An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

of the jurors was saying: “Yes”—Clyde was listening to

them, not to Jephson. Why should each one say that with

so much emphasis? Was there not one who felt that he

might not have done as Mason had said—struck her

intentionally? Was there not one who even half-believed in

that change of heart which Belknap and Jephson had

insisted that he had experienced? He looked at them all—

little and big. They were like a blackish-brown group of

wooden toys with creamish-brown or old ivory faces and

hands. Then he thought of his mother. She would hear of

this now, for here were all these newspaper writers and

artists and photographers assembled to hear this. And what

would the Griffiths—his uncle and Gilbert—think now? And

Sondra! Sondra! Not a word from her. And through all this

he had been openly testifying, as Belknap and Jephson had

agreed that he must do—to the compelling and directing

power of his passion for her—the real reason for all this!

But not a word. And she would not send him any word now,

of course—she who had been going to marry him and give

him everything!

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But in the meantime the crowd about him silent although—

or perhaps because—intensely satisfied. The little devil

hadn’t “gotten by.” He hadn’t fooled the twelve sane men of

this county with all that bunk about a change of heart. What

rot! While Jephson sat and stared, and Belknap, his strong

face written all over with contempt and defiance, making his

motions. And Mason and Burleigh and Newcomb and

Redmond thinly repressing their intense satisfaction behind

masks preternaturally severe, the while Belknap continued

with a request that the sentence be put off until the

following Friday—a week hence, when he could more

conveniently attend, but with Justice Oberwaltzer replying

that he thought not—unless some good reason could be

shown. But on the morrow, if counsel desired, he would

listen to an argument. If it were satisfactory he would delay

sentence—otherwise, pronounce it the following Monday.

Yet, even so, Clyde was not concerned with this argument

at the moment. He was thinking of his mother and what she

would think—feel. He had been writing her so regularly,

insisting always that he was innocent and that she must not

believe all, or even a part, of what she read in the

newspapers. He was going to be acquitted sure. He was

going to go on the stand and testify for himself. But now …

now … oh, he needed her now—so much. Quite every one,

as it seemed now, had forsaken him. He was terribly,

terribly alone. And he must send her some word quickly. He

must. He must. And then asking Jephson for a piece of

paper and a pencil, he wrote: “Mrs. Asa Griffiths, care of

Star of Hope Mission, Denver, Colorado. Dear mother—I

am convicted—Clyde.” And then banding that to Jephson,

he asked him, nervously and weakly, if he would see that it

was sent right away. “Right away, son, sure,” replied

Jephson, touched by his looks, and waving to a press boy

who was near gave it to him together with the money.

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AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY

And then, while this was going on, all the public exits being

locked until Clyde, accompanied by Sissel and Kraut, had

been ushered through the familiar side entrance through

which he had hoped to escape. And while all the press and

the public and the still-remaining jury gazing, for even yet

they had not seen enough of Clyde but must stare into his

face to see how he was taking it. And because of the local

feeling against him, Justice Oberwaltzer, at Slack’s request,

holding court un-adjourned until word was brought that

Clyde was once more locked in his cell, whereupon the

doors were re-opened. And then the crowd surging out but

only to wait at the courtroom door in order to glimpse, as he

passed out, Mason, who now, of all the figures in this case,

was the true hero—the nemesis of Clyde—the avenger of

Roberta. But he not appearing at first but instead Jephson

and Belknap together, and not so much depressed as

solemn, defiant—Jephson, in particular, looking

unconquerably contemptuous. Then some one calling:

“Well, you didn’t get him off just the same,” and Jephson

replying, with a shrug of his shoulders, “Not yet, but this

county isn’t all of the law either.” Then Mason, immediately

afterward—a heavy, baggy overcoat thrown over his

shoulder, his worn soft hat pulled low over his eyes—and

followed by Burleigh, Heit, Newcomb and others as a royal

train—while he walked in the manner of one entirely

oblivious of the meaning or compliment of this waiting

throng. For was he not now a victor and an elected judge!

And as instantly being set upon by a circling, huzzahing

mass—the while a score of those nearest sought to seize

him by the hand or place a grateful pat upon his arm or

shoulder. “Hurrah for Orville!”“Good for you, Judge!” (his

new or fast-approaching title). “By God! Orville Mason, you

deserve the thanks of this county!”“Hy-oh! Heigh!

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Heigh!”“Three cheers for Orville Mason!” And with that the

crowd bursting into three resounding huzzahs—which Clyde

in his cell could clearly hear and at the same time sense the

meaning of.

They were cheering Mason for convicting him. In that large

crowd out there there was not one who did not believe him

totally and completely guilty. Roberta—her letters—her

determination to make him marry her—her giant fear of

exposure—had dragged him down to this. To conviction. To

death, maybe. Away from all he had longed for—away from

all he had dreamed he might possess. And Sondra!

Sondra! Not a word! Not a word! And so now, fearing that

Kraut or Sissel or some one might be watching (ready to

report even now his every gesture), and not willing to show

after all how totally collapsed and despondent he really

was, he sat down and taking up a magazine pretended to

read, the while he looked far, far beyond it to other scenes—

his mother—his brother and sisters—the Griffiths—all he

had known. But finding these unsubstantiated mind visions

a little too much, he finally got up and throwing off his

clothes climbed into his iron cot.

“Convicted! Convicted!” And that meant that he must die!

God! But how blessed to be able to conceal his face upon a

pillow and not let any one see—however accurately they

might guess!

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Chapter 27

THE dreary aftermath of a great contest and a great failure,

with the general public from coast to coast—in view of this

stern local interpretation of the tragedy—firmly convinced

that Clyde was guilty and, as heralded by the newspapers

everywhere, that he had been properly convicted. The

pathos of that poor little murdered country girl! Her sad

letters! How she must have suffered! That weak defense!

Even the Griffiths of Denver were so shaken by the

evidence as the trial had progressed that they scarcely

dared read the papers openly—one to the other—but, for

the most part, read of it separately and alone, whispering

together afterwards of the damning, awful deluge of

circumstantial evidence. Yet, after reading Belknap’s

speech and Clyde’s own testimony, this little family group

that had struggled along together for so long coming to

believe in their own son and brother in spite of all they had

previously read against him. And because of this—during

the trial as well as afterwards—writing him cheerful and

hopeful letters, based frequently on letters from him in

which he insisted over and over again that he was not

guilty. Yet once convicted, and out of the depths of his

despair wiring his mother as he did—and the papers

confirming it—absolute consternation in the Griffiths family.

For was not this proof? Or, was it? All the papers seemed

to think so. And they rushed reporters to Mrs. Griffiths, who,

together with her little brood, had sought refuge from the

unbearable publicity in a remote part of Denver entirely

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removed from the mission world. A venal moving-van

company had revealed her address.

And now this American witness to the rule of God upon

earth, sitting in a chair in her shabby, nondescript

apartment, hard-pressed for the very means to sustain

herself—degraded by the milling forces of life and the fell

and brutal blows of chance—yet serene in her trust—and

declaring: “I cannot think this morning. I seem numb and

things look strange to me. My boy found guilty of murder!

But I am his mother and I am not convinced of his guilt by

any means! He has written me that he is not guilty and I

believe him. And to whom should he turn with the truth and

for trust if not to me? But there is He who sees all things

and who knows.”

At the same time there was so much in the long stream of