An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

Next, Emily and Tom, thinking all is going so well with

me and that I might enjoy it, were having four girls and

four boys come here to-night for a sort of June moon-

party, with ice cream and cake to be made by Emily

and Mother and myself. But now, poor dear, she has to

do a lot of telephoning over Mr. Wilcox’s phone, which

we share, in order to put it off until some day next

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week, if possible. And she’s just heartsick and gloomy,

of course.

As for myself, I’m trying to keep a stiff upper lip, as the

saying is. But it’s pretty hard, dear, I’ll tell you. For so

far I have only had three small telephone talks with you,

saying that you didn’t think you would have the

necessary money before July fifth. And to put the

finishing touches on it, as I only learned to-day,

Mamma and Papa have about decided to go to my

Uncle Charlie’s in Hamilton for over the fourth (from the

fourth to the fifteenth) and take me with them, unless I

decide to return to Lycurgus, while Tom and Emily visit

with my sister at Homer. But, dear, I can’t do that, as

you know. I’m too sick and worried. Last night I vomited

dreadful and have been half dead on my feet all day,

and I am just about crazy to-night.

Dear, what can we do? Can’t you come for me before

July third, which will be the time they will be going? You

will have to come for me before then, really, because I

just can’t go up there with them. It’s fifty miles from

here. I could say I would go up there with them if only

you would be sure to come for me before they start. But

I must be absolutely sure that you are coming—

absolutely.

Clyde, I have done nothing but cry since I got here. If

you were only here I wouldn’t feel so badly. I do try to

be brave, dear, but how can I help thinking at times that

you will never come for me when you haven’t written

me one single note and have only talked to me three

times since I’ve been up here. But then I say to myself

you couldn’t be so mean as that, and especially since

you have promised. Oh, you will come, won’t you?

Everything worries me so now, Clyde, for some reason

and I’m so frightened, dear. I think of last summer and

then this one, and all my dreams. It won’t make any

real difference to you about your coming a few days

sooner than you intended, will it, dear? Even if we have

to get along on a little less. I know that we can. I can be

very saving and economical. I will try to have my

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dresses made by then. If not, I will do with what I have

and finish them later. And I will try and be brave, dear,

and not annoy you much, if only you will come. You

must, you know, Clyde. It can’t be any other way,

although for your sake now I wish it could.

Please, please, Clyde, write and tell me that you will be

here at the end of the time that you said. I worry so and

get so lonesome off here all by myself. I will come

straight back to you if you don’t come by the time you

said. I know you will not like me to say this, but, Clyde, I

can’t stay here and that’s all there is to it. And I can’t go

away with Mamma and Papa either, so there is only

one way out. I don’t believe I will sleep a wink to-night,

so please write me and in your letter tell me over and

over not to worry about your not coming for me. If you

could only come to-day, dear, or this week-end, I

wouldn’t feel so blue. But nearly two weeks more!

Every one is in bed and the house is still, so I will stop.

But please write me, dear, right away, or if you won’t

do that call me up sure to-morrow, because I just can’t

rest one single minute until I do hear from you.

Your miserable ROBERTA.

P. S.: This is a horrid letter, but I just can’t write a better

one. I’m so blue.

But the day this letter arrived in Lycurgus Clyde was not

there to answer it at once. And because of that, Roberta

being in the darkest and most hysterical mood and thought,

sat down on Saturday afternoon and, half-convinced as she

was that he might already have departed for some distant

point without any word to her, almost shrieked or screamed,

if one were to properly characterize the mood that animated

the following:

Biltz, Saturday, June 14th.

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MY DEAR CLYDE:

I am writing to tell you that I am coming back to

Lycurgus. I simply can’t stay here any longer. Mamma

worries and wonders why I cry so much, and I am just

about sick. I know I promised to stay until the 25th or

26th, but then you said you would write me, but you

never have—only an occasional telephone message

when I am almost crazy. I woke up this morning and

couldn’t help crying right away and this afternoon my

headache is dreadful.

I’m so afraid you won’t come and I’m so frightened,

dear. Please come and take me away some place,

anywhere, so I can get out of here and not worry like I

do. I’m so afraid in the state that I’m in that Papa and

Mamma may make me tell the whole affair or that they

will find it out for themselves.

Oh, Clyde, you will never know. You have said you

would come, and sometimes I just know you will. But at

other times I get to thinking about other things and I’m

just as certain you won’t, especially when you don’t

write or telephone. I wish you would write and say that

you will come just so I can stand to stay here. Just as

soon as you get this, I wish you would write me and tell

me the exact day you can come—not later than the

first, really, because I know I cannot stand to stay here

any longer than then. Clyde, there isn’t a girl in the

whole world as miserable as I am, and you have made

me so. But I don’t mean that, either, dear. You were

good to me once, and you are now, offering to come for

me. And if you will come right away I will be so grateful.

And when you read this, if you think I am unreasonable,

please do not mind it, Clyde, but just think I am crazy

with grief and worry and that I just don’t know what to

do. Please write me, Clyde. If you only knew how I

need a word.

ROBERTA.

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This letter, coupled as it was with a threat to come to

Lycurgus, was sufficient to induce in Clyde a state not

unlike Roberta’s. To think that he had no additional, let

alone plausible, excuse to offer Roberta whereby she could

be induced to delay her final and imperative demand. He

racked his brains. He must not write her any long and self-

incriminating letters. That would be foolish in the face of his

determination not to marry her. Besides his mood at the

moment, so fresh from the arms and kisses of Sondra, was

not for anything like that. He could not, even if he would.

At the same time, something must be done at once, as he

could see, in order to allay her apparently desperate mood.

And ten minutes after he had finished reading the last of

these two letters, he was attempting to reach Roberta over

the telephone. And finally getting her after a troublesome

and impatient half-hour, he heard her voice, thin and rather

querulous as it seemed to him at first, but really only

because of a poor connection, saying: “Hello, Clyde, hello.

Oh, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been terribly nervous. Did

you get my two letters? I was just about to leave here in the

morning if I didn’t hear from you by then. I just couldn’t

stand not to hear anything. Where have you been, dear?

Did you read what I said about my parents going away?

That’s true. Why don’t you write, Clyde, or call me up

anyhow? What about what I said in my letter about the

third? Will you be sure and come then? Or shall I meet you

somewhere? I’ve been so nervous the last three or four

days, but now that I hear you again, maybe I’ll be able to

quiet down some. But I do wish you would write me a note