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THE FINANCIER
It was a rough and blowy night when Cowperwood started for
this institution under duress. The wind was driving the snow before
it in curious, interesting whirls. Eddie Zanders, the sheriff’s deputy on guard at the court of Quarter Sessions, accompanied him and
his father and Steger. Zanders was a little man, dark, with a short,
stubby mustache, and a shrewd though not highly intelligent eye.
He was anxious fi rst to uphold his dignity as a deputy sheriff, which
was a very important position in his estimation, and next to turn
an honest penny if he could. He knew little save the details of his
small world, which consisted of accompanying prisoners to and
from the courts and the jails, and seeing that they did not get away.
He was not unfriendly to a particular type of prisoner – the wellto-do or moderately prosperous – for he had long since learned that
it paid to be so. To-night he offered a few sociable suggestions –
viz., that it was rather rough, that the jail was not so far but that
they could walk, and that Sheriff Jaspers would, in all likelihood,
be around or could be aroused. Cowperwood scarcely heard. He was
thinking of his mother and his wife and of Aileen.
When the jail was reached he was led to the central portion,
as it was here that the sheriff, Adlai Jaspers, had his private offi ce.
Jaspers had recently been elected to offi ce, and was inclined to conform to all outward appearances, in so far as the proper conduct of
his offi ce was concerned, without in reality inwardly conforming.
Thus it was generally known among the politicians that one way
he had of fattening his rather lean salary was to rent private rooms
and grant special privileges to prisoners who had the money to pay
for the same. Other sheriffs had done it before him. In fact, when
Jaspers was inducted into offi ce, several prisoners were already
enjoying these privileges, and it was not a part of his scheme of
things to disturb them. The rooms that he let to the »right parties», as he invariably put it, were in the central portion of the jail,
where were his own private living quarters. They were unbarred,
and not at all cell-like. There was no particular danger of escape,
for a guard stood always at his private door instructed «to keep
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THEODORE DREISER
an eye» on the general movements of all the inmates. A prisoner so
accommodated was in many respects quite a free person. His meals
were served to him in his room, if he wished. He could read or play
cards, or receive guests; and if he had any favorite musical instrument, that was not denied him. There was just one rule that had to
be complied with. If he were a public character, and any newspaper
men called, he had to be brought down-stairs into the private interviewing room in order that they might not know that he was not
confi ned in a cell like any other prisoner.
Nearly all of these facts had been brought to Cowperwood’s
attention beforehand by Steger; but for all that, when he crossed
the threshold of the jail a peculiar sensation of strangeness and defeat came over him. He and his party were conducted to a little offi ce to the left of the entrance, where were only a desk and a chair,
dimly lighted by a low-burning gas-jet. Sheriff Jaspers, rotund and
ruddy, met them, greeting them in quite a friendly way. Zanders was
dismissed, and went briskly about his affairs.
«A bad night, isn’t it?» observed Jaspers, turning up the gas and
preparing to go through the routine of registering his prisoner. Steger came over and held a short, private conversation with him in
his corner, over his desk which resulted presently in the sheriff’s
face lighting up.
«Oh, certainly, certainly! That’s all right, Mr. Steger, to be sure!
Why, certainly!»
Cowperwood, eyeing the fat sheriff from his position, understood what it was all about. He had regained completely his critical
attitude, his cool, intellectual poise. So this was the jail, and this was
the fat mediocrity of a sheriff who was to take care of him. Very good.
He would make the best of it. He wondered whether he was to be
searched – prisoners usually were – but he soon discovered that he
was not to be.
«That’s all right, Mr. Cowperwood», said Jaspers, getting up.
«I guess I can make you comfortable, after a fashion. We’re not running a hotel here, as you know» – he chuckled to himself –»but
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THE FINANCIER
I guess I can make you comfortable. John», he called to a sleepy
factotum, who appeared from another room, rubbing his eyes, «is
the key to Number Six down here?»
«Yes, sir».
«Let me have it».
