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

which he turned from the tangle of snakes to face the tramping rhinoceros with its two horns⁠—he was confronted by that awful thing in the adjoining room⁠—that chair! That chair! Its straps and its flashes which so regularly dimmed the lights in this room. He could not bear to think of his entering there⁠—ever. And yet supposing his appeal was refused! Away! He would like to think no more about it.

But then, apart from that what was there to think of? It was that very question that up to the time of the arrival of the Rev. Duncan McMillan, with his plea for a direct and certainly (as he insisted) fruitful appeal to the Creator of all things, that had been definitely torturing Clyde. Yet see⁠—how simple was his solution!

“It was given unto you to know the Peace of God,” he insisted, quoting Paul and thereafter sentences from Corinthians, Galatians, Ephesians, on how easy it was⁠—if Clyde would but repeat and pray as he had asked him to⁠—for him to know and delight in the “peace that passeth all understanding.” It was with him, all around him. He had but to seek; confess the miseries and errors of his heart, and express contrition. “Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you. For everyone that asketh, receiveth; and he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened. For what man is there of you whom, if his son ask bread, will give him a stone; or, if he ask fish, will give him a serpent?” So he quoted, beautifully and earnestly.

And yet before Clyde always was the example of his father and mother. What had they? It had not availed them much⁠—praying. Neither, as he noticed here, did it appear to avail or aid these other condemned men, the majority of whom lent themselves to the pleas or prayers of either priest or rabbi or minister, one and the other of whom was about daily. Yet were they not led to their death just the same⁠—and complaining or protesting, or mad like Cutrone, or indifferent? As for himself, up to this he had not been interested by any of these. Bunk. Notions. Of what? He could not say. Nevertheless, here was the appealing Rev. Duncan McMillan. His mild, serene eyes. His sweet voice. His faith. It moved and intrigued Clyde deeply. Could there⁠—could there? He was so lonely⁠—so despairing⁠—so very much in need of help.

Was it not also true (the teaching of the Rev. McMillan⁠—influencing him to that extent at least) that if he had led a better life⁠—had paid more attention to what his mother had said and taught⁠—not gone into that house of prostitution in Kansas City⁠—or pursued Hortense Briggs in the evil way that he had⁠—or after her, Roberta⁠—had been content to work and save, as no doubt most men were⁠—would he not be better off than he now was? But then again, there was the fact or truth of those very strong impulses and desires within himself that were so very, very hard to overcome. He had thought of those, too, and then of the fact that many other people like his mother, his uncle, his cousin, and this minister here, did not seem to be troubled by them. And yet also he was given to imagining at times that perhaps it was because of superior mental and moral courage in the face of passions and desires, equivalent to his own, which led these others to do so much better. He was perhaps just willfully devoting himself to these other thoughts and ways, as his mother and McMillan and most everyone else whom he had heard talk since his arrest seemed to think.

What did it all mean? Was there a God? Did He interfere in the affairs of men as Mr. McMillan was now contending? Was it possible that one could turn to Him, or at least some creative power, in some such hour as this and when one had always ignored Him before, and ask for aid? Decidedly one needed aid under such circumstances⁠—so alone and ordered and controlled by law⁠—not man⁠—since these, all of them, were the veriest servants of the law. But would this mysterious power be likely to grant aid? Did it really exist and hear the prayers of men? The Rev. McMillan insisted yes. “He hath said God hath forgotten; He hideth His face. But He has not forgotten. He has not hidden His face.” But was that true? Was there anything to it? Tortured by the need of some mental if not material support in the face of his great danger, Clyde was now doing what every other human in related circumstances invariably does⁠—seeking, and yet in the most indirect and involute and all but unconscious way, the presence or existence at least of some superhuman or supernatural personality or power that could and would aid him in some way⁠—beginning to veer⁠—however slightly or unconsciously as yet⁠—toward the personalization and humanization of forces, of which, except in the guise of religion, he had not the faintest conception. “The Heavens declare the Glory of God, and the Firmament showeth His handiwork.” He recalled that as a placard in one of his mother’s mission windows. And another which read: “For He is Thy life and Thy length of Days.” Just the same⁠—and far from it as yet, even in the face of his sudden predisposition toward the Rev. Duncan McMillan, was he seriously moved to assume that in religion of any kind was he likely to find surcease from his present miseries?

And yet the weeks and months going by⁠—the Rev. McMillan calling regularly thereafter, every two weeks at the longest, sometimes every week and inquiring after his state, listening to his wants, advising him as to his health and peace of mind. And Clyde, anxious to retain his interest and visits, gradually, more and more, yielding himself to his friendship