the shops, in sullen misery and dread. Day in, day out, year after year, they drudge at the monotonous work, dully wondering at the numerous trustees idling about why their own heavy tasks are constantly increased. From cell to shop and back again, always under the stern eyes of the guards, their days drag in deadening toil. In mute bewilderment they receive contradictory orders, unaware of the secret antagonisms between the officials. They are surprised at the new rule, making attendance at religious service obligatory, and again at the succeeding order, the desired appropriation for a new chapel having been secured, making church going optional. They are astonished at the sudden disappearance of the considerate and gentle-guired buyers and anxiously hope for his return, not knowing that the officer who discouraged the underhand methods of the trustees fell a victim to their cabal. Three. Occasionally a bolder spirit grumbles at the exasperating partiality. Released from punishment he patiently awaits an opportunity to complain to the warden of his unjust treatment. Weeks pass, at last the captain visits the shop. A proficient moment, the carefully trimmed beard frames the stern face in benevolent white, mellowing the hard features and lending dignity to his appearance, his eyes brighten with peculiar brilliancy as he slowly begins to stroke his chin, and then, almost imperceptibly, presses his fingers to his lips. As he passes through the shop the prisoner raises his hand. What is it? The warden inquires, a pleasant smile on his face. The man relates his grievance with nervous eagerness. Oh, well, the captain claps him on the shoulder. Perhaps a mistake, an unfortunate mistake, but then you might have done something at another time and not been punished. He laughs merrily at his witticism. It is so long ago anyhow. We'll forget it. And he passes on. But if the captain is in a different mood, his features harden. The stern-eyed skull, and he says in his clear, sharp tones, stage your grievance in writing on the printed slip which the officer will give you. The written complaint, deposited in the mailbox, finally reaches the chaplain and is forwarded by him to the warden's office. There the deputy and the assistant deputy read and classify the slips, placing some on the captain's file and throwing others into the wastebasket. According, as the accusation is directed against a friendly or an unfriendly brother officer, months pass before the prisoner is called for a hearing. By that time he very likely has a more serious charge against the guard who now persecutes the kicker, but the new complaint has not yet been filed, and therefore the hearing is postponed. Not infrequently men are called for a hearing who have been discharged or died since making the complaint. The persevering prisoner, however, unable to receive satisfaction from the warden, sends a written complaint to some member of the highest authority in the penitentiary, the board of inspectors. These are supposed to meet monthly to consider the affairs of the institution, visit the inmates, and minister to their moral needs. The complainant waits, mails several more slips, and wonders why he receives no audience with the inspectors, but the latter remain invisible, some not visiting the penitentiary within a year. Only the secretary of the board, Mr. Reed, a wealthy jeweler of Pittsburgh, occasionally puts in an appearance. Tall and lean, immaculate and trim, he exhales an atmosphere of sanctimoniousness. He walks leisurely through the block, passes a cell with a lithograph of Christ on the wall, and pauses. His hands folded, his eyes turned upwards, lips slightly parted in silent prayer, he inquires of the rangeman. Who's cell is this? A-1108, Mr. Reed. The prisoner informs him. It is the cell of Jasper, the Colored trusty chief stool of the prison. He is a good man. A good man, God bless him, the inspector says a quaver in his voice. He steps into the cell, puts on his gloves, and carefully adjusts the little looking glass, and the rules hanging awry on the wall. It offends my eye, he smiles at the attending rangeman. They don't hang straight. Young Tommy, in the adjoining cell, calls out, Mr. Officer, please. The inspector steps forward. This is Inspector Reed, he corrects the boy. What is it you wish? Oh, Mr. Inspector, I've been asking to see a long time I wanted. You should have sent me a slip. I'd be a copy of the rules in the cell, my man. Yes, sir. Can you read? No, sir. Poor boy, did you never go to school? No, sir. My mother died when I was a kid. They put me into orphan and then into ref. And your father? I had no father. Mother always said he ran away before I was borned. They have schools in the orphan asylum, also in the reformatory, I believe. Yep, but they keep me most of the time in punishment. I didn't care for the school know-how. You're a bad boy. How old are you now? 17. What is your name? Tommy Wellman. From Bidsburg, Allegheny. Your mother used to live on the hill near Dissier Dump. What did you wish to see me about? I can't stand to sell, Mr. Inspector. Please let me have some work. Are you locked up for a cause? I smashed a guy in the jaw for calling me names. Don't you know it's wrong to fight, my little man? He said my mother was a bitch. God damn his. Don't. Don't swear. Never take the holy name in vain. It is a great sin. You should have reported the man to your officer, instead of fighting. I ain't no snitch. Will you get me out of the cell, Mr. Inspector? You are in the hands of the warden. He is very kind, and he will do what is best for you. Oh, hell, I'm locked up five months now. That's the best he's doing for me. Don't talk like that to me, the Inspector, upbraids him severely. You are a bad boy. You must pray. The good Lord will take care of you. You get out of here! The boy bursts out in sudden fury, cursing and swearing. Mr. Reed hurriedly steps back. His face, momentarily paling, turns red with shame and anger. He motions