MONDAY AFTERNOON
Later in the day; about 5:30, I think; I have no watch and nowhere
does there seem to be a clock in sight, so I am necessarily rather
vague as to the exact time.
I am again double locked in my cell, this time for the
night--fourteen mortal hours.
For me there is plenty to do--to write, to read, to think about; but
how about those who do not care for reading, who write with
difficulty, or who can neither read nor write? Then again, I look
forward to only six nights in this stone vault; but how about those
who must look forward to an endless series of nights, month after
month, year after year, five, ten, fifteen, twenty years, life?
My God! How do they ever stand it?
Until nine o'clock, when the lights will go out, I am my own master;
my own master in a world of four feet by seven and a half, in which I
am the only inhabitant. Other human beings are living all about--on
either side, at the back, above, below; yet separated by double thick
stone walls from every other living creature in this great community,
I am absolutely solitary. I have never felt so curiously, desperately
lonely. The loneliness in the midst of crowds is proverbial; but the
loneliness in the midst of a crowd of invisible human beings--not
one of whom do you even hear--that has in it an element of heavily
weighted horror which is quite indescribable. It can only be felt.
The curious sensation of nervous resentment, noticed this noon, is
upon me in greater force to-night. If I were to just let myself go, I
believe I should soon be beating my fists on the iron grated door of
my cage and yelling. Of course I shall do nothing so foolish, but I
feel the impulse distinctly. I wonder how I shall stand a week of
this. I must certainly keep my nerves under better control, at
present they are quivering at the slightest sound.
This has certainly been one of the most interesting days of my life, and
the afternoon more interesting than the morning. I wish I could describe
it adequately.
The interval between dinner and the march to the shop is occupied chiefly
by writing this journal; but I also have a pleasant call from the
Chaplain's assistant, Dickinson. He does not bring me the book I selected
this morning, but in its place another book and some magazines, for none
of which do I care. What I do care about is the pleasant chat we have. Not
many words have been exchanged before he drops the books he is engaged in
distributing along the cells and dashes off; soon returning with
photographs of his wife and three charming children. He himself is a
clean-cut, fine-looking fellow, with honest blue eyes and a good face--not
a single trace of the "Criminal" about him. He tells me some of the
details of his story, and it is a sad one. But his imprisonment is now
over; he expects to go out on Saturday. Some time ago he was granted his
parole on condition of obtaining a job, and that he has now secured. He
says this prison experience has been a "good lesson" to him. I have no
doubt it has, nor that his hopes will be fulfilled; but the pity of it!
Why should not a man like this, guilty of only a lesser crime, guiltless
of criminal intent, be allowed to go on parole under suspended sentence,
and not have to come to prison at all? Why should not he and his wife and
children have been spared these long years of separation, this bitter
degrading experience, this almost irreparable stain upon his name?
At about half past one o'clock the cells are unlocked, as I have already
described. The Captain returns, pressing down the levers; I push open my
door, place my tin cup on a small shelf at the left on leaving the cell
and follow the other men rapidly along the narrow gallery and down a short
flight of narrow, slippery iron stairs, coming to a halt at the door
opening into the yard. Here the Captain places me third in line on the
left, for we march in double file. I am flattered by the promotion, but
possibly the man in front of me feels differently about it. I hope he'll
bear no grudge; but, if he had turned about and landed me one between the
eyes that last time I trod on his heel, it would not have been surprising.
The shoes presented me by the state of New York are so stiff and clumsy
that I find it quite a task to manage my feet; it is difficult to steer
them properly; and of course this marching in close order is something
quite new to me.
First at half speed--then at a good round pace--we march out of the north
wing, wheel to the right on reaching the center walk, swing down the
length of the yard; then turn to the left, pass through the building where
the buckets are emptied and washed, and halt where they are placed to dry
and be disinfected. After a pause here of only a moment we march on again
to the basket-shop.
Just as we reach there and break ranks, the young officer who served as
guide this morning presents himself; and in silence I am conducted back up
the yard and again to the Doctor's office, where my very thorough medical
examination is completed.
After the Doctor is through with me I go to the hallway outside his office
where a number of other prisoners are awaiting their turns. As my officer
has not come back, and does not do so for some time, there is an
opportunity to practice what is apparently the most necessary virtue of
prison life--patience. I take my place along the wall with the other
convicts and watch for a chance to open a whispered conversation. From
where I stand I can look up a short flight of steps into the front room of
the hospital, where there are a number of men moving about; among them one
of the city undertakers. Then I remember having heard at the front office,
as I came in this morning, of the sudden death of a young prisoner last
night from pneumonia. Four convicts come up the stairs, bringing a large,
ominous looking, oblong receptacle, which they take to a door on my left.
