An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

say. It is from Psalm 10:11: ‘He hath said in his heart, God

hath forgotten. He hideth His face.’ And I am told to say to

you that He does not hide His face. Rather I am told to

quote this to you from the Eighteenth Psalm: ‘They

prevented me in the day of my calamity, but the Lord was

my stay. He sent from above, He took me, He drew me out

of many waters.’

“‘He delivered me from my strong enemy.

“‘And from them which hated me, for they were too many

for me.

“‘He brought. me forth also unto a large place.

“‘He delivered me because He delighted in me.’

“Clyde, those are all words addressed to you. They come to

me here to say to you just as though they were being

whispered to me. I am but the mouthpiece for these words

spoken direct to you. Take counsel with your own heart.

Turn from the shadow to the light. Let us break these bonds

of misery and gloom; chase these shadows and this

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darkness. You have sinned. The Lord can and will forgive.

Repent. Join with Him who has shaped the world and

keeps it. He will not spurn your faith; He will not neglect

your prayers. Turn—in yourself—in the confines of this cell—

and say: ‘Lord, help me. Lord, hear Thou my prayer. Lord,

lighten mine eyes!’

“Do you think there is no God—and that He will not answer

you? Pray. In your trouble turn to Him—not me—or any

other. But to Him. Pray. Speak to Him. Call to Him. Tell Him

the truth and ask for help. As surely as you are here before

me—and if in your heart you truly repent of any evil you

have done— truly, truly, you will hear and feel Him. He will

take your hand. He will enter this cell and your soul. You will

know Him by the peace and the light that will fill your mind

and heart. Pray. And if you need me again to help you in

any way—to pray with you—or to do you any service of any

kind—to cheer you in your loneliness—you have only to

send for me; drop me a card. I have promised your mother

and I will do what I can. The warden has my address.” He

paused, serious and conclusive in his tone—because up to

this time, Clyde had looked more curious and astonished

than anything else.

At the same time because of Clyde’s extreme youthfulness

and a certain air of lonely dependence which marked him

ever since his mother and Nicholson had gone: “I’ll always

be in easy reach. I have a lot of religious work over in

Syracuse but I’ll be glad to drop it at any time that I can

really do anything more for you.” And here he turned as if to

go.

But Clyde, now taken by him—his vital, confident and kindly

manner—so different to the tense, fearful and yet lonely life

here, called after him: “Oh, don’t go just yet. Please don’t.

It’s very nice of you to come and see me and I’m obliged to

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you. My mother wrote me you might. You see, it’s very

lonely here. I haven’t thought much of what you were

saying, perhaps, because I haven’t felt as guilty as some

think I am. But I’ve been sorry enough. And certainly any

one in here pays a good deal.” His eyes looked very sad

and strained.

And at once, McMillan, now deeply touched for the first time

replied: “Clyde, you needn’t worry. I’ll come to see you

again within a week, because now I see you need me. I’m

not asking you to pray because I think you are guilty of the

death of Roberta Alden. I don’t know. You haven’t told me.

Only you and God know what your sins and your sorrows

are. But I do know you need spiritual help and He will give

you that—oh, fully. ‘The Lord will be a refuge for the

oppressed; a refuge in time of trouble.’”

He smiled as though he were now really fond of Clyde. And

Clyde feeling this and being intrigued by it, replied that there

wasn’t anything just then that he wanted to say except to

tell his mother that he was all right—and make her feel a

little better about him, maybe, if he could. Her letters were

very sad, he thought. She worried too much about him.

Besides he, himself, wasn’t feeling so very good—not a

little run down and worried these days. Who wouldn’t be in

his position? Indeed, if only he could win to spiritual peace

through prayer, he would be glad to do it. His mother had

always urged him to pray—but up to now he was sorry to

say he hadn’t followed her advice very much. He looked

very distrait and gloomy—the marked prison pallor having

long since settled on his face.

And the Reverend Duncan, now very much touched by his

state, replied: “Well, don’t worry, Clyde. Enlightenment and

peace are surely going to come to you. I can see that. You

have a Bible there, I see. Open it anywhere in Psalms and

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read. The 51st, 91st, 23rd. Open to St. John. Read it all—

over and over. Think and pray—and think on all the things

about you—the moon, the stars, the sun, the trees, the sea

—your own beating heart, your body and strength—and ask

yourself who made them. How did they come to be? Then,

if you can’t explain them, ask yourself if the one who made

them and you—whoever he is, whatever he is, wherever he

is, isn’t strong and wise enough and kind enough to help

you when you need help—provide you with light and peace

and guidance, when you need them. Just ask yourself what

of the Maker of all this certain reality. And then ask Him—

the Creator of it all—to tell you how and what to do. Don’t

doubt. Just ask and see. Ask in the night—in the day. Bow

your head and pray and see. Verily, He will not fail you. I

know because I have that peace.”

He stared at Clyde convincingly—then smiled and

departed. And Clyde, leaning against his cell door, began to

wonder. The Creator! His Creator! The Creator of the

World! … Ask and see——!

And yet—there was still lingering here in him that old

contempt of his for religion and its fruits,—the constant and

yet fruitless prayers and exhortations of his father and

mother. Was he going to turn to religion now, solely

because he was in difficulties and frightened like these

others? He hoped not. Not like that, anyway.

Just the same the mood, as well as the temperament of the

Reverend Duncan McMillan—his young, forceful, convinced

and dramatic body, face, eyes, now intrigued and then

moved Clyde as no religionist or minister in all his life

before ever had. He was interested, arrested and charmed

by the man’s faith—whether at once or not at all—ever—he

could come to put the reliance in it that plainly this man did.

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Chapter 32

THE personal conviction and force of such an individual as

the Reverend McMillan, while in one sense an old story to

Clyde and not anything which so late as eighteen months

before could have moved him in any way (since all his life

he had been accustomed to something like it), still here,

under these circumstances, affected him differently.

Incarcerated, withdrawn from the world, compelled by the

highly circumscribed nature of this death house life to find

solace or relief in his own thoughts, Clyde’s, like every other

temperament similarly limited, was compelled to devote

itself either to, the past, the present or the future. But the

past was so painful to contemplate at any point. It seared

and burned. And the present (his immediate surroundings)

as well as the future with its deadly fear of what was certain

to happen in case his appeal failed, were two phases

equally frightful to his waking consciousness.

What followed then was what invariably follows in the wake

of every tortured consciousness. From what it dreads or

hates, yet knows or feels to be unescapable, it takes refuge

in that which may be hoped for—or at least imagined. But

what was to be hoped for or imagined? Because of the new

suggestion offered by Nicholson, a new trial was all that he

had to look forward to, in which case, and assuming himself

to be acquitted thereafter, he could go far, far away—to

Australia—or Africa—or Mexico—or some such place as

that, where, under a different name—his old connections

and ambitions relating to that superior social life that had so

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recently intrigued him, laid aside, he might recover himself

in some small way. But directly in the path of that hopeful

imagining, of course, stood the death’s head figure of a