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.