An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

McMillan here? No doubt. And maybe gladly, too. And yet—

In his momentary trance he was unconscious of the fact

that the Reverend Duncan was whispering:

“But you see we haven’t reached the end of this yet. There

is a new Governor coming into office in January. He is a

very sensible and kindly man, I hear. In fact I know several

people who know him—and it is my plan to see him

personally—as well as to have some other people whom I

know write him on the strength of what I will tell them.”

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But from Clyde’s look at the moment, as well as what he

now said, he could tell that he was not listening.

“My mother. I suppose some one ought to telegraph her.

She is going to feel very bad.” And then: “I don’t suppose

they believed that those letters shouldn’t have been

introduced just as they were, did they? I thought maybe

they would.” He was thinking of Nicholson.

“Don’t worry, Clyde,” replied the tortured and saddened

McMillan, at this point more eager to take him in his arms

and comfort him than to say anything at all. “I have already

telegraphed your mother. As for that decision—I will see

your lawyers right away. Besides—as I say—I propose to

see the Governor myself. He is a new man, you see.”.

Once more he was now repeating all that Clyde had not

heard before.

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Chapter 34

THE scene was the executive chamber of the newly elected

Governor of the State of New York some three weeks after

the news conveyed to Clyde by McMillan. After many

preliminary and futile efforts on the part of Belknap and

Jephson to obtain a commutation of the sentence of Clyde

from death to life imprisonment (the customary filing of a

plea for clemency, together with such comments as they

had to make in regard to the way the evidence had been

misinterpreted and the illegality of introducing the letters of

Roberta in their original form, to all of which Governor

Waltham, an ex-district attorney and judge from the

southern part of the state, had been conscientiously

compelled to reply that he could see no reason for

interfering) there was now before Governor Waltham Mrs.

Griffiths together with the Reverend McMillan. For, moved

by the widespread interest in the final disposition of Clyde’s

case, as well as the fact that his mother, because of her

unshaken devotion to him, and having learned of the

decision of the Court of Appeals, had once more returned

to Auburn and since then had been appealing to the

newspapers, as well as to himself through letters for a

correct understanding of the extenuating circumstances

surrounding her son’s downfall, and because she herself

had repeatedly appealed to him for a personal interview in

which she should be allowed to present her deepest

convictions in regard to all this, the Governor had at last

consented to see her. It could do no harm. Besides it would

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tend to soothe her. Also variable public sentiment, whatever

its convictions in any given case, was usually on the side of

the form or gesture of clemency —without, however, any

violence to its convictions. And, in this case, if one could

judge by the newspapers, the public was convinced that

Clyde was guilty. On the other hand, Mrs. Griffiths, owing to

her own long meditations in regard to Clyde, Roberta, his

sufferings during and since the trial, the fact that according

to the Reverend McMillan he had at last been won to a

deep contrition and a spiritual union with his Creator

whatever his original sin, was now more than ever

convinced that humanity and even justice demanded that at

least he be allowed to live. And so standing before the

Governor, a tall, sober and somewhat somber man who,

never in all his life had even so much as sensed the fevers

or fires that Clyde had known, yet who, being a decidedly

affectionate father and husband, could very well sense

what Mrs. Griffiths’ present emotions must be. Yet greatly

exercised by the compulsion which the facts, as he

understood them, as well as a deep-seated and

unchangeable submission to law and order, thrust upon

him. Like the pardon clerk before him, he had read all the

evidence submitted to the Court of Appeals, as well as the

latest briefs submitted by Belknap and Jephson. But on

what grounds could he—David Waltham, and without any

new or varying data of any kind—just a re-interpretation of

the evidence as already passed upon—venture to change

Clyde’s death sentence to life imprisonment? Had not a

jury, as well as the Court of Appeals, already said he should

die?

In consequence, as Mrs. Griffiths began her plea, her voice

shaky—retracing as best she could the story of Clyde’s life,

his virtues, the fact that at no time ever had he been a bad

or cruel boy—that Roberta, if not Miss X, was not entirely

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guiltless in the matter—he merely gazed at her deeply

moved. The love and devotion of such a mother! Her agony

in this hour; her faith that her son could not be as evil as the

proven facts seemed to indicate to him and every one else.

“Oh, my dear Governor, how can the sacrifice of my son’s

life now, and when spiritually he has purged his soul of sin

and is ready to devote himself to the work of God, repay the

state for the loss of that poor, dear girl’s life, whether it was

accidentally or otherwise taken—how can it? Can not the

millions of people of the state of New York be merciful?

Cannot you as their representative exercise the mercy that

they may feel?”

Her voice broke—she could not go on. Instead she turned

her back and began to cry silently, while Waltham, shaken

by an emotion he could not master, merely stood there.

This poor woman! So obviously honest and sincere. Then

the Reverend McMillan, seeing his opportunity, now

entering his plea. Clyde had changed. He could not speak

as to his life before—but since his incarceration—or for the

last year, at least, he had come into a new understanding of

life, duty, his obligations to man and God. If but the death

sentence could be commuted to life imprisonment——

And the Governor, who was a very earnest and

conscientious man, listened with all attention to McMillan,

whom, as he saw and concluded was decidedly an intense

and vital and highly idealistic person. No question in his

own mind but what the words of this man—whatever they

were, would be true—in so far as his own understanding

would permit the conception of a truth.

“But you, personally, Mr. McMillan,” the Governor at last

found voice to say, “because of your long contact with him

in the prison there—do you know of any material fact not

introduced at the trial which would in any way tend to

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invalidate or weaken any phase of the testimony offered at

the trial? As you must know this is a legal proceeding. I

cannot act upon sentiment alone—and especially in the

face of the unanimous decision of two separate courts.”

He looked directly at McMillan, who, pale and dumb, now

gazed at him in return. For now upon his word—upon his

shoulders apparently was being placed the burden of

deciding as to Clyde’s guilt or innocence. But could he do

that? Had he not decided, after due meditation as to

Clyde’s confessions, that he was guilty before God and the

law? And could he now—for mercy’s sake—and in the face

of his deepest spiritual conviction, alter his report of his

conviction? Would that be true—white, valuable before the

Lord? And as instantly deciding that he, Clyde’s spiritual

adviser, must not in any way be invalidated in his spiritual

worth to Clyde. “Ye are the salt of the earth; but if the salt

have lost his savor, wherewith shall it be salted?” And

forthwith he declared: “As his spiritual advisor I have

entered only upon the spiritual, not the legal aspect of his

life.” And thereupon Waltham at once deciding, from

something in McMillan’s manner that he, like all others,

apparently, was satisfied as to Clyde’s guilt. And so, finally

finding courage to say to Mrs. Griffiths: “Unless some

definite evidence such as I have not yet seen and which will

affect the legality of these two findings can be brought me, I

have no alternative, Mrs. Griffiths, but to allow the verdict as

written to stand. I am very sorry—oh, more than I can tell

you. But if the law is to be respected its decisions can never

be altered except for reasons that in themselves are full of

legal merit. I wish I could decide differently. I do indeed. My

heart and my prayers go with you.”

He pressed a button. His secretary entered. It was plain