An American Tragedy (1925) Theodore Dreiser (1871-1945)

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 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 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 tonight. '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.