An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

blasting flash from his well-intentioned, though seemingly

impractical and nonsensical good deed. Had not a long,

practical struggle with life taught him that sentiment in

An American Tragedy

1099

business was folly? Up to the hour he had met Clyde he

had never allowed it to influence him in any way. But his

mistaken notion that his youngest brother had been unfairly

dealt with by their father! And now this! This! His wife and

daughter compelled to remove from the scene of their

happiest years and comforts and live as exiles—perhaps

forever—in one of the suburbs of Boston, or elsewhere—or

forever endure the eyes and sympathy of their friends! And

himself and Gilbert almost steadily conferring ever since as

to the wisdom of uniting the business in stock form with

some of the others of Lycurgus or elsewhere—or, if not

that, of transferring, not by degrees but speedily, to either

Rochester or Buffalo or Boston or Brooklyn, where a main

plant might be erected. The disgrace of this could only be

overcome by absenting themselves from Lycurgus and all

that it represented to them. They must begin life all over

again—socially at least. That did not mean so much to

himself or his wife—their day was about over anyhow. But

Bella and Gilbert and Myra—how to rehabilitate them in

some way, somewhere?

And so, even before the trial was finished, a decision on the

part of Samuel and Gilbert Griffiths to remove the business

to South Boston, where they might decently submerge

themselves until the misery and shame of this had in part at

least been forgotten.

And because of this further aid to Clyde absolutely refused.

And Belknap and Jephson then sitting down together to

consider. For obviously, their time being as valuable as it

was—devoted hitherto to the most successful practice in

Bridgeburg—and with many matters waiting on account of

the pressure of this particular case—they were by no

means persuaded that either their practical self-interest or

their charity permitted or demanded their assisting Clyde

without further recompense. In fact, the expense of

An American Tragedy

1100

appealing this case was going to be considerable as they

saw it. The record was enormous. The briefs would be

large and expensive, and the State’s allowance for them

was pitifully small. At the same time, as Jephson pointed

out, it was folly to assume that the western Griffiths might

not be able to do anything at all. Had they not been

identified with religious and charitable work this long while?

And was it dot possible, the tragedy of Clyde’s present

predicament pointed out to them, that they might through

appeals of various kinds raise at least sufficient money to

defray the actual costs of such an appeal? Of course, they

had not aided Clyde up to the present time but that was

because his mother had been notified that she was not

needed. It was different now.

“Better wire her to come on,” suggested Jephson,

practically. “We can get Oberwaltzer to set the sentence

over until the tenth if we say that she is trying to come on

here. Besides, just tell her to do it and if she says she can’t

we’ll see about the money then. But she’ll be likely to get it

and maybe some towards the appeal too.”

And forthwith a telegram and a letter to Mrs. Griffiths,

saying that as yet no word had been said to Clyde but none-

the-less his Lycurgus relatives had declined to assist him

further in any way. Besides, he was to be sentenced not

later than the tenth, and for his own future welfare it was

necessary that some one—preferably herself—appear. Also

that funds to cover the cost of an appeal be raised, or at

least the same guaranteed.

And then Mrs. Griffiths, on her knees praying to her God to

help her. Here, now, he must show his Almighty hand—his

never-failing mercy. Enlightenment and help must come

from somewhere—otherwise how was she to get the fare,

let alone raise money for Clyde’s appeal?

An American Tragedy

1101

Yet as she prayed—on her knees—a thought. The

newspapers had been hounding her for interviews. They

had followed her here and there. Why had she not gone to

her son’s aid? What did she think of this? What of that?

And now she said to herself, why should she not go to the

editor of one of the great papers so anxious to question her

always and tell him how great was her need? Also, that if

he would help her to reach her son in time to be with him on

his day of sentence that she, his mother, would report the

same for him. These papers were sending their reporters

here, there—even to the trial, as she had read. Why not her

—his mother? Could she not speak and write too? How

many, many tracts had she not composed?

And so now to her feet—only to sink once more on her

knees: “Thou hast answered me, oh, my God!” she

exclaimed. Then rising, she got out her ancient brown coat,

the commonplace brown bonnet with strings—based on

some mood in regard to religious livery—and at once

proceeded to the largest and most important newspaper.

And because of the notoriety of her son’s trial she was

shown directly to the managing editor, who was as much

interested as he was impressed and who listened to her

with respect and sympathy. He understood her situation

and was under the impression that the paper would be

interested in this. He disappeared for a few moments—then

returned. She would be employed as a correspondent for a

period of three weeks, and after that until further notice. Her

expenses to and fro would be covered. An assistant, into

whose hands he would now deliver her would instruct her

as to the method of preparing and filing her

communications. He would also provide her with some

ready cash. She might even leave tonight if she chose—the

sooner, the better. The paper would like a photograph or

two before she left. But as he talked, and as he noticed, her

An American Tragedy

1102

eyes were closed—her head back. She was offering thanks

to the God who had thus directly answered her plea.

An American Tragedy

1103

Chapter 28

BRIDGEBURG and a slow train that set down a tired, distrait

woman at its depot after midnight on the eighth of

December. Bitter cold and bright stars. A lone depot

assistant who on inquiry directed her to the Bridgeburg

Central House—straight up the street which now faced her,

then two blocks to her left after she reached the second

street. The sleepy night clerk of the Central House

providing her instantly with a room and, once he knew who

she was, directing her to the county jail. But she deciding

after due rumination that now was not the hour. He might

be sleeping. She would go to bed and rise early in the

morning. She had sent him various telegrams. He knew

that she was coming.

But as early as seven in the morning, rising, and by eight

appearing at the jail, letters, telegrams and credentials in

hand. And the jail officials, after examining the letters she

carried and being convinced of her identity, notifying Clyde

of her presence. And he, depressed and forlorn, on hearing

this news, welcoming the thought of her as much as at first

he had dreaded her coming. For now things were different.

All the long grim story had been told. And because of the

plausible explanation which Jephson had provided him, he

could face her perhaps and say without a quaver that it was

true—that he had not plotted to kill Roberta—that he had

not willingly left her to die in the water. And then hurrying

down to the visitor’s room, where, by the courtesy of Slack,

he was permitted to talk with his mother alone.

An American Tragedy

1104

On seeing her rise at his entrance, and hurrying to her, his

troubled intricate soul not a little dubious, yet confident also

that it was to find sanctuary, sympathy, help, perhaps—and

that without criticism—in her heart. And exclaiming with

difficulty, as a lump thickened in his throat: “Gee, Ma! I’m

glad you’ve come.” But she too moved for words—her

condemned boy in her arms—merely drawing his head to

her shoulder and then looking up. The Lord God had

vouchsafed her this much. Why not more? The ultimate

freedom of her son—or if not that, at least a new trial—a fair

consideration of the evidence in his favor which had not

been had yet, of course. And so they stood for several

moments.

Then news of home, the reason for her presence, her duty

as a correspondent to interview him—later to appear with

him in court at the hour of his sentence—a situation over

which Clyde winced. Yet now, as he heard from her, his

future was likely to depend on her efforts alone. The