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

Paul and John as to the unimportance of this world⁠—the true reality and joy of the next⁠—Clyde was compelled to learn from McMillan that the decision of the court had gone against him. And that though McMillan talked of an appeal to the Governor which he⁠—and some others whom he was sure to be able to influence would make⁠—unless the Governor chose to act, within six weeks, as Clyde knew, he would be compelled to die. And then, once the force of that fact had finally burst on him⁠—and while McMillan talked on about faith and the refuge which the mercy and wisdom of God provided⁠—Clyde, standing before him with more courage and character showing in his face and eyes than at any time previously in his brief and eager career.

“So they decided against me. Now I will have to go through that door after all⁠—like all those others. They’ll draw the curtains for me, too. Into that other room⁠—then back across the passage⁠—saying goodbye as I go, like those others. I will not be here any more.” He seemed to be going over each step in his mind⁠—each step with which he was so familiar, only now, for the first time, he was living it for himself. Now, in the face of this dread news, which somehow was as fascinating as it was terrible, feeling not as distrait or weak as at first he had imagined he would be. Rather, to his astonishment, considering all his previous terror in regard to this, thinking of what he would do, what he would say, in an outwardly calm way.

Would he repeat prayers read to him by the Reverend McMillan here? No doubt. And maybe gladly, too. And yet⁠—

In his momentary trance he was unconscious of the fact that the Reverend Duncan was whispering:

“But you see we haven’t reached the end of this yet. There is a new Governor coming into office in January. He is a very sensible and kindly man, I hear. In fact I know several people who know him⁠—and it is my plan to see him personally⁠—as well as to have some other people whom I know write him on the strength of what I will tell them.”

But from Clyde’s look at the moment, as well as what he now said, he could tell that he was not listening.

“My mother. I suppose someone ought to telegraph her. She is going to feel very bad.” And then: “I don’t suppose they believed that those letters shouldn’t have been introduced just as they were, did they? I thought maybe they would.” He was thinking of Nicholson.

“Don’t worry, Clyde,” replied the tortured and saddened McMillan, at this point more eager to take him in his arms and comfort him than to say anything at all. “I have already telegraphed your mother. As for that decision⁠—I will see your lawyers right away. Besides⁠—as I say⁠—I propose to see the Governor myself. He is a new man, you see.”

Once more he was now repeating all that Clyde had not heard before.

XXXIV

The scene was the executive chamber of the newly elected Governor of the State of New York some three weeks after the news conveyed to Clyde by McMillan. After many preliminary and futile efforts on the part of Belknap and Jephson to obtain a commutation of the sentence of Clyde from death to life imprisonment (the customary filing of a plea for clemency, together with such comments as they had to make in regard to the way the evidence had been misinterpreted and the illegality of introducing the letters of Roberta in their original form, to all of which Governor Waltham, an ex-district attorney and judge from the southern part of the state, had been conscientiously compelled to reply that he could see no reason for interfering) there was now before Governor Waltham Mrs. Griffiths together with the Reverend McMillan. For, moved by the widespread interest in the final disposition of Clyde’s case, as well as the fact that his mother, because of her unshaken devotion to him, and having learned of the decision of the Court of Appeals, had once more returned to Auburn and since then had been appealing to the newspapers, as well as to himself through letters for a correct understanding of the extenuating circumstances surrounding her son’s downfall, and because she herself had repeatedly appealed to him for a personal interview in which she should be allowed to present her deepest convictions in regard to all this, the Governor had at last consented to see her. It could do no harm. Besides it would tend to soothe her. Also variable public sentiment, whatever its convictions in any given case, was usually on the side of the form or gesture of clemency⁠—without, however, any violence to its convictions. And, in this case, if one could judge by the newspapers, the public was convinced that Clyde was guilty. On the other hand, Mrs. Griffiths, owing to her own long meditations in regard to Clyde, Roberta, his sufferings during and since the trial, the fact that according to the Reverend McMillan he had at last been won to a deep contrition and a spiritual union with his Creator whatever his original sin, was now more than ever convinced that humanity and even justice demanded that at least he be allowed to live. And so standing before the Governor, a tall, sober and somewhat somber man who, never in all his life had even so much as sensed the fevers or fires that Clyde had known, yet who, being a decidedly affectionate father and husband, could very well sense what Mrs. Griffiths’ present emotions must be. Yet greatly exercised by the compulsion which the facts, as he understood them, as well as a deep-seated and unchangeable submission to law and order, thrust upon him. Like the pardon clerk before him, he had read all the evidence submitted to the Court of Appeals, as well as the latest briefs submitted