An American Tragedy - Theodore Dreiser (librera reader txt) 📗

either⁠—quite. That unintentional blow, as he now wished to explain, since it affected his efforts at religious meditation⁠—a desire to present himself honestly to his Creator, if at all (he did not then explain that as yet he had scarcely attempted to so present himself)⁠—there was more to it than he had been able yet to make clear, even to himself. In fact even now to himself there was much that was evasive and even insoluble about it. He had said that there had been no anger⁠—that there had been a change of heart. But there had been no change of heart. In fact, just before she had risen to come to him, there had been a complex troubled state, bordering, as he now saw it, almost upon trance or palsy, and due⁠—but he could scarcely say to what it was due, exactly. He had thought at first⁠—or afterwards⁠—that it was partly due to pity for Roberta⁠—or, at least the shame of so much cruelty in connection with her⁠—his plan to strike her. At the same time there was anger, too⁠—hate maybe⁠—because of her determination to force him to do what he did not wish to do. Thirdly⁠—yet he was not so sure as to that⁠—(he had thought about it so long and yet he was not sure even now)⁠—there might have been fear as to the consequences of such an evil deed⁠—although, just at that time, as it seemed to him now, he was not thinking of the consequences⁠—or of anything save his inability to do as he had come to do⁠—and feeling angry as to that.

Yet in the blow⁠—the accidental blow that had followed upon her rising and attempting to come to him, had been some anger against her for wanting to come near him at all. And that it was perhaps⁠—he was truly not sure, even now, that had given that blow its so destructive force. It was so afterward, anyhow, that he was compelled to think of it. And yet there was also the truth that in rising he was seeking to save her⁠—even in spite of his hate. That he was also, for the moment at least, sorry for that blow. Again, though, once the boat had upset and both were in the water⁠—in all that confusion, and when she was drowning, he had been moved by the thought: “Do nothing.” For thus he would be rid of her. Yes, he had so thought. But again, there was the fact that all through, as Mr. Belknap and Mr. Jephson had pointed out, he had been swayed by his obsession for Miss X, the super motivating force in connection with all of this. But now, did the Reverend McMillan, considering all that went before and all that came after⁠—the fact that the unintentional blow still had had anger in it⁠—angry dissatisfaction with her⁠—really⁠—and that afterwards he had not gone to her rescue⁠—as now⁠—honestly and truly as he was trying to show⁠—did he think that that constituted murder⁠—mortal blood guilt for which spiritually, as well as legally, he might be said to deserve death? Did he? He would like to know for his own soul’s peace⁠—so that he could pray, maybe.

The Reverend McMillan hearing all this⁠—and never in his life before having heard or having had passed to him so intricate and elusive and strange a problem⁠—and because of Clyde’s faith in and regard for him, enormously impressed. And now sitting before him quite still and pondering most deeply, sadly and even nervously⁠—so serious and important was this request for an opinion⁠—something which, as he knew, Clyde was counting on to give him earthly and spiritual peace. But, none-the-less, the Reverend McMillan was himself too puzzled to answer so quickly.

“Up to the time you went in that boat with her, Clyde, you had not changed in your mood toward her⁠—your intention to⁠—to⁠—”

The Reverend McMillan’s face was gray and drawn. His eyes were sad. He had been listening, as he now felt, to a sad and terrible story⁠—an evil and cruel self-torturing and destroying story. This young boy⁠—really⁠—! His hot, restless heart which plainly for the lack of so many things which he, the Reverend McMillan, had never wanted for, had rebelled. And because of that rebellion had sinned mortally and was condemned to die. Indeed his reason was as intensely troubled as his heart was moved.

“No, I had not.”

“You were, as you say, angry with yourself for being so weak as not to be able to do what you had planned to do.”

“In a way it was like that, yes. But then I was sorry, too, you see. And maybe afraid. I’m not exactly sure now. Maybe not, either.”

The Reverend McMillan shook his head. So strange! So evasive! So evil! And yet⁠—

“But at the same time, as you say, you were angry with her for having driven you to that point.”

“Yes.”

“Where you were compelled to wrestle with so terrible a problem?”

“Yes.”

“Tst! Tst! Tst! And so you thought of striking her.”

“Yes, I did.”

“But you could not.”

“No.”

“Praised be the mercy of God. Yet in the blow that you did strike⁠—unintentionally⁠—as you say⁠—there was still some anger against her. That was why the blow was so⁠—so severe. You did not want her to come near you.”

“No, I didn’t. I think I didn’t, anyhow. I’m not quite sure. It may be that I wasn’t quite right. Anyhow⁠—all worked up, I guess⁠—sick almost. I⁠—I⁠—” In his uniform⁠—his hair cropped so close, Clyde sat there, trying honestly now to think how it really was (exactly) and greatly troubled by his inability to demonstrate to himself even⁠—either his guilt or his lack of guilt. Was he⁠—or was he not? And the Reverend McMillan⁠—himself intensely strained, muttering: “Wide is the gate and broad the way that leadeth to destruction.” And yet finally adding: “But you did rise to save her.”

“Yes, afterwards, I got up. I meant to catch her after she fell back. That was what upset the boat.”

“And you did really want to catch her?”

“I