John disappeared and returned, while Steger explained to Cowperwood that anything he wanted in the way of clothing, etc., could
be brought in. Steger himself would stop round next morning and
confer with him, as would any of the members of Cowperwood’s family whom he wished to see. Cowperwood immediately explained to
his father his desire for as little of this as possible. Joseph or Edward
might come in the morning and bring a grip full of underwear, etc.;
but as for the others, let them wait until he got out or had to remain
permanently. He did think of writing Aileen, cautioning her to do
nothing; but the sheriff now beckoned, and he quietly followed. Accompanied by his father and Steger, he ascended to his new room.
It was a simple, white-walled chamber fi fteen by twenty feet in
size, rather high-ceiled, supplied with a high-backed, yellow wooden bed, a yellow bureau, a small imitation-cherry table, three very
ordinary cane-seated chairs with carved hickory-rod backs, cherrystained also, and a wash-stand of yellow-stained wood to match
the bed, containing a washbasin, a pitcher, a soap-dish, uncovered,
and a small, cheap, pink-fl owered tooth and shaving brush mug,
which did not match the other ware and which probably cost ten
cents. The value of this room to Sheriff Jaspers was what he could
get for it in cases like this – twenty-fi ve to thirty-fi ve dollars a week.
Cowperwood would pay thirty-fi ve.
Cowperwood walked briskly to the window, which gave out on
the lawn in front, now embedded in snow, and said he thought this
was all right. Both his father and Steger were willing and anxious to
confer with him for hours, if he wished; but there was nothing to
say. He did not wish to talk.
«Let Ed bring in some fresh linen in the morning and a couple of suits of clothes, and I will be all right. George can get my
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THEODORE DREISER
things together». He was referring to a family servant who acted as
valet and in other capacities. «Tell Lillian not to worry. I’m all right.
I’d rather she would not come here so long as I’m going to be out in
fi ve days. If I’m not, it will be time enough then. Kiss the kids for
me». And he smiled good-naturedly.
After his unfulfi lled predictions in regard to the result of this
preliminary trial Steger was almost afraid to suggest confi dently
what the State Supreme Court would or would not do; but he had to
say something.
«I don’t think you need worry about what the outcome of my
appeal will be, Frank. I’ll get a certifi cate of reasonable doubt, and
that’s as good as a stay of two months, perhaps longer. I don’t suppose the bail will be more than thirty thousand dollars at the outside. You’ll be out again in fi ve or six days, whatever happens».
Cowperwood said that he hoped so, and suggested that they
drop matters for the night. After a few fruitless parleys his father
and Steger fi nally said good night, leaving him to his own private
refl ections. He was tired, however, and throwing off his clothes,
tucked himself in his mediocre bed, and was soon fast asleep.
CHAPTER XLV
Say what one will about prison life in general, modify it ever
so much by special chambers, obsequious turnkeys, a general tendency to make one as comfortable as possible, a jail is a jail, and
there is no getting away from that. Cowperwood, in a room which
was not in any way inferior to that of the ordinary boarding-house,
was nevertheless conscious of the character of that section of this
real prison which was not yet his portion. He knew that there were
cells there, probably greasy and smelly and vermin-infested, and
that they were enclosed by heavy iron bars, which would have as
readily clanked on him as on those who were now therein incarcerated if he had not had the price to pay for something better. So
much for the alleged equality of man, he thought, which gave to one
man, even within the grim confi nes of the machinery of justice, such
personal liberty as he himself was now enjoying, and to another,
because he chanced to lack wit or presence or friends or wealth, denied the more comfortable things which money would buy.
The morning after the trial, on waking, he stirred curiously, and
then it suddenly came to him that he was no longer in the free and
comfortable atmosphere of his own bedroom, but in a jail-cell, or
rather its very comfortable substitute, a sheriff’s rented bedroom.
