There is not one thing I have left undone which will bar me from facing my God, knowing that my sins are forgiven, for I have been free and frank in my talks with my spiritual adviser, and God knows where I stand.
My task is done, the victory won.
CLYDE GRIFFITHS.
Having written this—a statement so unlike all the previous rebellious moods that had characterized him that even now he was not a little impressed by the difference, handing it to McMillan, who, heartened by this triumph, exclaimed: “And the victory is won, Clyde. ‘This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.’ You have His word. Your soul and your body belong to Him. Praised, everlastingly, be His name.”
And then so wrought up was he by this triumph, taking both Clyde’s hands in his and kissing them and then folding him in his arms: “My son, my son, in whom I am well pleased. In you God has truly manifested His truth. His power to save. I see it. I feel it. Your address to the world is really His own voice to the world.” And then pocketing the note with the understanding that it was to be issued after Clyde’s 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 when 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: “Good-by, Clyde.” And Clyde, with enough earthly thought and strength to reply: “Good-by, 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 the 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 group surrounding him.
Had he done right? Had his decision before Governor Waltham 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 costume of black—dress, bonnet, 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?”
“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 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 welcome.” And under this legend in each window—“God is Love.” And below that again in smaller type: “How long since you wrote to Mother.”
“Kin’ I have a dime, grandma? I wana’ go up to the corner and git an ice-cream cone.” It was the boy asking.
“Yes, I guess so, Russell. But listen to me. You are to come right back.”
“Yes, I will, grandma, sure. You know me.”
He took the dime that his Grandmother had extracted from a deep pocket in her dress and ran with it to the ice-cream vendor.
Her darling boy. The light and color of her declining years. She must be kind to him, more liberal with him, not restrain him too much, as maybe, maybe, she had——She looked affectionately and yet a little vacantly after him as he ran. “For his sake.”
The small company, minus Russell, entered the yellow, unprepossessing door and disappeared.
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY
WORKS BY THEODORE DREISER
Sister Carrie, 1900 Novel (Signet Classic 0-451-52760-7
Jennie Gerhardt, 1911 Novel
1The Financier, 1912 Novel
A Traveler at Forty, 1913 Autobiography
1The Titam, 1914 Novel
The “Genius,” 1915 Novel
Players of the Natural and Supernatural, 1916 Plays
A Hoosier Holiday, 1916 Autobiography
Free and Other Stories, 1918 Play
Twelve Men, 1919 Biographical Sketches and Stories
Hey Rub-a-Dub-Dub, 1920 Essays
A Book About Myself (Newspaper Days), 1922 Autobiography
Moods, 1922, 1928 Poems
The Color of a Great City, 1923 Essays
An American Tragedy, 1925 Novel (Signet Classic 0-451-52770-4)
Chains, 1927 Stories
Dreiser Looks at Russia, 1928 Travel
A Gallery of Women, 1929 Biographical Sketches and Stories
Dawn, 1931 Autobiography
Tragic America, 1931 Study
America is Worth Saving, 1941 Study
The Bulwark, 1946 Novel
1The Stoic, 1947 Novel
Notes on Life, 1974 Essays
Theodore Deriser: A Selection of Uncollected Prose, 1977
BIOGRAPHY AND CRITICISM
Bloom, Harold, ed., Theodore Dreiser’s “An American Tragedy,” New York: Chelsea House, 1988.
Brandon, Craig, Murder in the Adirondacks. Utica, New York: North Country Books, 1986.
Brownell, Joseph W. and Wawrzaszek, Patricia A., Adirondack Tragedy: The Gillette Murder Case of 1906. Interlaken, N.Y.: Heart of the Lakes Publishing, 1986.
Dreiser, Helen, My Life With Dreiser, Cleveland, Ohio: World Publishing, 1951
Dudley, Dorothy, Dreiser and the Land of the Free. New York: Beechhurst Press, 1946.
Elias, Robert, Theodore Dreiser: Apostle of Nature. New York: Alfred Knopf, 1949.
Fishkin, Shelley Fisher, From Fact into Fiction. New York: Oxford University Press, 1988.
Gerber, Phillip L. Theodore Dreiser. New York: Twayne Publishers, 1964.
Gilmer, Walker, Horace Liveright, New York: David Lewis, 1970.
Gogol, Miriam, ed. Theodore Dreiser: Beyond Natur
alism New York: New York University Press, 1955.
Hussman, Lawrence, Dreiser and His Fiction: A Twentieth Century Quest. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1983.
Kazin, Alfred and Charles Shapiro, eds. The Stature of Theodore Dreiser. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1955.
Lehan, Richard, Theodore Dreiser, His World and His Novels. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1969.
Lingeman, Richard, Theodore Dreiser: An American Journey 1908- 1945. New York: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1990.
Lingeman, Richard, Theodore Dreiser: An American Journey. New York: John Wiley, 1993.
Matthiessen, F.O. Theodore Dreiser. New York: Dell, 1950.
Moers, Ellen, Two Dreisers, New York: Viking Press, 1969.
Pizer, Donald, The Novels of Theodore Dreiser, A Critical Study. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1976.
Pizer, Donald, ed., Critical Essays on Theodore Dreiser, Boston: G.K. Hall, 1981.
Plank, Kathryn M., “Dreiser’s Real American Tragedy,” Papers on Language and Literature 27 (Spring 1991).
Riggio, Thomas P. ed., Dreiser-Mencken Letters: The Correspondence of Theodore Dreiser and H.L. Mencken, 1907-1945. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1981.
Riggio, Thomas P., ed., Theodore Dreiser: The American Diaries 1902-1926, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982.
Salzman, Jack, ed. Theodore Dreiser: The Critical Reception, New York: David Lewis, 1972.
Swanberg, W.A., Dreiser, New Yrok: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1965.
1 The Financier, The Titan, and The Stoic form a trilogy.
An American Tragedy Page 105
