refusal on the part of the Court of Appeals to grant him a
new trial. Why not—after that jury at Bridgeburg? And then
—as in that dream in which he turned from the tangle of
snakes to face the tramping rhinoceros with its two horns—
he was confronted by that awful thing in the adjoining room
—that chair! That chair! Its straps and its flashes which so
regularly dimmed the lights in this room. He could not bear
to think of his entering there—ever. And yet supposing his
appeal was refused! Away! He would like to think no more
about it.
But then, apart from that what was there to think of? It was
that very question that up to the time of the arrival of the
Rev. Duncan McMillan, with his plea for a direct and
certainly (as he insisted) fruitful appeal to the Creator of all
things, that had been definitely torturing Clyde. Yet see—
how simple was his solution!
“It was given unto you to know the Peace of God,” he
insisted, quoting Paul and thereafter sentences from
Corinthians, Galatians, Ephesians, on how easy it was—if
Clyde would but repeat and pray as he had asked him to—
for him to know and delight in the “peace that passeth all
understanding.” It was with him, all around him. He had but
to seek; confess the miseries and errors of his heart, and
express contrition. “Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye
shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For every
one that asketh, receiveth; and he that seeketh, findeth;
and to him that knocketh it shall be opened. For what man
is there of you whom, if his son ask bread, will give him a
stone; or, if he ask fish, will give him a serpent?” So he
quoted, beautifully and earnestly.
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1154
And yet before Clyde always was the example of his father
and mother. What had they? It had not availed them much
—praying. Neither, as he noticed here, did it appear to avail
or aid these other condemned men, the majority of whom
lent themselves to the pleas or prayers of either priest or
rabbi or minister, one and the other of whom was about
daily. Yet were they not led to their death just the same—
and complaining or protesting, or mad like Cutrone, or
indifferent? As for himself, up to this he had not been
interested by any of these. Bunk. Notions. Of what? He
could not say. Nevertheless, here was the appealing Rev.
Duncan McMillan. His mild, serene eyes. His sweet voice.
His faith. It moved and intrigued Clyde deeply. Could there
—could there? He was so lonely—so despairing—so very
much in need of help.
Was it not also true (the teaching of the Rev. McMillan—
influencing him to that extent at least) that if he had led a
better life—had paid more attention to what his mother had
said and taught—not gone into that house of prostitution in
Kansas City—or pursued Hortense Briggs in the evil way
that he had—or after her, Roberta—had been content to
work and save, as no doubt most men were—would he not
be better off than he now was? But then again, there was
the fact or truth of those very strong impulses and desires
within himself that were so very, very hard to overcome. He
had thought of those, too, and then of the fact that many
other people like his mother, his uncle, his cousin, and this
minister here, did not seem to be troubled by them. And yet
also he was given to imagining at times that perhaps it was
because of superior mental and moral courage in the face
of passions and desires, equivalent to his own, which led
these others to do so much better. He was perhaps just
willfully devoting himself to these other thoughts and ways,
An American Tragedy
1155
as his mother and McMillan and most every one else whom
he had heard talk since his arrest seemed to think.
What did it all mean? Was there a God? Did He interfere in
the affairs of men as Mr. McMillan was now contending?
Was it possible that one could turn to Him, or at least some
creative power, in some such hour as this and when one
had always ignored Him before, and ask for aid? Decidedly
one needed aid under such circumstances—so alone and
ordered and controlled by law—not man—since these, all of
them, were the veriest servants of the law. But would this
mysterious power be likely to grant aid? Did it really exist
and hear the prayers of men? The Rev. McMillan insisted
yes. “He hath said God hath forgotten; He hideth His face.
But He has not forgotten. He has not hidden His face.” But
was that true? Was there anything to it? Tortured by the
need of some mental if not material support in the face of
his great danger, Clyde was now doing what every other
human in related circumstances invariably does—seeking,
and yet in the most indirect and involute and all but
unconscious way, the presence or existence at least of
some superhuman or supernatural personality or power that
could and would aid him in some way—beginning to veer—
however slightly or unconsciously as yet,—toward the
personalization and humanization of forces, of which,
except in the guise of religion, he had not the faintest
conception. “The Heavens declare the Glory of God, and
the Firmament sheweth His handiwork.” He recalled that as
a placard in one of his mother’s mission windows. And
another which read: “For He is Thy life and Thy length of
Days.” Just the same—and far from it as yet, even in the
face of his sudden predisposition toward the Rev. Duncan
McMillan, was he seriously moved to assume that in
religion of any kind was he likely to find surcease from his
present miseries?
An American Tragedy
1156
And yet the weeks and months going by—the Rev.
McMillan calling regularly thereafter, every two weeks at the
longest, sometimes every week and inquiring after his
state, listening to his wants, advising him as to his health
and peace of mind. And Clyde, anxious to retain his interest
and visits, gradually, more and more, yielding himself to his
friendship and influence. That high spirituality. That
beautiful voice. And quoting always such soothing things.
“Brethren now are we the children of God. And it doth not
yet appear what we shall be; but we know that when He
shall appear we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as
He is. And every man that has this hope in him purifieth
himself even as He is pure.”
“Hereby know that we dwell in Him and He in us, because
He hath given us of His spirit.”
“For ye are bought with a price.”
“Of His own will begot He us with the word of truth, and we
should be a kind of first fruits of His creatures. And every
good and every perfect gift is from above and cometh down
from the Father of lights, with whom is no variableness,
neither shadow of turning.”
“Draw nigh unto God and He will draw nigh unto you.”
He was inclined, at times, to feel that there might be peace
and strength—aid, even—who could say, in appealing to
this power. It was the force and the earnestness of the Rev.
McMillan operating upon him.
And yet, the question of repentance—and with it
confession. But to whom? The Rev. Duncan McMillan, of
course. He seemed to feel that it was necessary for Clyde
to purge his soul to him—or some one like him—a material
and yet spiritual emissary of God. But just there was the
trouble. For there was all of that false testimony he had
An American Tragedy
1157
given in the trial, yet on which had been based his appeal.
To go back on that now, and when his appeal was pending.
Better wait, had he not, until he saw how that appeal had
eventuated.
But, ah, how shabby, false, fleeting, insincere. To imagine
that any God would bother with a person who sought to
dicker in such a way. No, no. That was not right either.
What would the Rev. McMillan think of him if he knew what
he was thinking?
But again there was the troubling question in his own mind
as to his real guilt—the amount of it. True there was no
doubt that he had plotted to kill Roberta there at first—a
most dreadful thing as he now saw it. For the complications
and the fever in connection with his desire for Sondra
having subsided somewhat, it was possible on occasion
now for him to reason without the desperate sting and tang
of the mental state that had characterized him at the time
when he was so immediately in touch with her. Those
terrible, troubled days when in spite of himself—as he now