Chapter 1 of 7 · 3870 words · ~19 min read

Part 1

BILL PORTER

A Drama of O. Henry in Prison

BY UPTON SINCLAIR

PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR PASADENA, CALIFORNIA

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Printed in the United States of America

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FOREWORD

The central figure of this play is the writer of short stories known to all the world as O. Henry. His name was William Sydney Porter; “Bill” Porter to his intimates in the Ohio State Penitentiary, where, beginning at the age of thirty-six, he served a sentence of three years and three months for embezzlement of national bank funds.

This play follows, as literally as possible, the facts concerning “Bill” Porter’s life and behavior in prison, as revealed in his letters and other published records. The writer of the play has had the advantage of much conversation with Al Jennings, who was Porter’s intimate both in prison and previously in Central America, where they had sought refuge from the law. Mr. Jennings, who appears as a character in this play, has been good enough to go over the manuscript, and the author here pays tribute to the kindness and genial spirit of an ex-train bandit, ex-convict, ex-lawyer, ex-evangelist, and almost successful candidate for governor of Oklahoma. Mr. Jennings has written a book, “Through the Shadows with O. Henry,” published by the H. K. Fly Company, also by the A. L. Burt Company.

This play deals with the soul of a creative artist, working despite ill fortune. Throughout the play there has been employed a convention additional to those customary on our stage. Whenever colored lighting is used, the scenes beheld and the characters appearing are not real, but are the children of “Bill” Porter’s brain. They may be persons who have previously appeared as real, but they are now present in the thoughts of the hero. In this form they change, they assume new personalities and take on new roles, in the magic chemistry of art. Let no one be puzzled because these artist imaginings mix up all times and places, the past and the present, the living and the dead; for that is the way of the imagination. The play tries to show a writer at work; how he takes the experiences of his life, and revises and reshapes them according to his temperament.

The stories of O. Henry alluded to in the play are as follows: Act I, “A Municipal Report,” from the volume “Strictly Business”; Act II, “A Retrieved Reformation,” from the volume “Roads of Destiny”—a story better known by the title of the play which was made from it, “Alias Jimmie Valentine”; Act III, “Holding up a Train,” “Makes the Whole World Kin,” and “The Day We Celebrate,” from “Sixes and Sevens,” and “The Fourth in Salvador,” from “Roads of Destiny”; Act IV, “The Guardian of the Accolade,” from “Roads of Destiny,” and “An Unfinished Story,” from “The Four Million.”

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SCENE: State Penitentiary at Columbus, Ohio.

TIME: 1899.

Act. I: The drug-store of the prison hospital.

Act. II: The same.

Act. III: The postoffice of the prison.

Act. IV: The drug-store again.

CHARACTERS.

BIGGINS _pickpocket_ BILL PORTER _night drug-clerk of the prison hospital_ PURZON _swindler_ JOE _Negro trusty_ MARGARET _Porter’s little daughter_ ATHOL _Porter’s deceased wife_ ESPIRITU DE LA VINA _Porter’s temptation_ DR. WALTERS _night physician of the prison_ AL JENNINGS _train-bandit_ THE JUDGE _of “Bankers’ Row”_ DELACOUR _of the same_ JIMMIE VALENTINE _cracksman_ RAIDLER _the Oklahoma terror_ GENERAL DINGO _of the Salvador revolution_ DULCIE _the little shop-girl_

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BILL PORTER

ACT I.

SCENE: _The drug-store of the prison hospital._

_A long counter runs all the way across the stage, from right to left, at the back part of the stage. On the far side of the counter, away from the audience, the convicts file by, entering at the right and going off at the left, having their orders for drugs filled by the clerk. On the side of the counter nearest to the audience is the portion of the room in which the drugs and supplies are kept, and in which the clerk works. This portion has an entrance at right, to the hospital, and one at the left, to a hall. At right center is a flat-topped desk, with a chair facing left; another chair on the other side of the desk. All the way under the counter, and along the walls at right and left, are rows of shelves occupied by boxes and bottles large and small, as in an ordinary drug-store. These shelves turn upon pivots, making possible a quick change of the room, at the end of Act II and of Act IV, into a bank._

