An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

enough earthly thought and strength to reply: “Good-by, all.”

But his voice sounding so strange and weak, even to

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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

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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

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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?”

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“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

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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

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welcome.” And under this legend in each window—“God is

Love.” And below that again in smaller type: “How long