An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

heavily chased silver service which was in another room.

She poured the chocolate into a highly ornamented urn and

then carried it to the table and put it down before him. Then

swinging herself up beside him, she said: “Now, isn’t this

chummy? I just love to get out in the kitchen like this, but I

can only do it when the cook’s out. He won’t let any one

near the place when he’s here.”

“Oh, is that so?” asked Clyde, who was quite unaware of

the ways of cooks in connection with private homes—an

inquiry which quite convinced Sondra that there must have

been little if any real means in the world from which he

sprang. Nevertheless, because he had come to mean so

much to her, she was by no means inclined to turn back.

And so when he finally exclaimed: “Isn’t it wonderful to be

together like this, Sondra? Just think, I hardly got a chance

to say a word to you all evening, alone,” she replied, without

in any way being irritated by the familiarity, “You think so?

I’m glad you do,” and smiled in a slightly supercilious

though affectionate way.

And at the sight of her now in her white satin and crystal

evening gown, her slippered feet swinging so intimately

near, a faint perfume radiating to his nostrils, he was stirred.

In fact, his imagination in regard to her was really inflamed.

Youth, beauty, wealth such as this—what would it not

mean? And she, feeling the intensity of his admiration and

infected in part at least by the enchantment and fervor that

was so definitely dominating him, was swayed to the point

where she was seeing him as one for whom she could care

—very much. Weren’t his eyes bright and dark—very liquid

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and eager? And his hair! It looked so enticing, lying low

upon his white forehead. She wished that she could touch it

now—smooth it with her hands and touch his cheeks. And

his bands—they were thin and sensitive and graceful. Like

Roberta, and Hortense and Rita before her, she noticed

them.

But he was silent now with a tightly restrained silence which

he was afraid to liberate in words. For he was thinking: “Oh,

if only I could say to her how beautiful I really think she is. If

I could just put my arms around her and kiss her, and kiss

her, and kiss her, and have her kiss me in the same way.”

And strangely, considering his first approaches toward

Roberta, the thought was without lust, just the desire to

constrain and fondle a perfect object. Indeed, his eyes fairly

radiated this desire and intensity. And while she noted this

and was in part made dubious by it, since it was the thing in

Clyde she most feared—still she was intrigued by it to the

extent of wishing to know its further meaning.

And so she now said, teasingly: “Was there anything very

important you wanted to say?”

“I’d like to say a lot of things to you, Sondra, if you would

only let me,” he returned eagerly. “But you told me not to.”

“Oh, so I did. Well, I meant that, too. I’m glad you mind so

well.” There was a provoking smile upon her lips and she

looked at him as much as to say: “But you don’t really

believe I meant all of that, do you?”

Overcome by the suggestion of her eyes, Clyde got up and,

taking both her hands in his and looking directly into her

eyes, said: “You didn’t mean all of it, then, did you, Sondra?

Not all of it, anyhow. Oh, I wish I could tell you all that I am

thinking.” His eyes spoke, and now sharply conscious again

of how easy it was to inflame him, and yet anxious to permit

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him to proceed as he wished, she leaned back from him

and said, “Oh, yes, I’m sure I did. You take almost

everything too seriously, don’t you?” But at the same time,

and in spite of herself, her expression relaxed and she once

more smiled.

“I can’t help it, Sondra. I can’t! I can’t!” he began, eagerly

and almost vehemently. “You don’t know what effect you

have on me. You’re so beautiful. Oh, you are. You know

you are. I think about you all the time. Really I do, Sondra.

You’ve made me just crazy about you, so much so that I

can hardly sleep for thinking about you. Gee, I’m wild! I

never go anywhere or see you any place but what I think of

you all the time afterward. Even to-night when I saw you

dancing with all those fellows I could hardly stand it. I just

wanted you to be dancing with me—no one else. You’ve

got such beautiful eyes, Sondra, and such a lovely mouth

and chin, and such a wonderful smile.”

He lifted his hands as though to caress her gently, yet

holding them back, and at the same time dreamed into her

eyes as might a devotee into those of a saint, then

suddenly put his arms about her and drew her close to him.

She, thrilled and in part seduced by his words, instead of

resisting as definitely as she would have in any other case,

now gazed at him, fascinated by his enthusiasms. She was

so trapped and entranced by his passion for her that it

seemed to her now as though she might care for him as

much as he wished. Very, very much, if she only dared. He,

too, was beautiful and alluring to her. He, too, was really

wonderful, even if he were poor—so much more intense

and dynamic than any of these other youths that she knew

here. Would it not be wonderful if, her parents and her state

permitting, she could share with him completely such a

mood as this? Simultaneously the thought came to her that

should her parents know of this it might not be possible for

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her to continue this relationship in any form, let alone to

develop it or enjoy it in the future. Yet regardless of this

thought now, which arrested and stilled her for a moment,

she continued to yearn toward him. Her eyes were warm

and tender—her lips wreathed with a gracious smile.

“I’m sure I oughtn’t to let you say all these things to me. I

know I shouldn’t,” she protested weakly, yet looking at him

affectionately. “It isn’t the right thing to do, I know, but still—”

“Why not? Why isn’t it right, Sondra? Why mayn’t I when I

care for you so much?” His eyes became clouded with

sadness, and she, noting it, exclaimed: “Oh, well,” then

paused, “I—I—” She was about to add, “Don’t think they

would ever let us go on with it,” but instead she only replied,

“I guess I don’t know you well enough.”

“Oh, Sondra, when I love you so much and I’m so crazy

about you! Don’t you care at all like I care for you?”

Because of the uncertainty expressed by her, his eyes were

now seeking, frightened, sad. The combination had an

intense appeal for her. She merely looked at him dubiously,

wondering what could be the result of such an infatuation

as this. And he, noting the wavering something in her own

eyes, pulled her closer and kissed her. Instead of resenting

it she lay for a moment willingly, joyously, in his arms, then

suddenly sat up, the thought of what she was permitting

him to do—kiss her in this way—and what it must mean to

him, causing her on the instant to recover all her poise. “I

think you’d better go now,” she said definitely, yet not

unkindly. “Don’t you?”

And Clyde, who himself had been surprised and afterwards

a little startled, and hence reduced by his own boldness,

now pleaded rather weakly, and yet submissively. “Angry?”

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And she, in turn sensing his submissiveness, that of the

slave for the master, and in part liking and in part resenting

it, since like Roberta and Hortense, even she preferred to

be mastered rather than to master, shook her head

negatively and a little sadly.

“It’s very late,” was all she said, and smiled tenderly.

And Clyde, realizing that for some reason he must not say

more, had not the courage or persistence or the

background to go further with her now, went for his coat

and, looking sadly but obediently back at her, departed.

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Chapter 33

ONE of the things that Roberta soon found was that her

intuitive notions in regard to all this were not without speedy

substantiation. For exactly as before, though with the usual

insistence afterward that there was no real help for it, there

continued to be these same last moment changes of plan

and unannounced absences. And although she complained

at times, or pleaded, or merely contented herself with quite