He got up and looked out the window. The ground outside and Passayunk Avenue were white with snow. Some wagons were silently
lumbering by. A few Philadelphians were visible here and there, going to and fro on morning errands. He began to think at once what
he must do, how he must act to carry on his business, to rehabilitate
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THEODORE DREISER
himself; and as he did so he dressed and pulled the bell-cord, which
had been indicated to him, and which would bring him an attendant
who would build him a fi re and later bring him something to eat.
A shabby prison attendant in a blue uniform, conscious of Cowperwood’s superiority because of the room he occupied, laid wood and
coal in the grate and started a fi re, and later brought him his breakfast, which was anything but prison fare, though poor enough at that.
After that he was compelled to wait in patience several hours, in
spite of the sheriff’s assumption of solicitous interest, before his
brother Edward was admitted with his clothes. An attendant, for
a consideration, brought him the morning papers, and these, except for the fi nancial news, he read indifferently. Late in the afternoon Steger arrived, saying he had been busy having certain proceedings postponed, but that he had arranged with the sheriff for
Cowperwood to be permitted to see such of those as had important
business with him.
By this time, Cowperwood had written Aileen under no circumstances to try to see him, as he would be out by the tenth, and
that either that day, or shortly after, they would meet. As he knew,
she wanted greatly to see him, but he had reason to believe she was
under surveillance by detectives employed by her father. This was
not true, but it was preying on her fancy, and combined with some
derogatory remarks dropped by Owen and Callum at the dinner
table recently, had proved almost too much for her fi ery disposition.
But, because of Cowperwood’s letter reaching her at the Calligans’,
she made no move until she read on the morning of the tenth that
Cowperwood’s plea for a certifi cate of reasonable doubt had been
granted, and that he would once more, for the time being at least, be
a free man. This gave her courage to do what she had long wanted to
do, and that was to teach her father that she could get along without
him and that he could not make her do anything she did not want to
do. She still had the two hundred dollars Cowperwood had given
her and some additional cash of her own – perhaps three hundred
and fi fty dollars in all. This she thought would be suffi cient to see
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THE FINANCIER
her to the end of her adventure, or at least until she could make
some other arrangement for her personal well-being. From what she
knew of the feeling of her family for her, she felt that the agony
would all be on their side, not hers. Perhaps when her father saw
how determined she was he would decide to let her alone and make
peace with her. She was determined to try it, anyhow, and immediately sent word to Cowperwood that she was going to the Calligans
and would welcome him to freedom.
In a way, Cowperwood was rather gratifi ed by Aileen’s message, for he felt that his present plight, bitter as it was, was largely
due to Butler’s opposition and he felt no compunction in striking
him through his daughter. His former feeling as to the wisdom of
not enraging Butler had proved rather futile, he thought, and since
the old man could not be placated it might be just as well to have Aileen demonstrate to him that she was not without resources of her
own and could live without him. She might force him to change his
attitude toward her and possibly even to modify some of his political
machinations against him, Cowperwood. Any port in a storm – and
besides, he had now really nothing to lose, and instinct told him
that her move was likely to prove more favorable than otherwise –
so he did nothing to prevent it.
She took her jewels, some underwear, a couple of dresses which
she thought would be serviceable, and a few other things, and packed
them in the most capacious portmanteau she had. Shoes and stockings came into consideration, and, despite her efforts, she found that
she could not get in all that she wished. Her nicest hat, which she
was determined to take, had to be carried outside. She made a separate bundle of it, which was not pleasant to contemplate. Still she
decided to take it. She rummaged in a little drawer where she kept
her money and jewels, and found the three hundred and fi fty dollars and put it in her purse. It wasn’t much, as Aileen could herself
see, but Cowperwood would help her. If he did not arrange to take
care of her, and her father would not relent, she would have to get
something to do. Little she knew of the steely face the world pres-
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THEODORE DREISER
ents to those who have not been practically trained and are not
economically effi cient. She did not understand the bitter reaches of
life at all. She waited, humming for effect, until she heard her father
go downstairs to dinner on this tenth day of December, then leaned
over the upper balustrade to make sure that Owen, Callum, Norah,
and her mother were at the table, and that Katy, the housemaid, was
not anywhere in sight. Then she slipped into her father’s den, and,
taking a note from inside her dress, laid it on his desk, and went out.
