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

death⁠—not before. And yet Clyde having written this, still dubious at moments. Was he truly saved? The time was so short? Could he rely on God with that absolute security which he had just announced now characterized him? Could he? Life was so strange. The future so obscure. Was there really a life after death⁠—a God by whom he would be welcomed as the Reverend McMillan and his own mother insisted? Was there?

In the midst of this, two days before his death and in a final burst of panic, Mrs. Griffiths wiring the Hon. David Waltham: “Can you say before your God that you have no doubt of Clyde’s guilt? Please wire. If you cannot, then his blood will be upon your head. His mother.” And Robert Fessler, the secretary to the Governor replying by wire: “Governor Waltham does not think himself justified in interfering with the decision of the Court of Appeals.”

At last the final day⁠—the final hour⁠—Clyde’s transfer to a cell in the old death house, where, after a shave and a bath, he was furnished with black trousers, a white shirt without a collar, to be opened at the neck afterwards, new felt slippers and gray socks. So accoutered, he was allowed once more to meet his mother and McMillan, who, from six o’clock in the evening preceding the morning of his death until four of the final morning, were permitted to remain near him to counsel with him as to the love and mercy of God. And then at four the warden appearing to say that it was time, he feared, that Mrs. Griffiths depart leaving Clyde in the care of Mr. McMillan. (The sad compulsion of the law, as he explained.) And then Clyde’s final farewell to his mother, before which, and in between the silences and painful twistings of heart strings, he had managed to say:

“Mama, you must believe that I die resigned and content. It won’t be hard. God has heard my prayers. He has given me strength and peace.” But to himself adding: “Had he?”

And Mrs. Griffiths exclaiming: “My son! My son, I know, I know. I have faith too. I know that my Redeemer liveth and that He is yours. Though we die⁠—yet shall we live!” She was looking heavenward, and seemed transfixed. Yet as suddenly turning to Clyde and gathering him in her arms and holding him long and firmly to her, whispering: “My son⁠—my baby⁠—” And her voice broke and trailed off into breathlessness⁠—and her strength seemed to be going all to him, until she felt she must leave or fall⁠—And so she turned quickly and unsteadily to the warden, who was waiting for her to lead her to Auburn friends of McMillan’s.

And then in the dark of this midwinter morning⁠—the final moment⁠—with the guards coming, first to slit his right trouser leg for the metal plate and then going to draw the curtains before the cells: “It is time, I fear. Courage, my son.” It was the Reverend McMillan⁠—now accompanied by the Reverend Gibson, who, seeing the prison guards approaching, was then addressing Clyde.

And Clyde now getting up from his cot, on which, beside the Reverend McMillan, he had been listening to the reading of John, 14, 15, 16: “Let not your heart be troubled. Ye believe in God⁠—believe also in me.” And then the final walk with the Reverend McMillan on his right hand and the Reverend Gibson on his left⁠—the guards front and rear. But with, instead of the customary prayers, the Reverend McMillan announcing: “Humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God that He may exalt you in due time. Cast all your care upon Him for He careth for you. Be at peace. Wise and righteous are His ways, who hath called us into His eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that we have suffered a little. I am the way, the truth and the life⁠—no man cometh unto the Father but by me.”

But various voices⁠—as Clyde entered the first door to cross to the chair room, calling: “Goodbye, Clyde.” And Clyde, with enough earthly thought and strength to reply: “Goodbye, all.” But his voice sounding so strange and weak, even to 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 thought, appealingly and dazedly upon him and the