It does not look quite like a coffin, but there is little doubt as to its
purpose. As the door is opened, I glance in; and there, covered with a
white sheet, is all that remains of the poor lad--the disgraced and
discarded human tenement of one divine spark of life.
A death in prison. Tears fill my eyes as I turn away thinking of that
lonely, friendless deathbed; thinking that perhaps some loving mother or
young wife in the world outside, bearing bravely her own share of shame
and punishment, has been struggling to keep body and soul together until
her prisoner could come back home; perhaps at this very moment wondering
why she has not received from him the last monthly letter. And now----
Can the world hold any tragedy more terrible than this?
A young negro prisoner standing by, who has also looked into the chamber
of death, breathes a low sigh and whispers, "God! That's where I wish I
was!"
The convict next him, a broad-shouldered young chap, who whispers to me
that he comes from Brooklyn and gets out in January, goes in to ask some
special favor of the Doctor. He gives me on the side a most humorous and
quite indescribable wink and grin as his request is granted. His attitude
suggests that he has "slipped one over" on somebody. He mounts the steps
to the hospital and the young negro takes his turn with the Doctor as the
coffin, heavy now with its mournful load, is brought out from the room on
the left. At the same moment the officer returns to my rescue; and I
follow him downstairs and out into the fresh air and the sunlight.
Comedy and tragedy seem to jostle each other in prison even as in the
world outside. But the comedy itself is tragic; while the tragedy lies
beyond the realm of tears--in the gray twilight region of a suffering too
deep for speech, where sympathy seems helpless.
* * * * *
As I now sit writing in my cell, from out the darkness, loneliness, and
stillness about me comes the sweet voice of a violin. Someone is playing
the melody of Mendelssohn's Spring Song, and playing well. I wonder if he
knows that I am near him, and is trying to send me his message of good
will. One peculiarity of this place is that sounds reach the heavily
recessed door of a cell mainly by reflection from the outer wall, and my
ear is not sufficiently trained to know from what direction the sounds
come. The invisible violinist, wherever he is, has an unusually good tone
and plays with genuine feeling. Unfortunately he has not played many bars
before more instruments join in--jewsharps, harmonicas, and other things.
It is an extraordinary jumble of sounds--a wild pandemonium after the
deadly quiet of a few moments ago. A train blowing off steam at the New
York Central station, immediately opposite our front windows, is also
contributing its quota of noise.
The gallery boy has just passed along, filled my tin cup with water for
the night, and exchanged a few words. He says that for twenty minutes each
evening, from six-forty to seven, each man may "do what he likes" in his
cell. A cornet is the latest addition to the noise. The whole episode
impresses me as being such a mingling of the pathetic and the humorous
that I don't know whether to laugh or cry. Consider the conditions which
make twenty minutes of such a performance a boon to man!
The gallery boy evinces a desire to strike up friendly relations; he
brings me a box of matches in case I want to smoke, and offers to do
anything for me he can. I am not a smoker, but I don't like to decline his
good offices; so I stow away the matches for future reference.
* * * * *
Let me resume the thread of my story.
The officer takes me from the Doctor's office to the room where the
Bertillon measurements are taken. Here there is a fifth set of questions
to answer. I have not the slightest possible objection to giving all the
statistics the state officials want; my time is theirs, and there is no
possible hurry. I may as well get rid of a few hours, more or less, of my
"bit" in this way as in any other; so I shall not register any kick even
if I am called upon to supply fifty sets of statistics instead of only
five.
The orders of the Bertillon clerk are given perfunctorily, with the air of
one who is greatly bored by the whole performance. Naturally it is not so
novel to him as to me. I remove my coat and put on, as they are handed to
me by the assistant, a white linen shirt-bosom, a very dirty collar of the
requisite size, and a black coat and necktie. Then I am
photographed--front view and profile. The use of the peculiar apparel is,
presumably, either to make the photograph clearer, or to have all
"subjects" taken under similar conditions and looking somewhat as they do
when out of prison and in ordinary clothes.
Then my finger tips, on both hands, are carefully rolled one by one in
India ink, and impressions of them taken on cards--twice separately, and
twice all five at once. This seems to bore the clerk more than the
photographing.
Then a series of measurements from top to toe is taken, and every possible
means of identification noted and registered: color of hair and eyes;
shape of head; characteristics of eyes, nose, mouth; the scar received at
football thirty-four years ago, which I supposed was successfully
concealed by my right eyebrow; the minute check on the left ear from a
forgotten frostbite; the almost imperceptible bit of smooth skin on the
back of my right hand, where a small lump was once removed by electricity;
no blemish or defect is over-looked--until I begin to feel like a sort of
monstrosity. I derive some satisfaction, however, from the fact that my
business-like inquisitor is quite at a loss to account for six peculiar
scars upon my upper left arm, familiar to Harvard men of my generation. It
is some satisfaction to know that my Alma Mater has not sent many of her
sons to take a post-graduate course in this institution.
