An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

forever, no doubt, all sentiment in connection with him. She

was free. She had beauty—wealth. Now some other——

He got up and walked to his cell door to still a great pain:

Over the way, in that cell the Chinaman had once occupied,

was a Negro—Wash Higgins. He had stabbed a waiter in a

restaurant, so it was said, who had refused him food and

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then insulted him. And next to him was a young Jew. He

had killed the proprietor of a jewelry store in trying to rob it.

But he was very broken and collapsed now that he was

here to die—sitting for the most part all day on his cot, his

head in his hands. Clyde could see both now from where

he stood—the Jew holding his head. But the Negro on his

cot, one leg above the other, smoking—and singing—

Oh, big wheel ro-a-lin’…. hmp!

Oh, big wheel ro-a-lin’… hmp!

Oh, big wheel ro-a-lin’… hmp!

Foh me! Foh me!

And then Clyde, unable to get away from his own thoughts,

turning again.

Condemned to die! He. And this was the end as to Sondra.

He could feel it. Farewell. “Although she is never to see you

again.” He threw himself on his couch—not to weep but to

rest—he felt so weary. Lycurgus. Fourth Lake. Bear Lake.

Laughter—kisses—smiles. What was to have been in the

fall of the preceding year. And now—a year later.

But then,—that young Jew. There was some religious chant

into which he fell when his mental tortures would no longer

endure silence. And oh, how sad. Many of the prisoners

had cried out against it. And yet, oh, how appropriate now,

somehow.

“I have been evil. I have been unkind. I have lied. Oh! Oh!

Oh! I have been unfaithful. My heart has been wicked. I

have joined with those who have done evil things. Ohl Oh!

Oh! I have stolen. I have been false. I have been cruel! Oh!

Oh! Oh!”

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And the voice of Big Tom Rooney sentenced for killing

Thomas Tighe, a rival for the hand of an underworld girl.

“For Christ’s sake! I know you feel bad. But so do I. Oh, for

God’s sake, don’t do that!”

Clyde, on his cot, his thoughts responding rhythmically to

the chant of the Jew—and joining with him silently—“I have

been evil. I have been unkind. I have lied. Oh! Oh! Oh! I

have been unfaithful. My heart has been wicked. I have

joined with those who have done evil things. Oh! Oh! Oh! I

have been false. I have been cruel. I have sought to

murder. Oh! Oh! Oh! And for what? A vain—impossible

dream! Oh! Oh! Oh! … Oh! Oh! Oh! …”

When the guard, an hour later, placed his supper on the

shelf in the door, he made no move. Food! And when the

guard returned in another thirty minutes, there it was, still

untouched, as was the Jew’s—and was taken away in

silence. Guards knew when blue devils had seized the

inmates of these cages. They couldn’t eat. And there were

times, too, when even guards couldn’t eat.

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Chapter 33

THE depression resulting even after two days was apparent

to the Reverend McMillan, who was concerned to know

why. More recently, he had been led to believe by Clyde’s

manner, his visits, if not the fact that the totality of his

preachments, had not been greeted with as much warmth

as he would have liked, that by degrees Clyde was being

won to his own spiritual viewpoint. With no little success, as

it had seemed to him, he had counseled Clyde as to the

folly of depression and despair. “What! Was not the peace

of God within his grasp and for the asking. To one who

sought God and found Him, as he surely would, if he

sought, there could be no sorrow, but only joy. ‘Hereby

know we that we dwell in Him, and He in us, because He

hath given us of His spirit.’” So he preached or read,—until

finally—two weeks after receiving the letter from Sondra

and because of the deep depression into which he had

sunk on account of it, Clyde was finally moved to request of

him that he try to induce the warden to allow him to be

taken to some other cell or room apart from this room or

cell which seemed to Clyde to be filled with too many of his

tortured thoughts, in order that he might talk with him and

get his advice. As he told the Reverend McMillan, he did

not apear to be able to solve his true responsibility in

connection with all that had so recently occurred in his life,

and because of which he seemed not to be able to find that

peace of mind of which McMillan talked so much. Perhaps

… ,—there must be something wrong with his viewpoint.

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Actually he would like to go over the offense of which he

was convicted and see if there was anything wrong in his

understanding of it. He was not so sure now. And McMillan,

greatly stirred,—an enormous spiritual triumph, this—as he

saw it—the true reward of faith and prayer, at once

proceeding to the warden, who was glad enough to be of

service in such a cause. And he permitted the use of one of

the cells in the old death house for as long as he should

require, and with no guard between himself and Clyde—

one only remaining in the general hall outside.

And there Clyde began the story of his relations with

Roberta and Sondra. Yet because of all that had been set

forth at the trial, merely referring to most of the evidence—

apart from his defense—the change of heart, as so;

afterwards dwelling more particularly on the fatal adventure

with Roberta in the boat. Did the Reverend McMillan—

because of the original plotting—and hence the original

intent—think him guilty?—especially in view of his

obsession over Sondra—all his dreams in regard to her—

did that truly constitute murder? He was asking this

because, as he said, it was as he had done—not as his

testimony at the trial had indicated that he had done. It was

a he that he had experienced a change of heart. His

attorneys had counseled that defense as best, since they

did not feel that he was guilty, and had thought that plan the

quickest route to liberty. But it was a lie. In connection with

his mental state also there, in the boat, before and after her

rising and attempting to come to him,—and that blow, and

after,—he had not told the truth either—quite. That

unintentional blow, as he now wished to explain, since it

affected his efforts at religious meditation,—a desire to

present himself honestly to his Creator, if at all (he did not

then explain that as yet he had scarcely attempted to so

present himself)—there was more to it than he had been

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able yet to make clear, even to himself. In fact even now to

himself there was much that was evasive and even

insoluble about it. He had said that there had been no anger

—that there had been a change of heart. But there had

been no change of heart. In fact, just before she had risen

to come to him, there had been a complex troubled state,

bordering, as he now saw it, almost upon trance or palsy,

and due—but he could starcely say to what it was due,

exactly. He had thought at first—or afterwards—that it was

partly due to pity for Roberta—or, at least the shame of so

much cruelty in connection with her—his plan to strike her.

At the same time there was anger, too,—hate maybe—

because of her determination to force him to do what he did

not wish to do. Thirdly—yet he was not so sure as to that—

(he had thought about it so long and yet he was not sure

even now)—there might have been fear as to the

consequences of such an evil deed—although, just at that

time, as it seemed to him now, he was not thinking of the

consequences—or of anything save his inability to do as he

had come to do—and feeling angry as to that.

Yet in the blow—the accidental blow that had followed upon

her rising and attempting to come to him, had been some

anger against her for wanting to come near him at all. And

that it was perhaps—he was truly not sure, even now, that

had given that blow its so destructive force. It was so

afterward, anyhow, that he was compelled to think of it. And

yet there was also the truth that in rising he was seeking to

save her—even in spite of his hate. That he was also, for

the moment at least, sorry for that blow. Again, though,