An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

try. She could do no less than try. Verily, verily, was not this

the Voice and Hand of God in the darkest hour of her

tribulation?

On the following morning Clyde was arraigned for sentence,

with Mrs. Griffiths given a seat near him and seeking, paper

and pencil in hand, to make notes of, for her, an unutterable

scene, while a large crowd surveyed her. His own mother!

And acting as a reporter! Something absurd, grotesque,

insensitive, even ludicrous, about such a family and such a

scene. And to think the Griffiths of Lycurgus should be so

immediately related to them.

Yet Clyde sustained and heartened by her presence. For

had she not returned to the jail the previous afternoon with

her plan? And as soon as this was over—whatever the

sentence might be—she would begin with her work.

And so, and that almost in spite of himself, in his darkest

hour, standing up before Justice Oberwaltzer and listening

first to a brief recital of his charge and trial (which was

pronounced by Oberwaltzer to have been fair and

impartial), then to the customary: “Have you any cause

which shows why the judgment of death should not now be

pronounced against you according to law?”—to which and

to the astonishment of his mother and the auditors (if not

Jephson, who had advised and urged him so to do), Clyde

now in a clear and firm voice replied:

“I am innocent of the crime as charged in the indictment. I

never killed Roberta Alden and therefore I think this

sentence should not be passed.”

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1110

And then staring straight before him conscious only of the

look of admiration and love turned on him by his mother.

For had not her son now declared himself, here at this fatal

moment, before all these people? And his word here, if not

in that jail, would be true, would it not? Then her son was

not guilty. He was not. He was not. Praised be the name of

the Lord in the highest. And deciding to make a great point

of this in her dispatch—so as to get it in all the papers, and

in her lecture afterwards.

However, Oberwaltzer, without the faintest sign of surprise

or perturbation, now continued: “Is there anything else you

care to say?”

“No,” replied Clyde, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Clyde Griffiths,” then concluded Oberwaltzer, “the

judgment of the Court is that you, Clyde Griffiths, for the

murder in the first degree of one, Roberta Alden, whereof

you are convicted, be, and you are hereby sentenced to the

punishment of death; and it is ordered that, within ten days

after this day’s session of Court, the Sheriff of this county of

Cataraqui deliver you, together with the warrant of this

Court, to the Agent and Warden of the State Prison of the

State of New York at Auburn, where you shall be kept in

solitary confinement until the week beginning Monday the

28th day of January, 19—, and, upon some day within the

week so appointed, the said Agent and Warden of the State

Prison of the State of New York at Auburn is commended to

do execution upon you, Clyde Griffiths, in the mode and

manner prescribed by the laws of the State of New York.”

And that done, a smile from Mrs. Griffiths to her boy and an

answering smile from Clyde to her. For since he had

announced that he was not guilty— here— her spirit had

risen in the face of this sentence. He was really innocent,—

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1111

he must be, since he had declared it here. And Clyde

because of her smile saying to himself, his mother believed

in him now. She had not been swayed by all the evidence

against him. And this faith, mistaken or not, was now so

sustaining—so needed. What he had just said was true as

he now saw it. He had not struck Roberta. That was true.

And therefore he was not guilty. Yet Kraut and Slack were

once more seizing him and escorting him to the cell.

Immediately thereafter his mother seating herself at a press

table proceeded to explain to contiguous press

representatives now curiously gathering about her: “You

mustn’t think too badly of me, you gentlemen of the papers.

I don’t know much about this but it is the only way I could

think of to be with my boy. I couldn’t have come otherwise.”

And then one lanky correspondent stepping up to say:

“Don’t worry, mother. Is there any way I can help you?

Want me to straighten out what you want to say? I’ll be glad

to.” And then sitting down beside her and proceeding to

help her arrange her impressions in the form in which he

assumed her Denver paper might like them. And others as

well offering to do anything they could—and all greatly

moved.

Two days later, the proper commitment papers having been

prepared and his mother notified of the change but not

permitted to accompany him, Clyde was removed to

Auburn, the Western penitentiary of the State of New York,

where in the “death house” or “Murderers’ Row,” as it was

called—as gloomy and torturesome an inferno as one could

imagine any human compelled to endure—a combination of

some twenty-two cells on two separate levels—he was to

be restrained until ordered retried or executed.

Yet as he traveled from Bridgeburg to this place, impressive

crowds at every station—young and old—men, women and

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1112

children—all seeking a glimpse of the astonishingly youthly

slayer. And girls and women, under the guise of kindly

interest, but which, at best, spelled little more than a desire

to achieve a facile intimacy with this daring and romantic, if

unfortunate figure, throwing him a flower here and there

and calling to him gayly and loudly as the train moved out

from one station or another:

“Hello, Clyde! Hope to see you soon again. Don’t stay too

long down there.”“If you take an appeal, you’re sure to be

acquitted. We hope so, anyhow.”

And with Clyde not a little astonished and later even

heartened by this seemingly favorable discrepancy between

the attitude of the crowds in Bridgeburg and this sudden,

morbid, feverish and even hectic curiosity here, bowing and

smiling and even waving with his hand. Yet thinking, none

the less, “I am on the way to the death house and they can

be so friendly. It is a wonder they dare.” And with Kraut and

Sissel, his guards, because of the distinction and notoriety

of being both his captors and jailors, as well also because

of these unusual attentions from passengers on the train

and individuals in these throngs without being themselves

flattered and ennobled.

But after this one brief colorful flight in the open since his

arrest, past these waiting throngs and over winter sunlit

fields and hills of snow that reminded him of Lycurgus,

Sondra, Roberta, and all that he had so kaleidoscopically

and fatally known in the twenty months just past, the gray

and restraining walls of Auburn itself—with, once he was

presented to a clerk in the warden’s office and his name

and crime entered in the books—himself assigned to two

assistants, who saw to it that he was given a prison bath

and hair cut—all the wavy, black hair he so much admired

cut away—a prison-striped uniform and hideous cap of the

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1113

same material, prison underwear and heavy gray felt shoes

to quiet the restless prison tread in which in time he might

indulge, together with the number, 77221.

And so accoutered, immediately transferred to the death

house proper, where in a cell on the ground floor he was

now locked—a squarish light clean space, eight by ten feet

in size and fitted with sanitary plumbing as well as a cot

bed, a table, a chair and a small rack for books. And here

then, while he barely sensed that there were other cells

about him—ranging up and down a wide hall—he first stood

—and then seated himself—now no longer buoyed by the

more intimate and sociable life of the jail at Bridgeburg—or

those strange throngs and scenes that had punctuated his

trip here.

The hectic tensity and misery of these hours! That sentence

to die; that trip with all those people calling to him; that

cutting of his hair downstairs in that prison barber shop—

and by a convict; the suit and underwear that was now his

and that he now had on. There was no mirror here—or

anywhere,—but no matter—he could feel how he looked.

This baggy coat and trousers and this striped cap. He threw

it hopelessly to the floor. For but an hour before he had

been clothed in a decent suit and shirt and tie and shoes,

and his appearance had been neat and pleasing as he

himself had thought as he left Bridgeburg. But now—how

must he look? And to-morrow his mother would be coming