An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser (i can read book club .TXT) 📕

and all that was connected with them passed in review. The few, brief, bright intense moments. His desire for more⁠—more⁠—that intense desire he had felt there in Lycurgus after Sondra came and now this, this! And now even this was ending⁠—this⁠—this⁠—Why, he had scarcely lived at all as yet⁠—and these last two years so miserably between these crushing walls. And of this life but fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight of the filtering and now feverish days left. They were going⁠—going. But life⁠—life⁠—how was one to do without that⁠—the beauty of the days⁠—of the sun and rain⁠—of work, love, energy, desire. Oh, he really did not want to die. He did not. Why say to him so constantly as his mother and the Reverend McMillan now did to resolve all his care in divine mercy and think only of God, when now, now, was all? And yet the Reverend McMillan insisting that only in Christ and the hereafter was real peace. Oh, yes⁠—but just the same, before the Governor might he not have said⁠—might he not have said that he was not guilty⁠—or at least not entirely guilty⁠—if only he had seen it that way⁠—that time⁠—and then⁠—then⁠—why then the Governor might have commuted his sentence to life imprisonment⁠—might he not? For he had asked his mother what the Reverend McMillan had said to the Governor⁠—(yet without saying to her that he had ever confessed all to him), and she had replied that he had told him how sincerely he had humbled himself before the Lord⁠—but not that he was not guilty. And Clyde, feeling how strange it was that the Reverend McMillan could not conscientiously bring himself to do more than that for him. How sad. How hopeless. Would no one ever understand⁠—or give him credit for his human⁠—if all too human and perhaps wrong hungers⁠—yet from which so many others⁠—along with himself suffered?

But worse yet, if anything, Mrs. Griffiths, because of what the Reverend McMillan had said⁠—or failed to say, in answer to the final question asked by Governor Waltham⁠—and although subsequently in answer to an inquiry of her own, he had repeated the statement, she was staggered by the thought that perhaps, after all, Clyde was as guilty as at first she had feared. And because of that asking at one point:

“Clyde, if there is anything you have not confessed, you must confess it before you go.”

“I have confessed everything to God and to Mr. McMillan, Mother. Isn’t that enough?”

“No, Clyde. You have told the world that you are innocent. But if you are not you must say so.”

“But if my conscience tells me that I am right, is not that enough?”

“No, not if God’s word says differently, Clyde,” replied Mrs. Griffiths nervously⁠—and with great inward spiritual torture. But he chose to say nothing further at that time. How could he discuss with his mother or the world the strange shadings which in his confession and subsequent talks with the Reverend McMillan he had not been able to solve. It was not to be done.

And because of that refusal on her son’s part to confide in her, Mrs. Griffiths, tortured, not only spiritually but personally. Her own son⁠—and so near death and not willing to say what already apparently he had said to Mr. McMillan. Would not God ever be done with this testing her? And yet on account of what McMillan had already said⁠—that he considered Clyde, whatever his past sins, contrite and clean before the Lord⁠—a youth truly ready to meet his Maker⁠—she was prone to rest. The Lord was great! He was merciful. In His bosom was peace. What was death⁠—what life⁠—to one whose heart and mind were at peace with Him? It was nothing. A few years (how very few) and she and Asa and after them, his brothers and sisters, would come to join him⁠—and all his miseries here would be forgotten. But without peace in the Lord⁠—the full and beautiful realization of His presence, love, care and mercy⁠ ⁠… ! She was tremulous at moments now in her spiritual exaltation⁠—no longer quite normal⁠—as Clyde could see and feel. But also by her prayers and anxiety as to his spiritual welfare, he was also able to see how little, really, she had ever understood of his true moods and aspirations. He had longed for so much there in Kansas City and he had had so little. Things⁠—just things⁠—had seemed very important to him⁠—and he had so resented being taken out on the street as he had been, before all the other boys and girls, many of whom had all the things that he so craved, and when he would have been glad to have been anywhere else in the world than out there⁠—on the street! That mission life that to his mother was so wonderful, yet, to him, so dreary! But was it wrong for him to feel so? Had it been? Would the Lord resent it now? And, maybe, she was right as to her thoughts about him. Unquestionably he would have been better off if he had followed her advice. But how strange it was, that to his own mother, and even now in these closing hours, when above all things he craved sympathy⁠—but more than sympathy, true and deep understanding⁠—even now⁠—and as much as she loved and sympathized with, and was seeking to aid him with all her strength in her stern and self-sacrificing way⁠—still he could not turn to her now and tell her, his own mother, just how it all happened. It was as though there was an unsurmountable wall or impenetrable barrier between them, built by the lack of understanding⁠—for it was just that. She would never understand his craving for ease and luxury, for beauty, for love⁠—his particular kind of love that went with show, pleasure, wealth, position, his eager and immutable aspirations and desires. She could not understand these things. She would look on all of it as sin⁠—evil, selfishness. And in connection with all the fatal steps involving Roberta and