AT RISE: _Those convicts who have listed themselves as sick are getting their evening supply of drugs. They file along from right to left, hard-faced, desolate looking men both white and black, clad in the old-fashioned black and white striped convict suits. They shove bits of paper over the counter, and take their pills or powders, for the most part silently, sometimes with a grunt or a growl. A guard stands by the door, watching them, a club in his hand; the guard wearing blue uniform with brass buttons._

_Bill Porter, the night drug-clerk on duty, takes the prescriptions and fills them silently and swiftly; they are all standard prescriptions, which he has ready mixed and measured, and for the most part all he does is to shove out two or three pills, or a powder folded up in blue paper. He is a smooth-shaven, fair-haired man of thirty-seven, not stout but well filled out, benevolent, but reserved in manner. He wears a white hospital costume, clean, but old and worn. The Negro, Joe, a trusty, is puttering about the place, making a pretense at dusting off the contents of the shelves with a rag. He wears a dingy grey uniform, with black stripe down the trousers._

_Biggins_ (_next to the last man in the line; a lean, wiry street-rat and pickpocket; he talks out of the corner of his mouth, so that the guard will not detect him_): Say, Buddy, can’t yer give us somethin’ different from these here white pills?

_Porter_: I am filling your prescription.

_Biggins_: Well, can’t yer wait till yer make yer rounds, an give us somethin’ else?

_Porter_: If you want me to prescribe for you, you’ll have to apply when I’m making my rounds.

_Biggins_: Thanks, Buddy, fer the tip. The croaker’s been t’rowin’ dese here white bullets down me troat fer a month now—

_Purzon_ (_the last convict in the line; a big man, broad, beefy-faced, noisy, who has passed worthless checks by posing as a ranchman_): Cheer up, kid, there’s nothin’ in ’em but a lump of dough. (_he hands over his slip of paper, and receives a couple of pills_). Don’t I get a powder too? The croaker said I should.

_Porter_: He didn’t write it down.

_Purzon_: Well, for God’s sake, what kind of a deal is that? He told me I was to have digitalis.

_Porter_: There’s digitalis in one of those pills.

_Purzon_: Well, they look exactly alike! A fat lot they care what they feed you in this joint—that bonehead croaker don’t take as much trouble as if he was keepin’ dogs.

_Porter_ (_sternly_): Move along now. If you have any quarrel with the doctor, say it to him.

_Purzon_ (_snarling_): Ah, you fat stool-pigeon!

_Porter_: Move on! I’ve never yet reported a man in this place, but I’m not paid to listen to you abuse my chief.

(_The guard, noticing the talk, approaches and pokes Purzon roughly with his stick; the last of the line moves off._)

_Joe_ (_coming forward, humbly; a large, athletic-looking black fellow, in the thirties_): Please, suh, Misteh Porteh, could you gimme a little tention befo you shuts up de boxes?

_Porter_: What is it?

_Joe_: Ah got what you might call a little inclination to de constipulation, an Ah could use a couple of dem double-barrel shotgun shells. (_as Porter shoves him a couple of pills_) Thankee, boss. (_he resumes his pretense at dusting, and Porter puts the covers on his boxes, and goes to his desk with a weary sigh_) Ah bet you is tahd when you gets done wid dat line. (_silence_) Dey mussa been two hundred men in dat line dis evenin. Dey keeps a comin an a comin, an it doan seem to do em no good. (_he is inviting conversation, but Porter sits at his desk lost in thought_) Misteh Porteh—

_Porter_: Well?

_Joe_: Dey sho is a lot of misery in dis place.

_Porter_: There is.

_Joe_: Dey sho is one _mountain_ of misery in dis place!

_Porter_ (_looks at papers on his desk, crumples them up into a ball, and makes as if to throw them into a wire trash-basket, which stands at the side of his desk nearest to the audience; he discovers that the basket is full to overflowing_): See here, don’t you remember my saying anything to you about keeping a little room at least on the _top_ of this trash-basket?

_Joe_: Yes, boss, dasso. Ah’s powerful fogetful; but you does sho fill up dat trash-basket! Seems like you spen de whole night writin paper an tearin it up.