So complete and searching have been the examination and record for
identification that I have a sort of discouraged feeling about the future.
It occurs to me that I may be cramped in a choice of further activities;
and that my chance of ever gaining a good living by honest burglary has
been considerably reduced, if not destroyed. I communicate this rather
frivolous sentiment to the clerk who receives it grimly, and is more bored
than ever. I feel properly snubbed and rebuked.
Evidently a prisoner should speak only when spoken to, and certainly
should not venture to joke with an official. I shall take warning and not
offend again.
I wonder how my measurements differ from those of the average criminal,
and how much of a rough-neck my photograph will make me look.
At last all preliminaries are completed; and now I am free to consider
myself a full-fledged convict.
The young officer who up to now has been my guide and philosopher, if not
exactly a friend, conducts me down the yard once again, duly delivers me
over to Captain Lamb at the basket-shop, and takes his final departure.
The Captain leads me at once to a rough wooden table, about thirty feet in
front of the raised platform on which he sits. Here stands a good-sized,
broad-shouldered, black-haired fellow, working with his back to us as we
approach. He pauses as we stop before his table.
"Jack," says the Captain, "this is Thomas Brown. Thomas, this is John
Murphy, who will be your working partner."
"Glad to meet you, Mr. Brown," says a pleasant voice.
Looking toward my partner and his outstretched hand, I decide to venture
another joke. "Captain," I remark, advancing my hand cautiously, "this
may be all right; but it's only fair to warn you that if this gentleman is
any relative of the Boss of Tammany Hall there may be trouble."
A pair of honest gray eyes light up with a smile as the owner says, "No,
Mr. Brown, I'm no relation; and what's more I haven't any use for him."
Upon this we shake hands cordially. "Excuse me, Captain," I remark to that
officer, "but you see I want to be careful and not run into difficulties
of any kind."
The Captain smiles gravely in his turn, and introduces me to another of
the prisoners who has approached at a sign from the officer. He is a
slightly built, pleasantly smiling young man who is to be my boss in the
shop, Harley Stuhlmiller. By him I am to be initiated into the art of
making basket bottoms; and Murphy is to have me as his partner or
apprentice, and see that I make no mistakes in following the boss's
instructions.
So I take off my cap and coat and start to work. I do not find it very
difficult; for, curiously enough, over forty years ago I learned something
of the art of weaving baskets. When I was a young lad my family spent a
summer at a place on the New England seacoast. On the beach was the tent
of an old Indian, who made and sold baskets; and, having much time on my
hands, I persuaded the old fellow to teach me basket-making. One
certainly never knows when an odd bit of knowledge or information may come
handy; here am I making use of something learned two generations and more
ago, and never practiced since.
I spend a really pleasant afternoon learning my job and chatting under my
breath with the two men--my boss and my partner. They give me some wise
advice as to my conduct, some information as to prison ways, and
compliment me upon the quickness with which I pick up the basket work. I
explain about the previous experience and tell them not to give me too
much taffy. They assure me that what I have done in the short time I have
been working is really very good. The expected task for a man and his
partner is five bottoms a day, and I accomplish one and a half for a part
of the afternoon. Stuhlmiller calls this to the attention of John, the
citizen instructor, and he smilingly grunts approval, but suggests certain
improvements in my manner of work. Thus, so far as the shop is concerned,
I seem to be a success. The convicts about me pay very little attention to
the newcomer, but I catch an occasional smile and nod of encouragement.
Along in the afternoon, about four o'clock I should judge, work begins to
slack up; and several of the prisoners who have finished their allotted
tasks are walking back and forth. Each one confines himself to such a very
short distance, that I inquire of Murphy the reason; and he tells me that
the boundaries of each man's walk are the posts of the building on either
side of his bench or table. This gives a very restricted area for
exercise, but, as it is the only chance for exercise at all, the men make
the most of it.
At about half past four my partner proposes that we knock off work and
clean up. By this time there is a general cessation of labor about the
shop, and most of the men are sweeping up around their tables and benches.
Murphy produces a broom, and informs me that when two men work together it
is customary to take turns in cleaning up after work-hours. So at this
hint I take the broom and soon have the work done. Then we wash up; my
partner sharing with me his soap and towel. I put on my coat and cap and
await further developments.
Murphy, after replacing the soap and towel in his locker, comes around to
my side of our workbench or table. "Say, Brown," he remarks, "I hope you
won't think me imposing on you in any way, but while we work together I
intend to treat you as if I had never seen or known of you before."
