An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

by the still waters.’‘He restoreth my soul.’ We must put our

trust in Him. Besides,” she added, briskly and practically, as

much to strengthen herself as Clyde, “haven’t I already

arranged for an appeal? It is to be made yet this week.

They’re going to file a notice. And that means that your

case can’t even be considered under a year. But it is just

the shock of seeing you so. You see, I wasn’t quite

prepared for it.” She straightened her shoulders and now

An American Tragedy

1124

looked up and achieved a brave if strained smile. “The

warden here seems very kind, but still, somehow, when I

saw you just now——”

She dabbed at her eyes which were damp from this sudden

and terrific storm, and to divert herself as well as him she

talked of the so very necessary work before her. Messrs.

Belknap and Jephson had been so encouraging to her just

before she left. She had gone to their office and they had

urged her and him to be of good cheer. And now she was

going to lecture, and at once, and would soon have means

to do with that way. Oh, yes. And Mr. Jephson would be

down to see him one of these days soon. He was by no

means to feel that the legal end of all this had been

reached. Far from it. The recent verdict and sentence was

sure to be reversed and a new trial ordered. The recent one

was a farce, as he knew.

And as for herself—as soon as she found a room near the

prison—she was going to the principal ministers of Auburn

and see if she could not secure a church, or two, or three,

in which to speak and plead his cause. Mr. Jephson was

mailing her some information she could use within a day or

two. And after that, other churches in Syracuse, Rochester,

Albany, Schenectady—in fact many cities in the east—until

she had raised the necessary sum. But she would not

neglect him. She would see him at least once a week and

would write him a letter every other day, or maybe even

daily if she could. She would talk to the warden. So he must

not despair. She had much hard work ahead of her, of

course, but the Lord would guide her in all that she

undertook. She knew that. Had He not already shown his

gracious and miraculous mercy?

Clyde must pray for her and for himself. Read Isaiah. Read

the psalms—the 23rd and the 51st and 91st daily. Also

An American Tragedy

1125

Habbakuk. “Are there walls against the Hand of the Lord?”

And then after more tears, an utterly moving and

macerating scene, at last achieving her departure while

Clyde, shaken to his soul by so much misery, returned to

his cell. His mother. And at her age—and with so little

money—she was going out to try to raise the money

necessary to save him. And in the past he had treated her

so badly—as he now saw.

He sat down on the side of his cot and held his head in his

hands the while outside the prison—the iron door of the

same closed and only a lonely room and the ordeal of her

proposed lecture tour ahead of her—Mrs. Griffiths paused—

by no means so assured or convinced of all she had said to

Clyde. To be sure God would aid her. He must. Had He

ever failed her yet—completely? And now—here—in her

darkest hour, her son’s! Would He?

She paused for a moment a little later in a small parking-

place, beyond the prison, to stare at the tall, gray walls, the

watch towers with armed guards in uniform, the barred

windows and doors. A penitentiary. And her son was now

within—worse yet, in that confined and narrow death house.

And doomed to die in an electric chair. Unless—unless——

But, no, no—that should not be. It could not be. That

appeal. The money for it. She must busy herself as to that

at once—not think or brood or despair. Oh, no. “My shield

and my buckler.”“My Light and my Strength.”“Oh, Lord,

Thou art my strength and my deliverance. In Thee will I

trust.” And then dabbing at her eyes once more and adding:

“Oh, Lord, I believe. Help Thou mine unbelief.”

So Mrs. Griffiths, alternately praying and crying as she

walked.

An American Tragedy

1126

Chapter 30

BUT after this the long days in prison for Clyde. Except for a

weekly visit from his mother, who, once she was entered

upon her work, found it difficult to see him more often than

that—traveling as she did in the next two months between

Albany and Buffalo and even New York City—but without

the success she had at first hoped for. For in the matter of

her appeal to the churches and the public—as most wearily

(and in secret if not to Clyde)—and after three weeks of

more or less regional and purely sectarian trying, she was

compelled to report the Christians at least were very

indifferent—not as Christian as they should be. For as all,

but more particularly the ministers of the region, since they

most guardedly and reservedly represented their

congregations in every instance, unanimously saw it, here

was a notorious and, of course, most unsavory trial which

had resulted in a conviction with which the more

conservative element of the country—if one could judge by

the papers at least, were in agreement.

Besides who was this woman—as well as her son? An

exhorter—a secret preacher—one, who in defiance of all

the tenets and processes of organized and historic, as well

as hieratic, religious powers and forms (theological

seminaries, organized churches and their affiliations and

product—all carefully and advisedly and legitimately

because historically and dogmatically interpreting the word

of God) choosing to walk forth and without ordination after

any fashion conduct an unauthorized and hence

An American Tragedy

1127

nondescript mission. Besides if she had remained at home,

as a good mother should, and devoted herself to her son,

as well as to her other children—their care and education—

would this—have happened?

And not only that—but according to Clyde’s own testimony

in this trial, had he not been guilty of adultery with this girl —

whether he had slain her or not? A sin almost equal to

murder in many minds. Had he not confessed it? And was

an appeal for a convicted adulterer—if not murderer (who

could tell as to that?) to be made in a church? No,—no

Christian church was the place to debate, and for a charge,

the merits of this case, however much each Christian of

each and every church might sympathize with Mrs. Griffiths

personally—or resent any legal injustice that might have

been done her son. No, no. It was not morally advisable. It

might even tend to implant in the minds of the young some

of the details of the crime.

Besides, because of what the newspapers had said of her

coming east to aid her son and the picture that she herself

presented in her homely garb, it was assumed by most

ministers that she was one of those erratic persons, not a

constituent of any definite sect, or schooled theology, who

tended by her very appearance to cast contempt on true

and pure religion.

And in consequence, each in turn—not hardening his heart

exactly—but thinking twice—and deciding no—there must

be some better way—less troublesome to Christians,—a

public hall, perhaps, to which Christians, if properly

appealed to through the press, might well repair. And so

Mrs. Griffiths, in all but one instance, rejected in that fashion

and told to go elsewhere—while in regard to the Catholics—

instinctively—because of prejudice—as well as a certain

dull wisdom not inconsistent with the facts—she failed even

An American Tragedy

1128

to so much as think of them. The mercies of Christ as

interpreted by the holder of the sacred keys of St. Peter, as

she knew, were not for those who failed to acknowledge

the authority of the Vicar of Christ.

And therefore after many days spent in futile knockings

here and there she was at last compelled—and in no little

depression, to appeal to a Jew who controlled the principal

moving picture theater of Utica—a sinful theater. And from

him, this she secured free for a morning address on the

merits of her son’s case—“A mother’s appeal for her son,” it

was entitled—which netted her, at twenty-five cents per

person—the amazing sum of two hundred dollars. At first

this sum, small as it was, so heartened her that she was

now convinced that soon—whatever the attitude of the

orthodox Christians—she would earn enough for Clyde’s

appeal. It might take time—but she would.

Nevertheless, as she soon discovered, there were other

factors to be considered—carfare, her own personal

expenses in Utica and elsewhere, to say nothing of certain

very necessary sums to be sent to Denver to her husband,

who had little or nothing to go on at present, and who,