silent and not always obvious “blues,” still these same
effected no real modification or improvement. For Clyde
was now hopelessly enamored of Sondra and by no means
to be changed, or moved even, by anything in connection
with Roberta. Sondra was too wonderful!
At the same time because she was there all of the working
hours of each day in the same room with him, he could not
fail instinctively to feel some of the thoughts that employed
her mind—such dark, sad, despairing thoughts. And these
seized upon him at times as definitely and poignantly as
though they were voices of accusation or complaint—so
much so that he could not help but suggest by way of
amelioration that he would like to see her and that he was
coming around that night if she were going to be home.
And so distrait was she, and still so infatuated with him, that
she could not resist admitting that she wanted him to come.
And once there, the psychic personality of the past as well
as of the room itself was not without its persuasion and
hence emotional compulsion.
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But most foolishly anticipating, as he now did, a future more
substantial than the general local circumstances warranted,
he was more concerned than ever lest his present
relationship to Roberta should in any way prove inimical to
all this. Supposing that Sondra at some time, in some way,
should find out concerning Roberta? How fatal that would
be! Or that Roberta should become aware of his devotion
to Sondra and so develop an active resentment which
should carry her to the length of denouncing or exposing
him. For subsequent to the New Year’s Eve engagement,
he was all too frequently appearing at the factory of a
morning with explanatory statements that because of some
invitation from the Griffiths, Harriets, or others, he would not
be able to keep an engagement with her that night, for
instance, that he had made a day or two before. And later,
on three different occasions, because Sondra had called for
him in her car, he had departed without a word, trusting to
what might come to him the next day in the way of an
excuse to smooth the matter over.
Yet anomalous, if not exactly unprecedented as it may
seem, this condition of mingled sympathy and opposition
gave rise at last to the feeling in him that come what might
he must find some method of severing this tie, even though
it lacerated Roberta to the point of death (Why should he
care? He had never told her that he would marry her.) or
endangered his own position here in case she were not
satisfied to release him as voicelessly as he wished. At
other times it caused him to feel that indeed he was a sly
and shameless and cruel person who had taken undue
advantage of a girl who, left to herself, would never have
troubled with him. And this latter mood, in spite of slights
and lies and thinly excused neglects and absences at times
in the face of the most definite agreements—so strange is
the libido of the race—brought about the reenactment of the
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546
infernal or celestial command laid upon Adam and his
breed: “Thy desire shall be to thy mate.”
But there was this to be said in connection with the
relationship between these two, that no time, owing to the
inexperience of Clyde, as well as Roberta, had there been
any adequate understanding or use of more than the
simplest, and for the most part unsatisfactory, contraceptive
devices. About the middle of February, and, interestingly
enough, at about the time when Clyde, because of the
continuing favor of Sondra, had about reached the point
where he was determined once and for all to end, not only
this physical, but all other connection with Roberta, she on
her part was beginning to see clearly that, in spite of his
temporizing and her own incurable infatuation for him,
pursuit of him by her was futile and that it would be more to
the satisfaction of her pride, if not to the ease of her heart, if
she were to leave here and in some other place seek some
financial help that would permit her to live and still help her
parents and forget him if she could. Unfortunately for this,
she was compelled, to her dismay and terror, to enter the
factory one morning, just about this time, her face a symbol
of even graver and more terrifying doubts and fears than
any that had hitherto assailed her. For now, in addition to
her own troubled conclusions in regard to Clyde, there had
sprung up over night the dark and constraining fear that
even this might not now be possible, for the present at
least. For because of her own and Clyde’s temporizing over
his and her sentimentality and her unconquerable affection
for him, she now, at a time when it was most inimical for
both, found herself pregnant.
Ever since she had yielded to his blandishments, she had
counted the days and always had been able to congratulate
herself that all was well. But forty-eight hours since the
always exactly calculated time had now passed, and there
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547
had been no sign. And for four days preceding this Clyde
had not even been near her. And his attitude at the factory
was more remote and indifferent than ever.
And now, this!
And she had no one but him to whom she might turn. And
he was in this estranged and indifferent mood.
Because of her fright, induced by the fear that with or
without Clyde’s aid she might not easily be extricated from
her threatened predicament, she could see her home, her
mother, her relatives, all who knew her, and their thoughts
in case anything like this should befall her. For of the
opinion of society in general and what other people might
say, Roberta stood in extreme terror. The stigma of
unsanctioned concupiscence! The shame of illegitimacy for
a child! It was bad enough, as she had always thought,
listening to girls and women talk of life and marriage and
adultery and the miseries that had befallen girls who had
yielded to men and subsequently been deserted, for a
woman when she was safely married and sustained by the
love and strength of a man—such love, for instance, as her
brother-in-law Gabel brought to her sister Agnes, and her
father to her mother in the first years, no doubt—and Clyde
to her when he had so feverishly declared that he loved her.
But now—now!
She could not permit any thoughts in regard to his recent or
present attitude to delay her. Regardless of either, he must
help her. She did not know what else to do under such
circumstances—which way to turn. And no doubt Clyde did.
At any rate he had said once that he would stand by her in
case anything happened. And although, because at first,
even on the third day on reaching the factory, she imagined
that she might be exaggerating the danger and that it was
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548
perhaps some physical flaw or lapse that might still
overcome itself, still by late afternoon no evidence of any
change coming to her, she began to be a prey to the most
nameless terrors. What little courage she had mustered up
to this time began to waver and break. She was all alone,
unless he came to her now. And she was in need of advice
and good counsel—loving counsel. Oh, Clyde! Clyde! If he
would only not be so indifferent to her! He must not be!
Something must be done, and right away—quick—else—
Great Heavens, what a terrible thing this could easily come
to be!
At once she stopped her work between four and five in the
afternoon and hurried to the dressing-room. And there she
penned a note—hurried, hysterical—a scrawl.
“CLYDE—I must see you to-night, sure, sure. You
mustn’t fail me. I have something to tell you. Please
come as soon after work as possible, or meet me
anywhere. I’m not angry or mad about anything. But I
must see you to-night, sure. Please say right away
where.
“ROBERTA.”
And he, sensing a new and strange and quite terrified note
in all this the moment he read it, at once looked over his
shoulder at her and, seeing her face so white and drawn,
signaled that he would meet her. For judging by her face
the thing she had to tell must be of the utmost importance
to her, else why this tensity and excitement on her part. And
although he had another engagement later, as he now
troublesomely recalled, at the Starks for dinner, still it was
necessary to do this first. Yet, what was it anyhow? Was
anybody dead or hurt or what—her mother or father or
brother or sister?
An American Tragedy