"Thank you, Murphy," I reply, pleased at his frankness, "that is exactly
the way I want to be treated."
Certainly nothing could be better than the attitude of the two men with
whom my work has brought me in contact. There has been not the slightest
tinge of self-consciousness; no trace of servility or currying favor,
absolutely nothing except Murphy's frank explanation to make me feel that
they are not treating me exactly as I asked them yesterday to do--as a new
man and one of themselves.
After we have sat around patiently and wearily for a considerable time,
the hour for return to the cell-house arrives. The Captain gives the
signal to fall in. "Good night, Brown!" "Good night, Murphy!" and I take
my place in the line. The Captain counts us with care while we stand
rigidly before him. Then the cripples, invalids and poor old broken-down
men start ahead of the main body to hobble wearily back to their cells.
Meanwhile we able-bodied men of the company march over to the stands where
the buckets are drying, pause for an instant, then swing up through the
yard, with a tramp, tramp, tramp, that is quite exhilarating after an
afternoon's work in the shop.
We march straight up the yard and into the basement door of the main
building where, just within the entrance, are placed some tables laden
with slices of bread. Following the example of the other men, I grab a
slice--some take two slices, there is apparently no restriction as to
amount--and then climb the slippery iron stairs in my heavy shoes. As we
go along the gallery the man just behind me whispers, "Well, Tom, how do
you like it?"
I turn and whisper laughingly, "All right, no kick coming," and turn into
my cell.
On the iron shelf outside stands my tin cup filled with a hot black
liquid--whether tea or coffee I don't know. What I do know is that the
odor is vicious. I hesitate about taking it into the cell.
The gallery boy arriving says, "Brown, I didn't know whether you wanted
tea or water, so I gave you tea."
"Thank you," I rejoin, "but I think I'll take water." So he brings back my
tin cup filled with a liquid which if mild is comparatively harmless, and
at least does not smell to heaven. I enter my cell, which is shut and
locked.
After a light breakfast, a lighter dinner, and the afternoon's work, I
feel ravenously hungry--so hungry that the bread and water actually taste
rather good, even if the bread is sour. To my surprise I make away with
the whole slice, dipping each mouthful into the water and eating as I
write; for I have at once taken up this journal to chronicle the events of
the afternoon while they are still in mind.
I wonder what those greedy children at home will have for dinner to-night.
Or whether they will think of this poor, hungry prisoner, eating his
lonely bread and water. This morning my eldest remarked cheerfully, "Well,
of course we can telephone you any time." How little does he realize the
reality.
We used to laugh when in "Pinafore" they sang:
"He'll hear no tone
Of the maiden he loves so well;
No telephone
Communicates with his cell."
I reminded the young man of those lines this morning.
No, I fear there are few of us who reflect very much upon what is remote
from our direct line of vision. But there will be at least one of us who
will do considerable reflecting--after this experience.
I certainly do feel hungry!
* * * * *
As a supplement to the foregoing, our friends, A and B, have some further
interesting passages:
A: About the first thing an apprentice learns here is the military step;
so a few of us watched the company to which Tom was assigned as they
passed through the yard from the mess-hall to the shop. As Tom marched by,
it became evident from his brisk step that he either learned it at a
military academy or had served time in another "institution."[5]
The routine of prison life, which possesses its good, bad and indifferent
parts, can hardly be described here. Suffice to say Tom adhered to it for
an entire week.
This is what B has to say:
Tom Brown's bed was brought upon the third gallery, cell 55, N.W.; and
then in less than fifteen minutes it was changed again, taken down to cell
15, N.N.W. Well, this made the gallery man on the third feel a little
blue, for he thought he would like to have Tom on his gallery; and we
began to kid him regarding his tough luck.
Well, to make this long story short, the gallery men had their own
troubles. Every second man wanted us to drop a note in Tom Brown's cell.
But the stools watched; and me, for one, would take no chance. If he got
all the notes that was meant for him he would have no room for his bed in
his cell.
Well, when he left the cell house that day, after dinner, when he got in
line with the rest of the cons he marched down the yard like a major. And
make out the cons didn't feel good! And make out the keepers didn't feel
blue!
The keepers wouldn't look at Tom when he was looking their way; but after
he passed, yog--yog--what a rubbering he got!
So this was the way of the cell house for one whole week; and, believe me,
it was some week, indeed.
They tell me when he got in the shop Jack Murphy handed him a broom. You
know Jack can be funny when he wants to be. Now the question in mind is,
"Did Jack give him that broom to clean out the shop, or did he mean the
whole place needed a cleaning out?" Well, I guess Jack, himself, will have
to slip us that answer.