and pushing and yet restraining and restraining one—within
these walls, as ready to kill as to favor in case of opposition
—but pushing, pushing, pushing—always toward that little
door over there, from which there was no escape—no
escape—just on and on—until at last they would push him
through it never to return! Never to return!
Each time he thought of this he arose and walked the floor.
Afterwards, usually, he resumed the puzzle of his own guilt.
He tried to think of Roberta and the evil he had done her, to
read the Bible—even—lying on his face on the iron cot—
repeating over and over: “Lord, give me peace. Lord, give
me light. Lord, give me strength to resist any evil thoughts
that I should not have. I know I am not wholly white. Oh, no.
I know I plotted evil. Yes, yes, I know that. I confess. But
must I really die now? Is there no help? Will you not help
me, Lord? Will you not manifest yourself, as my mother
says you will—for me? Will you get the Governor to change
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my sentence before the final moment to life imprisonment?
Will you get the Reverend McMillan to change his views
and go to him, and my mother, too? I will drive out all sinful
thoughts. I will be different. Oh, yes, I will, if you will only
spare me. Do not let me die now—so soon. Do not. I will
pray. Yes, I will. Give me the strength to understand and
believe—and pray. Oh, do!”
It was like this in those short, horrible days between the
return of his mother and the Reverend McMillan from their
final visit to the Governor and in his last hour that Clyde
thought and prayed—yet finally in a kind of psychic terror,
evoked by his uncertainty as to the meaning of the
hereafter, his certainty of death, and the faith and emotions
of his mother, as well as those of the Reverend McMillan,
who was about every day with his interpretations of divine
mercy and his exhortations as to the necessity of complete
faith and reliance upon it, he, himself coming at last to
believe, not only must he have faith but that he had it—and
peace—complete and secure. In that state, and at the
request of the Reverend McMillan, and his mother, finally
composing, with the personal aid and supervision of
McMillan, who changed some of the sentences in his
presence and with his consent, an address to the world,
and more particularly to young men of his own years, which
read:
In the shadow of the Valley of Death it is my desire to
do everything that would remove any doubt as to my
having found Jesus Christ, the personal Savior and
unfailing friend. My one regret at this time is that I have
not given Him the preeminence in my life while I had
the opportunity to work for Him.
If I could only say some one thing that would draw
young men to Him I would deem it the greatest
privilege ever granted me. But all I can now say is, “I
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know in whom I have believed, and am persuaded that
He is able to keep that which I have committed unto
Him against that day” [a quotation that McMillan had
familiarized him with].
If the young men of this country could only know the joy
and pleasure of a Christian life, I know they would do all
in their power to become earnest, active Christians,
and would strive to live as Christ would have them live.
There is not one thing I have left undone which will bar
me from facing my God, knowing that my sins are
forgiven, for I have been free and frank in my talks with
my spiritual adviser, and God knows where I stand.
My task is done, the victory won.
CLYDE GRIFFITHS.
Having written this—a statement so unlike all the previous
rebellious moods that had characterized him that even now
he was not a little impressed by the difference, handing it to
McMillan, who, heartened by this triumph, exclaimed: “And
the victory is won, Clyde. ‘This day shalt thou be with me in
Paradise.’ You have His word. Your soul and your body
belong to Him. Praised, everlastingly, be His name.”
And then so wrought up was he by this triumph, taking both
Clyde’s hands in his and kissing them and then folding him
in his arms: “My son, my son, in whom I am well leased. In
you God has truly manifested His truth. His power to save. I
see it. I feel it. Your address to the world is really His own
voice to the world.” And then pocketing the note with the
understanding that it was to be issued after Clyde’s death—
not before. And yet Clyde having written this, still dubious at
moments. Was he truly saved? The time was so short?
Could he rely on God with that absolute security which he
had just announced now characterized him? Could he? Life
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was so strange. The future so obscure. Was there really a
life after death—a God by whom he would be welcomed as
the Reverend McMillan and his own mother insisted? Was
there?
In the midst of this, two days before his death and in a final
burst of panic, Mrs. Griffiths wiring the Hon. David
Waltham: “Can you say before your God that you have no
doubt of Clyde’s guilt? Please wire. If you cannot, then his
blood will be upon your head. His mother.” And Robert
Fessler, the secretary to the Governor replying by wire:
“Governor Waltham does not think himself justified in
interfering with the decision of the Court of Appeals.”
At last the final day—the final hour—Clyde’s transfer to a
cell in the old death house, where, after a shave and a
bath, he was furnished with black trousers, a white shirt
without a collar, to be opened at the neck afterwards, new
felt slippers and gray socks. So accoutered, he was allowed
once more to meet his mother and McMillan, who, from six
o’clock in the evening preceding the morning of his death
until four of the final morning, were permitted to remain
near him to counsel with him as to the love and mercy of
God. And then at four the warden appearing to say that it
was time, he feared, that Mrs. Griffiths depart leaving Clyde
in the care of Mr. McMillan. (The sad compulsion of the law,
as he explained.) And then Clyde’s final farewell to his
mother, before which, and in between the silences and
painful twistings of heart strings, he had managed to say:
“Mama, you must believe that I die resigned and content. It
won’t be hard. God has heard my prayers. He has given me
strength and peace.” But to himself adding: “Had he?”
And Mrs. Griffiths exclaiming: “My son! My son, I know, I
know. I have faith too. I know that my Redeemer liveth and
that He is yours. Though we die—yet shall we live!” She
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was looking heavenward, and seemed transfixed. Yet as
suddenly turning to Clyde and gathering him in her arms
and holding him long and firmly to her, whispering: “My son
—my baby——” And her voice broke and trailed off into
breathlessness—and her strength seemed to be going all to
him, until she felt she must leave or fall—— And so she
turned quickly and unsteadily to the warden, who was
waiting for her to lead her to Auburn friends of McMillan’s.
And then in the dark of this midwinter morning—the final
moment—with the guards coming, first to slit his right
trouser leg for the metal plate and then going to draw the
curtains before the cells: “It is time, I fear. Courage, my
son.” It was the Reverend McMillan—now accompanied by
the Reverend Gibson, who, seeing the prison guards
approaching, was then addressing Clyde.
And Clyde now getting up from his cot, on which, beside
the Reverend McMillan, he had been listening to the
reading of John, 14, 15, 16: “Let not your heart be troubled.
Ye believe in God—believe also in me.” And then the final
walk with the Reverend McMillan on his right hand and the
Reverend Gibson on his left—the guards front and rear. But
with, instead of the customary prayers, the Reverend
McMillan announcing: “Humble yourselves under the mighty
hand of God that He may exalt you in due time. Cast all
your care upon Him for He careth for you. Be at peace.
Wise and righteous are His ways, who hath called us into
His eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that we have
suffered a little. I am the way, the truth and the life—no man
cometh unto the Father but by me.”
But various voices—as Clyde entered the first door to cross
to the chair room, calling: “Good-by, Clyde.” And Clyde, with