An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

evidence, as well as Clyde’s first folly in Kansas City, that

had caused her to wonder—and fear. Why was he unable

to explain that folder? Why couldn’t he have gone to the

girl’s aid when he could swim so well? And why did he

proceed so swiftly to the mysterious Miss X—whoever she

was? Oh, surely, surely, surely, she was not going to be

compelled, in spite of all her faith, to believe that her eldest

—the most ambitious and hopeful, if restless, of all of her

children, was guilty of such a crime! No! She could not

doubt him—even now. Under the merciful direction of a

living God, was it not evil in a mother to believe evil of a

child, however dread his erring ways might seem? In the

silence of the different rooms of the mission, before she

had been compelled to remove from there because of

curious and troublesome visitors, had she not stood many

times in the center of one of those miserable rooms while

sweeping and dusting, free from the eye of any observer—

her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her strong, brown

face molded in homely and yet convinced and earnest lines

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—a figure out of the early Biblical days of her six-thousand-

year-old world—and earnestly directing her thoughts to that

imaginary throne which she saw as occupied by the living,

giant mind and body of the living God—her Creator. And

praying by the quarter and the half hour that she be given

strength and understanding and guidance to know of her

son’s innocence or guilt—and if innocent that this searing

burden of suffering be lifted from him and her and all those

dear to him and her—or if guilty, she be shown how to do—

how to endure the while he be shown how to wash from his

immortal soul forever the horror of the thing he had done—

make himself once more, if possible, white before the Lord.

“Thou art mighty, O God, and there is none beside Thee.

Behold, to Thee all things are possible. In Thy favor is Life.

Have mercy, O God. Though his sins be as scarlet, make

him white as snow. Though they be red like crimson, make

them as wool.”

Yet in her then—and as she prayed—was the wisdom of

Eve in regard to the daughters of Eve. That girl whom

Clyde was alleged to have slain—what about her? Had she

not sinned too? And was she not older than Clyde? The

papers said so. Examining the letters, line by line, she was

moved by their pathos and was intensely and pathetically

grieved for the misery that had befallen the Aldens.

Nevertheless, as a mother and woman full of the wisdom of

ancient Eve, she saw how Roberta herself must have

consented—how the lure of her must have aided in the

weakening and the betrayal of her son. A strong, good girl

would not have consented—could not have. How many

confessions about this same thing had she not heard in the

mission and at street meetings? And might it not be said in

Clyde’s favor—as in the very beginning of life in the Garden

of Eden—“the woman tempted me”?

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Truly—and because of that——

“His mercy endureth forever,” she quoted. And if His mercy

endureth—must that of Clyde’s mother be less?

“If ye have faith, so much as the grain of a mustard seed,”

she quoted to herself—and now, in the face of these

importuning reporters added: “Did my son kill her? That is

the question. Nothing else matters in the eyes of our

Maker,” and she looked at the sophisticated, callous youths

with the look of one who was sure that her God would

make them understand. And even so they were impressed

by her profound sincerity and faith. “Whether or not the jury

has found him guilty or innocent is neither here nor there in

the eyes of Him who holds the stars in the hollow of His

hand. The jury’s finding is of men. It is of the earth’s earthy.

I have read his lawyer’s plea. My ‘son himself has told me

in his letters that he is not guilty. I believe my son. I am

convinced that he is innocent.”

And Asa in another corner of the room, saying little.

Because of his lack of comprehension of the actualities as

well as his lack of experience of the stern and motivating

forces of passion, he was unable to grasp even a tithe of

the meaning of this. He had never understood Clyde or his

lacks or his feverish imaginings, so he said, and preferred

not to discuss him.

“But,” continued Mrs. Griffiths, “at no time have I shielded

Clyde in his sin against Roberta Alden. He did wrong, but

she did wrong too in not resisting him. There can be no

compromising with sin in any one. And though my heart

goes out in sympathy and love to the bleeding heart of her

dear mother and father who have suffered so, still we must

not fail to see that this sin was mutual and that the world

should know and judge accordingly. Not that I want to

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shield him,” she repeated. “He should have remembered

the teachings of his youth.” And here her lips compressed

in a sad and somewhat critical misery. “But I have read her

letters too. And I feel that but for them, the prosecuting

attorney would have no real case against my son. He used

them to work on the emotions of the jury.” She got up, tried

as by fire, and exclaimed, tensely and beautifully: “But he is

my son! He has just been convicted. I must think as a

mother how to help him, however I feel as to his sin.” She

gripped her hands together, and even the reporters were

touched by her misery. “I must go to him! I should have

gone before. I see it now.” She paused, discovering herself

to be addressing her inmost agony, need, fear, to these

public ears and voices, which might in no wise understand

or care.

“Some people wonder,” now interrupted one of these same

—a most practical and emotionally calloused youth of

Clyde’s own age—“why you weren’t there during the trial.

Didn’t you have the money to go?”

“I had no money,” she replied simply. “Not enough, anyhow.

And besides, they advised me not to come—that they did

not need me. But now—now I must go—in some way—I

must find out how.” She went to a small shabby desk, which

was a part of the sparse and colorless equipment of the

room. “You boys are going downtown,” she said. “Would

one of you send a telegram for me if I give you the money?”

“Sure!” exclaimed the one who had asked her the rudest

question. “Give it to me. You don’t need any money. I’ll

have the paper send it.” Also, as he thought, he would write

it up, or in, as part of his story.

She seated herself at the yellow and scratched desk and

after finding a small pad and pen, she wrote: “Clyde—Trust

in God. All things are possible to Him. Appeal at once.

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Read Psalm 51. Another trial will prove your innocence. We

will come to you soon. Father and Mother.”

“Perhaps I had just better give you the money,” she added,

nervously, wondering whether it would be well to permit a

newspaper to pay for this and wondering at the same time if

Clyde’s uncle would be willing to pay for an appeal. It might

cost a great deal. Then she added: “It’s rather long.”

“Oh, don’t bother about that!” exclaimed another of the trio,

who was anxious to read the telegram. “Write all you want.

We’ll see that it goes.”

“I want a copy of that,” added the third, in a sharp and

uncompromising tone, seeing that the first reporter was

proceeding to take and pocket the message. “This isn’t

private. I get it from you or her—now!”

And at this, number one, in order to avoid a scene, which

Mrs. Griffiths, in her slow way, was beginning to sense,

extracted the slip from his pocket and turned it over to the

others, who there and then proceeded to copy it.

At the same time that this was going on, the Griffiths of

Lycurgus, having been consulted as to the wisdom and cost

of a new trial, disclosed themselves as by no means

interested, let alone convinced, that an appeal—at least at

their expense—was justified. The torture and socially—if not

commercially—destroying force of all this—every hour of it

a Golgotha! Bella and her social future, to say nothing of

Gilbert and his—completely overcast and charred by this

awful public picture of the plot and crime that one of their

immediate blood had conceived and executed! Samuel

Griffiths himself, as well as his wife, fairly macerated by this