An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

To insist on his marrying her, whereas if she would only go

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her own way—as she could with his help—she might still

save both of them all this trouble.

But no, she would not, and he would not marry her and that

was all there was to it. She need not think that she could

make him. No, no, no! At times, when in such moods, he

felt that he could do anything—drown her easily enough,

and she would only have herself to blame.

Then again his more cowering sense of what society would

think and do, if it knew, what he himself would be

compelled to think of himself afterwards, fairly well satisfied

him that as much as he desired to stay, he was not the one

to do anything at all and in consequence must flee.

And so it was that Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday

following Roberta’s letter received on Monday, had passed.

And then, on Thursday night, following a most torturesome

mental day on his and Roberta’s part for that matter, this is

what he received:

Biltz, Wednesday, June 30th.

DEAR CLYDE:

This is to tell you that unless I hear from you either by

telephone or letter before noon, Friday, I shall be in

Lycurgus that same night, and the world will know how

you have treated me. I cannot and will not wait and

suffer one more hour. I regret to be compelled to take

this step, but you have allowed all this time to go in

silence really, and Saturday is the third, and without any

plans of any kind. My whole life is ruined and so will

yours be in a measure, but I cannot feel that I am

entirely to blame. I have done all I possibly could to

make this burden as easy for you as possible and I

certainly regret all the misery it will cause my parents

and friends and all whom you know and hold dear. But I

will not wait and suffer one hour more.

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ROBERTA.

And with this in his hands, he was finally all but numbed by

the fact that now decidedly he must act. She was actually

coming! Unless he could soothe or restrain her in some

manner she would be here to-morrow—the second. And yet

the second, or the third, or any time until after the Fourth,

was no time to leave with her. The holiday crowds would be

too great. There would be too many people to see—to

encounter. There must be more secrecy. He must have at

least a little more time in which to get ready. He must think

now quickly and then act. Great God! Get ready. Could he

not telephone her and say that he had been sick or so

worried on account of the necessary money or something

that he could not write—and that besides his uncle had sent

for him to come to Greenwood Lake over the Fourth. His

uncle! His uncle! No, that would not do. He had used his

name too much. What difference should it make to him or

her now, whether he saw his uncle once more or not? He

was leaving once and for all, or so he had been telling her,

on her account, was he not? And so he had better say that

he was going to his uncle, in order to give a reason why he

was going away so that, possibly, he might be able to return

in a year or so. She might believe that. At any rate he must

tell her something that would quiet her until after the Fourth

—make her stay up there until at least he could perfect

some plan—bring himself to the place where he could do

one thing or the other. One thing or the other.

Without pausing to plan anything more than just this at this

time, he hurried to the nearest telephone where he was

least likely to be overheard. And, getting her once more,

began one of those long and evasive and, in this instance,

ingratiating explanations which eventually, after he had

insisted that he had actually been sick—confined to his

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room with a fever and hence not able to get to a telephone

—and because, as he now said, he had finally decided that

it would be best if he were to make some explanation to his

uncle, so that he might return some time in the future, if

necessary—he, by using the most pleading, if not actually

affectionate, tones and asking her to consider what a state

he had been in, too, was able not only to make her believe

that there was some excuse for his delay and silence, but

also to introduce the plan that he now had in mind; which

was if only she could wait until the sixth, then assuredly,

without fail as to any particular, he would meet her at any

place she would choose to come—Homer, Fonda,

Lycurgus, Little Falls—only since they were trying to keep

everything so secret, he would suggest that she come to

Fonda on the morning of the sixth in order to make the

noon train for Utica. There they could spend the night since

they could not very well discuss and decide on their plans

over the telephone, now, and then they could act upon

whatever they had decided. Besides he could tell her better

then just how he thought they ought to do. He had an idea—

a little trip maybe, somewhere before they got married or

after, just as she wished, but—something nice anyhow—

(his voice grew husky and his knees and hands shook

slightly as he said this, only Roberta could not detect the

sudden perturbation within him). But she must not ask him

now. He could not tell her over the phone. But as sure as

anything, at noon on the sixth, he would be on the station

platform at Fonda. All she had to do after seeing him was to

buy her ticket to Utica and get in one coach, and he would

buy his separately and get in another—the one just ahead

or behind hers. On the way down, if she didn’t see him at

the station beforehand, he would pass through her car for a

drink so that she could see that he was there—no more

than that—but she mustn’t speak to him. Then once in

Utica, she should check her bag and he would follow her

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out to the nearest quiet corner. After that he would go and

get her bag, and then they could go to some little hotel and

he would take care of all the rest.

But she must do this. Would she have that much faith in

him? If so, he would call her up on the third—the very next

day—and on the morning of the sixth—sure, so that both he

and she would know that everything was all right—that she

was starting and that he would be there. What was that?

Her trunk? The little one? Sure. If she needed it, certainly

bring it. Only, if he were she, he would not trouble to try to

bring too much now, because once she was settled

somewhere, it would be easy enough to send for anything

else that she really needed.

As Clyde stood at the telephone in a small outlying drug

store and talked—the lonely proprietor buried in a silly

romance among his pots and phials at the back—it seemed

as though the Giant Efrit that had previously materialized in

the silent halls of his brain, was once more here at his elbow

—that he himself, cold and numb and fearsome, was being

talked through—not actually talking himself.

Go to the lake which you visited with Sondra!

Get travel folders of the region there from either the

Lycurgus House here or the depot.

Go to the south end of it and from there walk south,

afterwards.

Pick a boat that will upset easily—one with a round bottom,

such as those you have seen here at Crum Lake and up

there.

Buy a new and different hat and leave that on the water—

one that cannot be traced to you. You might even tear the

lining out of it so that it cannot be traced.

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Pack all of your things in your trunk here, but leave it, so

that swiftly, in the event that anything goes wrong, you can

return here and get it and depart.

And take only such things with you as will make it seem as

though you were going for an outing to Twelfth Lake—not

away, so that should you be sought at Twelfth Lake, it will

look as though you had gone only there, not elsewhere.

Tell her that you intend to marry her, but after you return

from this outing, not before.

And if necessary strike a light blow, so as to stun her—no