An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

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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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,

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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?

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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

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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