An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

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