An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

all but immediately within his control; at other times (the

thought of Roberta sweeping down upon him as an icy

wind), as though nothing could be more sad, terrible,

numbing to the dreams of beauty, love and happiness than

this which now threatened him. That terrible item about the

lake and those two people drowned! The probability that in

spite of his wild plan within a week, or two or three at most,

he would have to leave all this forever. And then of a

sudden he would wake to realize that he was fumbling or

playing badly—that Bertine or Sondra or Grant was calling:

“Oh, Clyde, what are you thinking of, anyhow?” And from

the darkest depths of his heart he would have answered,

had he spoken, “Roberta.”

At the Brookshaws’, again that evening, a smart company

of friends of Sondra’s, Bertine’s and others. On the dance

floor a reëncounter with Sondra, all smiles, for she was

pretending for the benefit of others here—her mother and

father in particular—that she had not seen Clyde before—

did not even know that he was here.

An American Tragedy

657

“You up here? That’s great. Over at the Cranstons’? Oh,

isn’t that dandy? Right next door to us. Well, well see a lot

of each other, what? How about a canter to-morrow before

seven? Bertine and I go nearly every day. And we’ll have a

picnic to-morrow, if nothing interferes, canoeing and

motoring. Don’t worry about not riding well. I’ll get Bertine to

let you have Jerry—he’s just a sheep. And you don’t need

to worry about togs, either. Grant has scads of things. I’ll

dance the next two dances with others, but you sit out the

third one with me, will you? I know a peach of a place

outside on the balcony.”

She was off with fingers extended but with a “we-

understand-each-other” look in her eye. And outside in the

shadow later she pulled his face to hers when no one was

looking and kissed him eagerly, and, before the evening

was over, they had managed, by strolling along a path

which led away from the house along the lake shore, to

embrace under the moon.

“Sondra so glad Clydie here. Misses him so much.” She

smoothed his hair as he kissed her, and Clyde, bethinking

him of the shadow which lay so darkly between them,

crushed her feverishly, desperately., “Oh, my darling baby

girl,” he exclaimed. “My beautiful, beautiful Sondra! If you

only knew how much I love you! If you only knew! I wish I

could tell you all. I wish I could.”

But he could not now—or ever. He would never dare to

speak to her of even so much as a phase of the black

barrier that now lay between them. For, with her training,

the standards of love and marriage that had been set for

her, she would never understand, never be willing to make

so great a sacrifice for love, as much as she loved him. And

he would be left, abandoned on the instant, and with what

horror in her eyes!

An American Tragedy

658

Yet looking into his eyes, his face white and tense, and the

glow of the moon above making small white electric sparks

in his eyes, she exclaimed as he gripped her tightly: “Does

he love Sondra so much? Oh, sweetie boy! Sondra loves

him, too.” She seized his head between her hands and held

it tight, kissing him swiftly and ardently a dozen times. “And

Sondra won’t give her Clydie up either. She won’t. You just

wait and see! It doesn’t matter what happens now. It may

not be so very easy, but she won’t.” Then as suddenly and

practically, as so often was her way, she exclaimed: “But

we must go now, right away. No, not another kiss now. No,

no, Sondra says no, now. They’ll be missing us.” And

straightening up and pulling him by the arm she hurried him

back to the house in time to meet Palmer Thurston, who

was looking for her.

The next morning, true to her promise, there was the canter

to Inspiration Point, and that before seven—Bertine and

Sondra in bright red riding coats and white breeches and

black boots, their hair unbound and loose to the wind, and

riding briskly on before for the most part; then racing back

to where he was. Or Sondra halloing gayly for him to come

on, or the two of them laughing and chatting a hundred

yards ahead in some concealed chapel of the aisled trees

where he could not see them. And because of the interest

which Sondra was so obviously manifesting in him these

days—an interest which Bertine herself had begun to feel

might end in marriage, if no family complications arose to

interfere—she, Bertine, was all smiles, the very soul of

cordiality, winsomely insisting that he should come up and

stay for the summer and she would chaperon them both so

that no one would have a chance to complain. And Clyde

thrilling, and yet brooding too—by turns—occasionally—and

in spite of himself drifting back to the thought that the item

An American Tragedy

659

in the paper had inspired—and yet fighting it—trying to shut

it out entirely.

And then at one point, Sondra, turning down a steep path

which led to a stony and moss-lipped spring between the

dark trees, called to Clyde to “Come on down. Jerry knows

the way. He won’t slip. Come and get a drink. If you do,

you’ll come back again soon—so they say.”

And once he was down and had dismounted to drink, she

exclaimed: “I’ve been wanting to tell you something. You

should have seen Mamma’s face last night when she heard

you were up here. She can’t be sure that I had anything to

do with it, of course, because she thinks that Bertine likes

you, too. I made her think that. But just the same she

suspects that I had a hand in it, I guess, and she doesn’t

quite like it. But she can’t say anything more than she has

before. And I had a talk with Bertine just now and she’s

agreed to stick by me and help me all she can. But we’ll

have to be even more careful than ever now, because I

think if Mamma got too suspicious I don’t know what she

might do—want us to leave here, even now maybe, just so

I couldn’t see you. You know she feels that I shouldn’t be

interested in any one yet except some one she likes. You

know how it is. She’s that way with Stuart, too. But if you’ll

take care not to show that you care for me so much

whenever we’re around any one of our crowd, I don’t think

she’ll do anything—not now, anyhow. Later on, in the fall,

when we’re back in Lycurgus, things will be different. I’ll be

of age then, and I’m going to see what I can do. I never

loved any one before, but I do love you, and, well, I won’t

give you up, that’s all. I won’t. And they can’t make me,

either!”

She stamped her foot and struck her boot, the while the two

horses looked idly and vacantly about. And Clyde, enthused

An American Tragedy

660

and astonished by this second definite declaration in his

behalf, as well as fired by the thought that now, if ever, he

might suggest the elopement and marriage and so rid

himself of the sword that hung so threateningly above him,

now gazed at Sondra, his eyes filled with a nervous hope

and a nervous fear. For she might refuse, and change, too,

shocked by the suddenness of his suggestion. And he had

no money and no place in mind where they might go either,

in case she accepted his proposal. But she had, perhaps,

or she might have. And having once consented, might she

not help him? Of course. At any rate, he felt that he must

speak, leaving luck or ill luck to the future.

And so he said: “Why couldn’t you run away with me now,

Sondra, darling? It’s so long until fall and I want you so

much. Why couldn’t we? Your mother’s not likely to want to

let you marry me then, anyhow. But if we went away now,

she couldn’t help herself, could she? And afterwards, in a

few months or so, you could write her and then she

wouldn’t mind. Why couldn’t we, Sondra?” His voice was

very pleading, his eyes full of a sad dread of refusal—and

of the future that lay unprotected behind that.

And by now so caught was she by the tremor with which his

mood invested him, that she paused—not really shocked by

the suggestion at all—but decidedly moved, as well as

flattered by the thought that she was able to evoke in Clyde

so eager and headlong a passion. He was so impetuous—

so blazing now with a flame of her own creating, as she felt,