_Porter_: Have they made you custodian of the hospital stationery?

_Joe_: No, boss, Ah’s only de custodian of de hospital trash-baskets. But if yo jes wouldn’t roll em up into balls, so dey fill up so much room! If you wouldn’t tear em into little bits, so dey spill out through de holes!

_Porter_: I don’t care to have my writings read in this place.

_Joe_: Yes, boss, Ah understan; but make yoself easy—Ah cant read a line of his hyar hanwritin.

_Porter_: Well, save me the job of nagging.

_Joe_: Yes, boss, Ah sho try. But you know how it is, if Ah was a first-class rememberin niggeh, I wouldn’t be doin a term in de Ohio State penitentiary, Ah’d be a spick and span porteh in a Pullman car, jing-jinglin de quartehs in mah pocket. (_imitating car porter_) Nashville de nex stop, suh! Brush you off, suh?

_Porter_: Quit your chatter and get out of here!

(_Joe takes trash-basket and runs; Porter takes mail from pocket and glances at letter; then sits in attitude of despair, his head in his hands. Joe returns with empty basket, and begins to make a pretense of sweeping the floor with a broom, at the same time peering at Porter, trying to see his face._)

_Porter_ (_without looking up_): Wouldn’t it be possible for you to get this room swept before I come on duty?

_Joe_: Misteh Porteh, you dunno how dey keep me on de jump in dis place—

_Porter_: They seem to turn you loose at this precise hour every evening, so you can come in and fill my lungs with dust.

_Joe_: Ah’ll jes keep a sorteh circulatin roun wid dis broom, so de capn think Ah’m workin if he comes, but Ah wont make dust enough to botheh you. (_Porter continues to sit in attitude of dejection; Joe manifests first curiosity, then sympathy; he tries to attract attention_) Ah-hum! (_Porter does not look up_) Ah-hum!

_Porter_: What is it, Joe?

_Joe_: Misteh Porteh—

_Porter_: Well?

_Joe_: Ah’s got somethin else besides dis hyar constipulation.

_Porter_: What you got?

_Joe_: Ah’s got somethin—you might call it a sorteh constipulation of de vocabulary.

_Porter_: How’s that?

_Joe_: Ah wuks roun dis hispital, an Ah keeps mah eyes open, an Ah sees Misteh Porteh doan say much to nobody in dis place. Ah thinks it oveh, an Ah thinks maybe he’d like it if Ah was to come up an say, right still and quaht: Misteh Porteh, Ah’s jes a niggeh.

_Porter_: Indeed, Joe!

_Joe_: Dey got me in de penitentiary in de state of Ohio, Misteh Porteh, but Ah was raised down in Tennessee, an Ah knows what a genleman is; so Ah comes to you an says: Ah’s a niggeh.

_Porter_: Well, Joe, I’m glad you spoke. I won’t be so lonesome!

_Joe_: Ah wants you to know, Misteh Porteh, it warnt makin no trouble fo white folks what got me in his place. It was a black man what Ah cut. Ah had a little yellah gal, an dat niggeh hadnt no business to be foolin wid her. Ah wouldn’t a done him no real harm, if it hadnt been dat he come on me so quick, Ah didn’t have a chance to bend mah razor back. You knows how it is wid razors?

_Porter_: No, Joe, I don’t think I ever fought with razors.

_Joe_: Well, you bends him back, all de way roun, an den you only got bout a half inch of blade, an he doan cut so deep, you cant do no real harm. But Ah mos cut dat black man’s neck through, so de jedge, he give it to me hard. Ah says to him, Jedge, if you knowed what Ah knows bout dat niggeh, you’d pay me fo service to de state of Ohio. But it was a Yankee jedge, an he doan smile.

_Porter_: He gave you life?

_Joe_: Not dat bad—twenty years. Ah reckons to git six years an eight months off fo good behavior—an den, Misteh Porteh, Ah’s goin back to de good ole state of Tennessee. Dey got me up hyar to work in de steel mills—Ah thought Ah’d make some money an buy me a tater patch an a mule; but Ah’s goin back home, wha dey knows what a genleman is. You comes from de South, Misteh Porteh?

