An American Tragedy Theodore Dreiser (whitelam books .TXT) 📖

him: “Oh, don’t go just yet. Please don’t. It’s very nice of you to come and see me and I’m obliged to you. My mother wrote me you might. You see, it’s very lonely here. I haven’t thought much of what you were saying, perhaps, because I haven’t felt as guilty as some think I am. But I’ve been sorry enough. And certainly anyone in here pays a good deal.” His eyes looked very sad and strained.

And at once, McMillan, now deeply touched for the first time replied: “Clyde, you needn’t worry. I’ll come to see you again within a week, because now I see you need me. I’m not asking you to pray because I think you are guilty of the death of Roberta Alden. I don’t know. You haven’t told me. Only you and God know what your sins and your sorrows are. But I do know you need spiritual help and He will give you that⁠—oh, fully. ‘The Lord will be a refuge for the oppressed; a refuge in time of trouble.’ ”

He smiled as though he were now really fond of Clyde. And Clyde feeling this and being intrigued by it, replied that there wasn’t anything just then that he wanted to say except to tell his mother that he was all right⁠—and make her feel a little better about him, maybe, if he could. Her letters were very sad, he thought. She worried too much about him. Besides he, himself, wasn’t feeling so very good⁠—not a little run down and worried these days. Who wouldn’t be in his position? Indeed, if only he could win to spiritual peace through prayer, he would be glad to do it. His mother had always urged him to pray⁠—but up to now he was sorry to say he hadn’t followed her advice very much. He looked very distrait and gloomy⁠—the marked prison pallor having long since settled on his face.

And the Reverend Duncan, now very much touched by his state, replied: “Well, don’t worry, Clyde. Enlightenment and peace are surely going to come to you. I can see that. You have a Bible there, I see. Open it anywhere in Psalms and read. The 51st, 91st, 23rd. Open to St. John. Read it all⁠—over and over. Think and pray⁠—and think on all the things about you⁠—the moon, the stars, the sun, the trees, the sea⁠—your own beating heart, your body and strength⁠—and ask yourself who made them. How did they come to be? Then, if you can’t explain them, ask yourself if the one who made them and you⁠—whoever he is, whatever he is, wherever he is, isn’t strong and wise enough and kind enough to help you when you need help⁠—provide you with light and peace and guidance, when you need them. Just ask yourself what of the Maker of all this certain reality. And then ask Him⁠—the Creator of it all⁠—to tell you how and what to do. Don’t doubt. Just ask and see. Ask in the night⁠—in the day. Bow your head and pray and see. Verily, He will not fail you. I know because I have that peace.”

He stared at Clyde convincingly⁠—then smiled and departed. And Clyde, leaning against his cell door, began to wonder. The Creator! His Creator! The Creator of the World!⁠ ⁠… Ask and see⁠—!

And yet⁠—there was still lingering here in him that old contempt of his for religion and its fruits⁠—the constant and yet fruitless prayers and exhortations of his father and mother. Was he going to turn to religion now, solely because he was in difficulties and frightened like these others? He hoped not. Not like that, anyway.

Just the same the mood, as well as the temperament of the Reverend Duncan McMillan⁠—his young, forceful, convinced and dramatic body, face, eyes, now intrigued and then moved Clyde as no religionist or minister in all his life before ever had. He was interested, arrested and charmed by the man’s faith⁠—whether at once or not at all⁠—ever⁠—he could come to put the reliance in it that plainly this man did.

XXXII

The personal conviction and force of such an individual as the Reverend McMillan, while in one sense an old story to Clyde and not anything which so late as eighteen months before could have moved him in any way (since all his life he had been accustomed to something like it), still here, under these circumstances, affected him differently. Incarcerated, withdrawn from the world, compelled by the highly circumscribed nature of this death house life to find solace or relief in his own thoughts, Clyde’s, like every other temperament similarly limited, was compelled to devote itself either to the past, the present or the future. But the past was so painful to contemplate at any point. It seared and burned. And the present (his immediate surroundings) as well as the future with its deadly fear of what was certain to happen in case his appeal failed, were two phases equally frightful to his waking consciousness.

What followed then was what invariably follows in the wake of every tortured consciousness. From what it dreads or hates, yet knows or feels to be unescapable, it takes refuge in that which may be hoped for⁠—or at least imagined. But what was to be hoped for or imagined? Because of the new suggestion offered by Nicholson, a new trial was all that he had to look forward to, in which case, and assuming himself to be acquitted thereafter, he could go far, far away⁠—to Australia⁠—or Africa⁠—or Mexico⁠—or some such place as that, where, under a different name⁠—his old connections and ambitions relating to that superior social life that had so recently intrigued him, laid aside, he might recover himself in some small way. But directly in the path of that hopeful imagining, of course, stood the death’s head figure of a refusal on the part of the Court of Appeals to grant him a new trial. Why not⁠—after that jury at Bridgeburg? And then⁠—as in that dream in