It was addressed to «Father», and read:
Dear Father, – I just cannot do what you want me to. I have
made up my mind that I love Mr. Cowperwood too much, so
I am
going away. Don’t look for me with him. You won’t fi nd me
where you think. I am not going to him; I will not be
there. I am going to try to get along by myself for a
while, until he wants me and can marry me. I’m terribly
sorry; but I just can’t do what you want. I can’t ever
forgive you for the way you acted to me. Tell mama
and Norah
and the boys good-by for me.
Aileen
To insure its discovery, she picked up Butler’s heavy-rimmed
spectacles which he employed always when reading, and laid
them on it. For a moment she felt very strange, somewhat like
a thief – a new sensation for her. She even felt a momentary sense of
ingratitude coupled with pain. Perhaps she was doing wrong. Her
father had been very good to her. Her mother would feel so very
bad. Norah would be sorry, and Callum and Owen. Still, they did
not understand her any more. She was resentful of her father’s attitude. He might have seen what the point was; but no, he was too
old, too hidebound in religion and conventional ideas – he never
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THE FINANCIER
would. He might never let her come back. Very well, she would
get along somehow. She would show him. She might get a place as
a school-teacher, and live with the Calligans a long while, if necessary, or teach music.
She stole downstairs and out into the vestibule, opening the outer door and looking out into the street. The lamps were already fl aring in the dark, and a cool wind was blowing. Her portmanteau was
heavy, but she was quite strong. She walked briskly to the corner,
which was some fi fty feet away, and turned south, walking rather
nervously and irritably, for this was a new experience for her, and it
all seemed so undignifi ed, so unlike anything she was accustomed to
doing. She put her bag down on a street corner, fi nally, to rest. A boy
whistling in the distance attracted her attention, and as he drew
near she called to him: «Boy! Oh, boy!»
He came over, looking at her curiously.
«Do you want to earn some money?»
«Yes, ma’am», he replied politely, adjusting a frowsy cap over
one ear.
«Carry this bag for me», said Aileen, and he picked it up and
marched off.
In due time she arrived at the Calligans’, and amid much excitement was installed in the bosom of her new home. She took her
situation with much nonchalance, once she was properly placed,
distributing her toilet articles and those of personal wear with quiet
care. The fact that she was no longer to have the services of Kathleen, the maid who had served her and her mother and Norah jointly, was odd, though not trying. She scarcely felt that she had parted
from these luxuries permanently, and so made herself comfortable.
Mamie Calligan and her mother were adoring slaveys, so she
was not entirely out of the atmosphere which she craved and to
which she was accustomed.
CHAPTER XLVI
Meanwhile, in the Butler home the family was assembling for
dinner. Mrs. Butler was sitting in rotund complacency at the foot of
the table, her gray hair combed straight back from her round, shiny
forehead. She had on a dark-gray silk dress, trimmed with grayand-white striped ribbon. It suited her fl orid temperament admirably. Aileen had dictated her mother’s choice, and had seen that
it had been properly made. Norah was refreshingly youthful in
a pale-green dress, with red-velvet cuffs and collar. She looked
young, slender, gay. Her eyes, complexion and hair were fresh and
healthy. She was trifl ing with a string of coral beads which her
mother had just given her.
«Oh, look, Callum», she said to her brother opposite her, who
was drumming idly on the table with his knife and fork. «Aren’t
they lovely? Mama gave them to me».
«Mama does more for you than I would. You know what you’d
get from me, don’t you?»
«What?»
He looked at her teasingly. For answer Norah made a face at him.
Just then Owen came in and took his place at the table. Mrs. Butler
saw Norah’s grimace.
«Well, that’ll win no love from your brother, ye can depend on
that», she commented.
«Lord, what a day!» observed Owen, wearily, unfolding his napkin. «I’ve had my fi ll of work for once».
«What’s the trouble?» queried his mother, feelingly.
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