_Porter_: North Carolina.

_Joe_: Ah knowed it! Dey was somethin in de way you looked at me. Mah ole daddy belonged to de Jedge Adair famly. You ever heah of de Judge Adair famly in Nashville? Ah lak to tell you bout dat famly, Misteh Porteh, den you see Ah knows what a genleman is, an how to talk to em.

_Porter_: Sit down, Joe.

_Joe_: Naw, suh, Ah reckon Ah keep circulatin dis hyar broom roun jes a bit—de capn he might come a driftin in hyar, an you knows how it is, Ah doan take no littlest chance fo to lose mah job as trusty—Ah wants to spend dem extra six years an eight months in de state of Tennessee, an not in de state of Ohio. Well, de Jedge Adair famly was one of de tip-top families, dey was sho nuff quality. But den de wah come, an you know how de Yankees come to Nashville, an de slaves was free. Mah ole daddy wanted to stick by de famly, but dey couldn’t keep him, dey didn’t have enough to eat fo dem selves. De Jedge he died, an dey was only Miss Azalea Adair lef, an dey was dis fine ole mansion all fallin in ruins, an dis fine lady livin in it an not enough to eat. She done married a man—he jes married her fo to live off what he thought she had, an when she doan have no money he curse her an he strike her—yes, Misteh Porteh, an you knows what would be goin on in de heart of an old slave what was raised in de famly, an knowin things was goin on like dat, an Miss Azalea Adair so proud, an hidin it all from de world. Well, mah ole daddy he got out an work fo de Yankees and save up an buy him a hack an a horse, an he drive, an make a little money, an when he know Miss Azalea Adair not have anything to eat, he take her a dollar or two. An den Major Caswell—dat’s de husban’s name—he find out she got dat money, an he take it away from her, so he kin go down an show off in de bar-room of de big hotel, struttin roun an treatin all de genlemen what he know. You ever hear anything like dat in de South, Misteh Porteh?

_Porter_: No, I can’t say I ever did.

_Joe_: Well, Miss Azalea Adair she try all de time to find some way to earn money. Dey had a great liberry in de house, an she read all dem books, an got dem in her haid, an she begin to write. Of course, de editors up Noth, day was glad to git what a great lady like Miss Azalea Adair write, so dey sent a man down from New Yok fo to see her an pay her money, an git her to sen some mo writin. An mah ole daddy, he was de hackman what met dat Yankee man, an drove him to Miss Azalea Adair’s home. It was a ole hack, de horse was so weak he could hardly stagger—cause you see how it was, all de money what de fares brung in had to go to keep Miss Azalea Adair alive. Well, dat Yankee man, he pay Miss Azalea Adair fifty dollars fo what she write, an den he go away. An Major Caswell—dat’s de husban—he find out she got dat money, an he grab her by de wrist an twist it till she mos faint—she too proud to make a soun, you know—an he take dat money an sneak off. Mah old daddy, he peek through de do an he see dat happen. He take de kitchen knife an sneak out an folleh de Major—it was in de night, an black dark—an he stab him through an kill him an take de money. Yes, suh, he was a white man, too, but dis ole niggeh slave, he kill him.

_Porter_: And did they catch him?

_Joe_: Mah old daddy? Naw, suh, boss, dey doan ketch him, he die in his bed wid de preacher prayin oveh him an de angels a waitin fo his soul. Maybe de police have some idea what happen, but dey wasn’t anbody care much bout dat ornery Major Caswell. An Miss Azalea Adair course she doan never speculate nothin, cause my ole man he doan take her dat fifty dollars all to onst, he jes kinds string it out, one or two dollars when he see day warnt nothin in de pantry.

_Porter_: What a story! What a story! And you say—by George! You say that happened in Nashville?

_Joe_: Yes, Misteh Porteh.

_Porter_: Well, now, that’s a funny thing. I was reading the other day—here, I think I have it in these magazines—here’s a fellow who says you couldn’t tell an interesting story about Nashville, Tennessee!

_Joe_: What’s de matter wid Nashville?

_Porter_: He thinks it’s too slow, too old-fashioned. Here’s what he says. (_reads_) “Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville, Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States that are ‘story cities’—New York, of course, New Orleans, and, best of the lot, San Francisco.”