to the captain of the block. Mr. Woods report this man for impience to an Inspector, he orders, stalking out into the yard. The boy is removed to the dungeon. Oppressed and weary with the scenes of misery and torture, I welcome the relief of solitude, as I am locked in the cell for the night. Four. Reading and study occupy the hours of the evening. I spend considerable time corresponding with gnoll and bower. Our letters are bulky. Ten, fifteen and twenty pages long. There is so much to say. We discuss events in the world at large, incidents of the local life, the maltreatment of the inmates, the frequent clubbings and suicides, the unwholesome food. I share with my comrades my experiences on the range. They, in turn, keep me informed of occurrences in the shops. Their paths run smoother, less eventful than mine, yet not without much heartache and bitterness of spirit. They too are objects of prejudice and persecution. The officer of the shop, where gnolled is employed, has been severely reprimanded for neglect of duty. The warden had noticed Carl, in the company of several other prisoners, passing through the yard with a load of mattings. He ordered the guard never to allow gnolled out of his sight. Bower has also felt the hand of petty tyranny. He has been deprived of his dark clothes and reduced to the stripes for disrespectful behaviour. Now he is removed to the north wing, where my cell is also located, while gnolled is in the south wing, in a double cell, enjoying the luxury of a window. Fortunately, though, our friend, the horse thief, is still coffee boy on Bower's range, thus enabling me to reach the big German. The latter, after reading my notes, returns them to our trusted carrier, who works in the same shop with Carl. Our male connections are therefore complete, each of us exercising at most care, not to be trapped during the frequent surprises of searching our cells and persons. Again, the prison blossoms is revived. Most of the readers of the previous year, however, are missing. Dempsey and Beatty, the knights of labourmen, have been pardoned thanks to the multiplied and conflicting confessions of the informer Gallagher who still remains in prison. D., our poor laureate, has also been released, his short term having expired, his identity remains a mystery, he having merely hinted that he was a scientist of the old school, an alchemist, from which we inferred that he was a counterfeiter. Gradually we recruit our reading public from the more intelligent and trustworthy element, due to queen strikers renew their subscriptions by contributing paper material. With them join Frank Shea, the philosophic second story man, George, the prison librarian, Billy Ryan, professional gambler and confidence man, Yale, a specialist in the art of safe blowing and former university student, the attorney general, a sharp lawyer, magazine Alvin, writer and novelist, Jim from whose ingenuity no lock is secure, and others. M. and K. act as alternate editors, the rest as contributors. The several departments of the little magazinelet are ornamented with pen and ink drawings, one picturing Dante visiting the inferno, another sketching a peat man with mask and dark lantern in the act of boring a safe, while a third bears the inscription, I sometimes hold it half a sin to put in words the grief I feel, for words like nature half reveal and half conceal the soul within. The editorials are short, pithy comments on local events interspersed with humorous sketches and caricatures of the officials. The balance of the blossoms consists of articles and essays of a more serious character embracing religion and philosophy, labour and politics, with now and then a personal reminiscence by the second story man, or some sex experience by magazine Alvin. One of the associate editors, Lampoon's Billy Goat Benny, the deputy warden, K. sketches the shop's crew and the trusted prisoner, and G. relates a story of the recent strike in his shop, the men's demand for clear pump water instead of the liquid mud tapped from the river, and the breaking of the strike by the exile of a score of rioters to the dungeon. In the next issue the incident is paralleled with the Pullman car strike and the punished prisoners eulogised for the courageous stand, someone dedicating an ultra-original poem to the noble sons of Eugene Debs. But the vicissitudes of our existence, the change of location of several readers, the illness and death of two contributors, badly disarranged the route. During the winter, K. produces a little booklet of German poems while I elaborate the short story of Luba, written the previous year, into a novelette dealing with life in New York and revolutionary circles. Presently G suggests that the manuscripts might prove of interest to a larger public and should be preserved. We discuss the unique plan, wondering how the intellectual contraband could be smuggled into the light of day. In our perplexity we finally take counsel with Bob, the faithful commissary. He cuts the Gordian knot with astonishing levity. Use, fellows, just go ahead and write. Don't bother about nothing. Think I can walk off all right with a team of horses, but ain't got brains enough to get away with a bit of scriblin' eh? Just leave that to the horse-leafin' right till you bust the paperwork, see? Thus encourage, with entire confidence in our resourceful friend, we give the matter serious thought, and before long we form the ambitious project of publishing a book by M.K.G. In high elation, with new interest in life, we set to work. The little magazine is suspended, and we devote all our spare time, as well as every available scrap of writing material to the larger purpose. We decide to honour the approaching day, so pregnant with revolutionary inspiration, that as the sun bursts in brilliant splendour on the eastern skies, the first of May, 1895, he steals a blushing beam upon the heading of the first chapter, The Homestead Strike. End of Section 29, Recording by Stephen Harvey