enough earthly thought and strength to reply: “Good-by, all.”
But his voice sounding so strange and weak, even to
An American Tragedy
1191
himself, so far distant as though it emanated from another
being walking alongside of him, and not from himself. And
his feet were walking, but automatically, it seemed. And he
was conscious of that familiar shuffle—shuffle—as they
pushed him on and on toward that door. Now it was here;
now it was being opened. There it was—at last—the chair
he had so often seen in his dreams—that he so dreaded—
to which he was now compelled to go. He was being
pushed toward that—into that—on—on—through the door
which was now open—to receive him—but which was as
quickly closed again on all the earthly life he had ever
known.
It was the Reverend McMillan, who, gray and weary—a
quarter of an hour later, walked desolately—and even a
little uncertainly—as one who is physically very weak—
through the cold doors of the prison. It was so faint—so
weak—so gray as yet—this late winter day—and so like
himself now. Dead! He, Clyde, had walked so nervously
and yet somehow trustingly beside him but a few minutes
before—and now he was dead. The law! Prisons such as
this. Strong, evil men who scoffed betimes where Clyde
had prayed. That confession! Had he decided truly—with
the wisdom of God, as God gave him to see wisdom? Had
he? Clyde’s eyes! He, himself—the Reverend McMillan had
all but fainted beside him as that cap was adjusted to his
head—that current turned on—and he had had to be
assisted, sick and trembling, from the room—he upon
whom Clyde had relied. And he had asked God for strength,
—was asking it.
He walked along the silent street—only to be compelled to
pause and lean against a tree—leafless in the winter—so
bare and bleak. Clyde’s eyes! That look as he sank limply
into that terrible chair, his eyes fixed nervously and, as he
An American Tragedy
1192
thought, appealingly and dazedly upon him and the group
surrounding him.
Had he done right? Had his decision before Governor Walv-
tham been truly sound, fair or merciful? Should he have
said to him—that perhaps—perhaps—there had been those
other influences playing upon him? … Was he never to
have mental peace again, perhaps?
“I know my Redeemer liveth and that He will keep him
against that day.”
And then he walked and walked hours before he could
present himself to Clyde’s mother, who, on her knees in the
home of the Rev. and Mrs. Francis Gault, Salvationists of
Auburn, had been,, since four-thirty, praying for the soul of
her son whom she still tried to visualize as in the arms of
his Maker.
“I know in whom I have believed,” was a part of “her prayer.
SOUVENIR
Dusk, of a summer night.
And the tall walls of the commercial heart of the city of San
Francisco—tall and gray in the evening shade.
And up a broad street from the south of Market—now
comparatively hushed after the din of the day, a little band
of five—a man of about sixty, short, stout, yet cadaverous
as to the flesh of his face—and more especially about the
pale, dim eyes—and with bushy white hair protruding from
under a worn, round felt hat—a most unimportant and
exhausted looking person, who carried a small, portable
organ such as is customarily used by street preachers and
singers. And by his side, a woman not more than five years
his junior—taller, not so broad, but solid of frame and
vigorous—with snow white hair and wearing an unrelieved
An American Tragedy
1193
costume of black—dress, bon-net, shoes. And her face
broader and more characterful than her husband’s, but
more definitely seamed with lines of misery and suffering.
At her side, again, carrying a Bible and several hymn books
—a boy of not more than seven or eight—very round-eyed
and alert, who, because of some sympathetic
understanding between him and his elderly companion,
seemed to desire to walk close to her—a brisk and smart
stepping—although none-too-well dressed boy. With these
three, again, but walking independently behind, a faded and
unattractive woman of twenty-seven or eight and another
woman of about fifty—apparently, because of their close
resemblance, mother and daughter.
It was hot, with the sweet languor of a Pacific summer
about it all. At Market, the great thoroughfare which they
had reached—and because of threading throngs of
automobiles and various lines of cars passing in opposite
directions, they awaited the signal of the traffic officer.
“Russell, stay close now.” It was the wife speaking. “Better
take hold of my hand.”
“It seems to me,” commented the husband, very feeble and
yet serene, “that the traffic here grows worse all the time.”
The cars clanged their bells. The automobiles barked and
snorted. But the little group seemed entirely unconscious of
anything save a set purpose to make its way across the
street.
“Street preachers,” observed a passing bank clerk to his
cashier girl friend.
“Sure—I see them up here nearly every Wednesday.”
“Gee, it’s pretty tough on the little kid, I should think. He’s
pretty small to be dragged around on the streets, don’t you
think, Ella?”
An American Tragedy
1194
“Well, I’ll say so. I’d hate to see a brother of mine in on any
such game. What kind of a life is that for a kid anyhow?”
commented Ella as they passed on.
Having crossed the street and reached the first intersection
beyond, they paused and looked around as though they
had reached their destination—the man putting down his
organ which he proceeded to open—setting up, as he did
so, a small but adequate music rack. At the same time his
wife, taking from her grandson the several hymnals and the
Bible he carried, gave the Bible as well as a hymnal to her
husband, put one on the organ and gave one to each of the
remaining group including one for herself. The husband
looked somewhat vacantly about him—yet, none-the-less
with a seeming wide-eyed assurance, and began with:
“We will begin with 276 to-night. ‘How firm a foundation.’ All
right, Miss Schoof.”
At this the younger of the two women—very parched and
spare—angular and homely—to whom life had denied quite
all—seated herself upon the yellow camp chair and after
arranging the stops and turning the leaves of the book,
began playing the chosen hymn, to the tune of which they
all joined in.
By this time various homeward bound individuals of diverse
occupations and interests noticing this small group so
advantageously disposed near the principal thoroughfare of
the city, hesitated a moment,—either to eye them askance
or to ascertain the character of their work. And as they
sang, the nondescript and indifferent street audience
gazed, held by the peculiarity of such an unimportant group
publicly raising its voice against the vast skepticism and
apathy of life. That gray and flabby and ineffectual old man,
in his worn and baggy blue suit. This robust and yet
An American Tragedy
1195
uncouth and weary and white-haired woman; this fresh and
unsoiled and unspoiled and uncomprehending boy. What
was he doing here? And again that neglected and thin
spinster and her equally thin and distrait looking mother. Of
the group, the wife stood out in the eyes of the passers-by
as having the force and determination which, however blind
or erroneous, makes for self-preservation, if not real
success in life. She, more than any of the others, stood up
with an ignorant, yet somehow respectable air of conviction.
And as several of the many who chanced to pause,
watched her, her hymn-book dropped to her side, her
glance directed straight before her into space, each said on
his way: “Well, here is one, who, whatever her defects,
probably does what she believes as nearly as possible.” A
kind of hard, fighting faith in the wisdom and mercy of the
definite overruling and watchful and merciful power which
she proclaimed was written in her every feature and gesture.
The song was followed with a long prayer and by the wife;
then a sermon by the husband, testimonies by the others—
all that God had done for them. Then the return march to
the hall, the hymnals having been gathered, the organ
folded and lifted by a strap over the husband’s shoulder.
And as they walked—it was the husband that commented:
“A fine night. It seemed to me they were a little more
attentive than usual.”
“Oh, yes,” returned the younger woman that had played the
organ. “At least eleven took tracts. And one old gentleman
asked me where the mission was and when we held
services.”
“Praise the Lord,” commented the man.
And then at last the mission itself—“The Star of Hope.
Bethel Independent Mission, Meetings every Wednesday
and Saturday night, 8 to 10. Sundays at 11, 3, 8. Everybody
An American Tragedy
1196
welcome.” And under this legend in each window—“God is
Love.” And below that again in smaller type: “How long