_Joe_: Well, Ah doan know nothin bout books, Misteh Porteh—

_Porter_: I know a little, and hope to know more. I’m writing some stories, and maybe some day I’ll write that story about Miss Azalea Adair. Is she dead?

_Joe_: Yes, suh, dey all daid.

_Porter_: I’ll quote that fellow who says you couldn’t write about Nashville, Tennessee. I tell you Joe, you can write about any place where human beings live—provided you know how to get into their hearts and report what’s going on there; it doesn’t matter who they are—white or black—or where they are—in jail, or in Nashville. A story is a report on human hearts. I’ll call this one “A Municipal Report”; quote the statistics about Nashville—all the commonplace things, and then tell how I go there, and run into the old hackman that was once a slave, and drives his tumble-down old rig to earn a dollar, to buy food for his starving mistress in the mansion! I can make them cry over that! (_a pause_)

_Joe_: Misteh Porteh.

_Porter_: Well?

_Joe_: Somethin—Ah dunno if Ah’d ought to say it. Ah was in dis room las night, when you got through wid sewin up dat feller wid de busted haid—an you was all alone—leastways you thought you was, an Ah didn’t like to make no noise. (_a pause_) Ah like to say dis, Misteh Porteh, you doan have to feel shamed—dey’s lots o fellers cryin in dis place. (_a pause_) Dey gits you locked up, an yo cell-mate’s snorin—oh, den de tears come a runnin onto de pillow. You know, Misteh Porteh, dey was a little kinky headed yalleh baby, de prettiest little thing you ever see; Ah thinks what become of him, maybe he’s crying tonight cause he doan get enough to eat—it jes seem like mo’n Ah can stan.

_Porter_: You were married, then?

_Joe_: Naw suh, we wasn zacly married—dis was a kindeh what you might say engagement baby. (_grins_) But Ah guess Ah done loss dat yelleh gal fo keeps now, she doan write to me, Ah reckon she got some new felleh. (_a pause_) You got folks outside, Misteh Porteh?

_Porter_: I’ve got a little girl.

_Joe_: Sho nuff? Well, now! How ole dat little gal?

_Porter_: Eleven.

_Joe_: Her mammy daid?

_Porter_: Yes.

_Joe_: Dat’s hard! Dat’s sho nuff hard, Misteh Porteh! She got folks takin care of her?

_Porter_: She lives with her grandparents.

_Joe_: Ah wondeh, is you got a picture of dat chile?

_Porter_: Yes, I have. (_he opens drawer of desk and hands a photograph to Joe_)

_Joe_: Dat’s a pretty little gal! A sho nuff sweet chile! What dey call her, Misteh Porteh?

_Porter_: Margaret’s her name.

_Joe_: Margaret. Dat’s a right nice-soundin name. Ah doan wondeh you miss dat little lily. Do she know whah her pappy is?

_Porter_: She has no idea.

_Joe_: Oh, doan you let nobody tell her, Misteh Porteh!

_Porter_: Never until I tell her with my own lips.

_Joe_: Dat’s right, dat’s right! She’ll believe what her pappy tells her. Ah bet it ain’t so bad as some folks made it look like.

_Porter_: That is a question I never discuss with anyone in this place.

_Joe_: Ah understan you, boss. Ah reckon you aint showed dis hyar picture to many. But when a genleman from de South talk wid a niggeh, it’s like he was a chile, talkin to his black mammy. Dat little Miss Margaret got a ole mammy what take care of her?

_Porter_: Yes, Joe. (_he puts away photograph_) Every night I sit here and write, and all the time I’m thinking of one thing, to get enough money to send Margaret a present at Christmas. I didn’t have anything for her birthday, and I’m sure not going to fail again! Miss Azalea Adair will help me out.

_Joe_: She’d a liked dat first rate, Misteh Porteh.

_Porter_: What did she look like?

_Joe_: She had white hair, an her dresses was old, but de laundrin was new; a little lady, hardly anything to her; gentle an quaht—you know what dem Southern ladies is.

_Porter_: And your old daddy, tell me about him.