An American Tragedy, Theodore Dreiser [best business books of all time txt] 📗

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.

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 passersby 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 hymnbook 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 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