An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

Lycurgus Griffiths, for reasons of their own, had decided not

to aid him further. But she—if she were but able to face the

world with a sound claim—might still aid him. Had not the

Lord aided her thus far? Yet to face the world and the Lord

with her just one plea she must know from him—now—the

truth as to whether he had intentionally or unintentionally

struck Roberta—whether intentionally or unintentionally he

had left her to die. She had read the evidence and his

letters and had noted all the defects in his testimony. But

were those things as contended by Mason true or false?

Clyde, now as always overawed and thrown back on

himself by that uncompromising and shameless honesty

which he had never been able quite to comprehend in her,

announced, with all the firmness that he could muster—yet

with a secret quavering chill in his heart—that he had sworn

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to the truth. He had not done those things with which he

had been charged. He had not. But, alas, as she now said

to herself, on observing him, what was that about his eyes—

a faint flicker perhaps. He was not so sure—as self-

convinced and definite as she had hoped—as she had

prayed he would be. No, no, there was something in his

manner, his words, as he spoke—a faint recessive

intonation, a sense of something troubled, dubious,

perhaps, which quite froze her now.

He was not positive enough. And so he might have plotted,

in part at least, as she had feared at first, when she had first

heard of this—might have even struck her on that lone,

secret lake!—who could tell? (the searing, destroying power

of such a thought as that). And that in the face of all his

testimony to the contrary.

But “Jehovah, jirah, Thou wilt not require of a mother, in her

own and her son’s darkest hour, that she doubt him,—

make sure his death through her own lack of faith? Oh, no—

Thou wilt not. O Lamb of God, Thou wilt not!” She turned;

she bruised under her heel the scaly head of this dark

suspicion—as terrifying to her as his guilt was to him. “O

Absalom, my Absalom!” Come, come, we will not entertain

such a thought. God himself would not urge it upon a

mother. Was he not here—her son—before her, declaring

firmly that he had not done this thing. She must believe—

she would believe him utterly. She would—and did—

whatever fiend of doubt might still remain locked in the

lowest dungeon of her miserable heart. Come, come, the

public should know how she felt. She and her son would

find a way. He must believe and pray. Did he have a Bible?

Did he read it? And Clyde having been long since provided

with a Bible by a prison worker, assured her that he had

and did read it.

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But now she must go first to see his lawyers, next to file her

dispatch, after which she would return. But once out on the

street being immediately set upon by several reporters and

eagerly questioned as to the meaning of her presence here.

Did she believe in her son’s innocence? Did she or did she

not think that he had had a fair trial? Why had she not

come on before? And Mrs. Griffiths, in her direct and

earnest and motherly way, taking them into her confidence

and telling how as well as why she came to be here, also

why she had not come before.

But now that she was here she hoped to stay. The Lord

would provide the means for the salvation of her son, of

whose innocence she was convinced. Would they not ask

God to help her? Would they not pray for her success? And

with the several reporters not a little moved and impressed,

assuring her that they would, of course, and thereafter

describing her to the world at large as she was—middle-

aged, homely, religious, determined, sincere and earnest

and with a moving faith in the innocence of her boy.

But the Griffiths of Lycurgus, on hearing this, resenting her

coming as one more blow. And Clyde, in his cell, on reading

of it later, somewhat shocked by the gross publicity now

attending everything in connection with him, yet, because of

his mother’s presence, resigned and after a time almost

happy. Whatever her faults or defects, after all she was his

mother, wasn’t she? And she had come to his aid. Let the

public think what it would. Was he not in the shadow of

death and she at least had not deserted him. And with this,

her suddenly manifested skill in connecting herself in this

way with a Denver paper, to praise her for.

She had never done anything like this before. And who

knew but that possibly, and even in the face of her dire

poverty now, she might still be able to solve this matter of a

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new trial for him and to save his life? Who knew? And yet

how much and how indifferently he had sinned against her!

Oh, how much. And still here she was—his mother still

anxious and tortured and yet loving and seeking to save his

life by writing up his own conviction for a western paper. No

longer did the shabby coat and the outlandish hat and the

broad, immobile face and somewhat stolid and crude

gestures seem the racking and disturbing things they had

so little time since. She was his mother and she loved him,

and believed in him and was struggling to save him.

On the other hand Belknap and Jephson on first

encountering her were by no means so much impressed.

For some reason they had not anticipated so crude and

unlettered and yet convinced a figure. The wide, flat shoes.

The queer hat. The old brown coat. Yet somehow, after a

few moments, arrested by her earnestness and faith and

love for her son and her fixed, inquiring, and humanly clean

and pure blue eyes in which dwelt immaterial conviction

and sacrifice with no shadow of turning.

Did they personally think her son innocent? She must know

that first. Or did they secretly believe that he was guilty?

She had been so tortured by all the contradictory evidence.

God had laid a heavy cross upon her and hers.

Nevertheless, Blessed be His name! And both, seeing and

feeling her great concern, were quick to assure her that

they were convinced of Clyde’s innocence. If he were

executed for this alleged crime it would be a travesty on

justice.

Yet both, now that they saw her, troubled as to the source

of any further funds, her method of getting here, which she

now explained, indicating that she had nothing. And an

appeal sure to cost not less than two thousand. And Mrs.

Griffiths, after an hour in their presence, in which they made

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clear to her the basic cost of an appeal—covering briefs to

be prepared, arguments, trips to be made—asserting

repeatedly that she did not quite see how she was to do.

Then suddenly, and to them somewhat inconsequentially,

yet movingly and dramatically, exclaiming: “The Lord will

not desert me. I know it. He has declared himself unto me.

It was His voice there in Denver that directed me to that

paper. And now that I am here, I will trust Him and He will

guide me.”

But Belknap and Jephson merely looking at one another in

unconvinced and pagan astonishment. Such faith! An

exhorter! An Evangelist, no less! Yet to Jephson, here was

an idea! There was the religious element to be reckoned

with everywhere—strong in its agreement with just such

faith. Assuming the Griffiths of Lycurgus to remain obdurate

and unmoved—why then—why then—and now that she

was here—there were the churches and the religious

people generally. Might it not be possible, with such a

temperament and such faith as this, to appeal to the very

element that had hitherto most condemned Clyde and

made his conviction a certainty, for funds wherewith to carry

this case to the court of appeals? This lorn mother. Her faith

in her boy.

Presto!

A lecture, at so much for admission, and in which hard-

pressed as she was and could show, she would set forth

the righteousness of her boy’s claim—seek to obtain the

sympathy of the prejudiced public and incidentally two

thousand dollars or more with which this appeal could be

conducted.

And now Jephson, turning to her and laying the matter

before her and offering to prepare a lecture or notes—a

condensation of his various arguments—in fact, an entire

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lecture which she could re-arrange and present as she

chose—all the data which was the ultimate, basic truth in

regard to her son. And she, her brown cheeks flushing and

her eyes brightening, agreeing she would do it. She would