An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

once the boat had upset and both were in the water—in all

that confusion, and when she was drowning, he had been

moved by the thought: “Do nothing.” For thus he would be

rid of her. Yes, he had so thought. But again, there was the

fact that all through, as Mr. Belknap and Mr. Jephson had

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pointed out, he had been swayed by his obsession for Miss

X, the super motivating force in connection with all of this.

But now, did the Reverend McMillan, considering all that

went before and all that came after—the fact that the

unintentional blow still had had anger in it—angry

dissatisfaction with her—really—and that afterwards he had

not gone to her rescue—as now—honestly and truly as he

was trying to show—did he think that that constituted

murder—mortal blood guilt for which spiritually, as well as

legally, he might be said to deserve death? Did he? He

would like to know for his own soul’s peace—so that he

could pray, maybe.

The Reverend McMillan hearing all this—and never in his

life before having heard or having had passed to him so

intricate and elusive and strange a problem—and because

of Clyde’s faith in and regard for him, enormously

impressed. And now sitting before him quite still and

pondering most deeply, sadly and even nervously—so

serious and important was this request for an opinion—

something which, as he knew, Clyde was counting on to

give him earthly and spiritual peace. But, none-the-less, the

Reverend McMillan was himself too puzzled to answer so

quickly.

“Up to the time you went in that boat with her, Clyde, you

had not changed in your mood toward her—your intention to

—to——”

The Reverend McMillan’s face was gray and drawn. His

eyes were sad. He had been listening, as he now felt, to a

sad and terrible story—an evil and cruel self-torturing and

destroying story. This young boy—really——I His hot,

restless heart which plainly for the lack of so many things

which he, the Reverend McMillan, had never wanted for,

had rebelled. And because of that rebellion had sinned

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mortally and was condemned to die. Indeed his reason was

as intensely troubled as his heart was moved.

“No, I had not.”

“You were, as you say, angry with yourself for being so

weak as not to be able to do what you had planned to do.”

“In a way it was like that, yes. But then I was sorry, too, you

see. And maybe afraid. I’m not exactly sure now. Maybe

not, either.”

The Reverend McMillan shook his head. So strange! So

evasive! So evil! And yet——

“But at the same time, as you say, you were angry with her

for having driven you to that point.”

“Yes.”

“Where you were compelled to wrestle with so terrible a

problem?”

“Yes.”

“Tst! Tst! Tst! And so you thought of striking her.”

“Yes, I did.”

“But you could not.”

“No.”

“Praised be the mercy of God. Yet in the blow that you did

strike—unintentionally—as you say—there was still some

anger against her. That was why the blow was so—so

severe. You did not want her to come near you.”

“No, I didn’t. I think I didn’t, anyhow. I’m not quite sure. It

may be that I wasn’t quite right. Anyhow—all worked up, I

guess—sick almost. I—I———” In his uniform—his hair

cropped so close, Clyde sat there, trying honestly now to

think how it really was (exactly) and greatly troubled by his

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inability to demonstrate to himself even—either his guilt or

his lack of guilt. Was he—or was he not? And the Reverend

McMillan—himself intensely strained, muttering: “Wide is

the gate and broad the way that leadeth to destruction.”

And yet finally adding: “But you did rise to save her.”

“Yes, afterwards, I got up. I meant to catch her after she fell

back. That was what upset the boat.”

“And you did really want to catch her?”

“I don’t know. At the moment I guess I did. Anyhow I felt

sorry, I think.”

“But can you say now truly and positively, as your Creator

sees you, that you were sorry—or that you wanted to save

her then?”

“It all happened so quick, you see,” began Clyde nervously

—hopelessly, almost, “that I’m not just sure. No, I don’t

know that I was so very sorry. No. I really don’t know, you

see, now. Sometimes I think maybe I was, a little,

sometimes not, maybe. But after she was gone and I was

on shore, I felt sorry—a little. But I was sort of glad, too, you

know, to be free, and yet frightened, too——You see——”

“Yes, I know. You were going to that Miss X. But out there,

when she was in the water——?”

“No.”

“You did not want to go to her rescue?”

“No.”

“Tst! Tst! Tst! You felt no sorrow? No shame? Then?”

“Yes, shame, maybe. Maybe sorrow, too, a little. I knew it

was terrible. I felt that it was, of course. But still—you see

——”

“Yes, I know. That Miss X. You wanted to get away.”

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“Yes—but mostly I was frightened, and I didn’t want to help

her.”

“Yes! Yes! Tst! Tst! Tst! If she drowned you could go to that

Miss X. You thought of that?” The Reverend McMillan’s lips

were tightly and sadly compressed.

“Yes.”

“My son! My son! In your heart was murder then.”

“Yes, yes,” Clyde said reflectively. “I have thought since it

must have been that way.”

The Reverend McMillan paused and to hearten himself for

this task began to pray—but silently—and to himself: “Our

Father who art in Heaven—hallowed be Thy name. Thy

Kingdom come, Thy will be done—on earth as it is in

Heaven.” He stirred again after a time.

“Ah, Clyde. The mercy of God is equal to every sin. I know

it. He sent His own son to die for the evil of the world. It

must be so—if you will but repent. But that thought! That

deed! You have much to pray for, my son—much. Oh, yes.

For in the sight of God, I fear,—yes——And yet—— I must

pray for enlightenment. This is a strange and terrible story.

There are so many phases. It may be but pray. Pray with

me now that you and I may have light.” He bowed his head.

He sat for minutes in silence—while Clyde, also, in silence

and troubled doubt, sat before him. Then, after a time he

began:

“Oh, Lord, rebuke me not in thine anger; neither chasten

me in Thy hot displeasure. Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I

am weak. Heal me in my shame and sorrow for my soul is

wounded and dark in Thy sight. Oh, let the wickedness of

my heart pass. Lead me, O God, into Thy righteousness.

Let the wickedness of my heart pass and remember it not.”

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Clyde—his head down—sat still—very still. He, himself, was

at last shaken and mournful. No doubt his sin was very

great. Very, very terrible! And yet—— But then, the

Reverend McMillan ceasing and rising, he, too, rose, the

while McMillan added: “But I must go now. I must think—

pray. This has troubled and touched me deeply. Oh, very,

Lord. And you—my son—you return and pray—alone.

Repent. Ask of God on your knees His forgiveness and He

will hear you. Yes, He will. And to-morrow—or as soon as I

honestly can—I will come again. But do not despair. Pray

always—for in prayer alone, prayer and contrition, is

salvation. Rest in the strength of Him who holds the world

in the hollow of His hand. In His abounding strength and

mercy, is peace and forgiveness. Oh, yes.”

He struck the iron door with a small key ring that he carried

and at once the guard, hearing it, returned.

Then having escorted Clyde to his cell and seen him once

more shut within that restraining cage, he took his own

departure, heavily and miserably burdened with all that he

had heard. And Clyde was left to brood on all he had said—

and how it had affected McMillan, as well as himself. His

new friend’s stricken mood. The obvious pain and horror

with which he viewed it all. Was he really and truly guilty?

Did he really and truly deserve to die for this? Was that

what the Reverend McMillan would decide? And in the face

of all his tenderness and mercy?

And another week in which, moved by Clyde’s seeming

contrition, and all the confusing and extenuating

circumstances of his story, and having wrestled most

earnestly with every moral aspect of it, the Reverend

McMillan once more before his cell door—but only to say

that however liberal or charitable his interpretation of the

facts, as at last Clyde had truthfully pictured them, still he

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could not feel that either primarily or secondarily could he

be absolved from guilt for her death. He had plotted—had