An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

observe the details of the more inward scene which now so

much more concerned him—the nature of the lake country

around Big Bittern, which ever since that final important

conversation with Roberta over the telephone, had been

interesting him more than any other geography of the world.

For on Friday, after the conversation, he had stopped in at

the Lycurgus House and secured three different folders

relating to hotels, lodges, inns and other camps in the more

remote region beyond Big Bittern and Long Lake. (If only

there were some way to get to one of those completely

deserted lakes described by that guide at Big Bittern—only,

perhaps, there might not be any row-boats on any of these

lakes at all!) And again on Saturday, had he not secured

four more circulars from the rack at the depot (they were in

his pocket now)? Had they not proved how many small

lakes and inns there were along this same railroad, which

ran north to Big Bittern, to which he and Roberta might

resort for a day or two if she would—a night, anyhow,

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before going to Big Bittern and Grass Lake—had he not

noted that in particular—a beautiful lake it had said—near

the station, and with at least three attractive lodges or

country home inns where two could stay for as low as

twenty dollars a week. That meant that two could stay for

one night surely for as little as five dollars. It must be so

surely—and so he was going to say to her, as he had

already planned these several days, that she needed a little

rest before going away to a strange place. That it would not

cost very much—about fifteen dollars for fares and all, so

the circulars said—if they went to Grass Lake for a night—

this same night after reaching Utica—or on the morrow,

anyhow. And he would have to picture it all to her as a sort

of honeymoon journey—a little pleasant outing—before

getting married. And it would not do to succumb to any plan

of hers to get married before they did this—that would

never do.

(Those five birds winging toward that patch of trees over

there—below that hill.)

It certainly would not do to go direct to Big Bittern from

Utica for a boat ride—just one day—seventy miles. That

would not sound right to her, or to any one. It would make

her suspicious, maybe. It might be better, since he would

have to get away from her to buy a hat in Utica, to spend

this first night there at some inexpensive, inconspicuous

hotel, and once there, suggest going up to Grass Lake. And

from there they could go to Big Bittern in the morning. He

could say that Big Bittern was nicer—or that they would go

down to Three Mile Bay—a hamlet really as he knew—

where they could be married, but en route stop at Big

Bittern as a sort of lark. He would say that he wanted to

show her the lake—take some pictures of her and himself.

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He had brought his camera for that and for other pictures of

Sondra later.

The blackness of this plot of his!

(Those nine black and white cows on that green hillside.)

But again, strapping that tripod along with his tennis racquet

to the side of his suitcase, might not that cause people to

imagine that they were passing tourists from some distant

point, maybe, and if they both disappeared, well, then, they

were not people from anywhere around here, were they?

Didn’t the guide say that the water in the lake was all of

seventy-five feet deep—like that water at Pass Lake? And

as for Roberta’s grip—oh, yes, what about that? He hadn’t

even thought about that as yet, really.

(Those three automobiles out there running almost as fast

as this train.)

Well, in coming down from Grass Lake after one night there

(he could say that he was going to marry her at Three Mile

Bay at the north end of Greys Lake, where a minister lived

whom he had met), he would induce her to leave her bag at

that Gun Lodge station, where they took the bus over to Big

Bittern, while he took his with him. He could just say to

some one—the boatman, maybe, or the driver, that he was

taking his camera in his bag, and ask where the best views

were. Or maybe a lunch. Was that not a better idea—to

take a lunch and so deceive Roberta, too, perhaps? And

that would tend to mislead the driver, also, would it not?

People did carry cameras in bags when they went out on

lakes, at times. At any rate it was most necessary for him to

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carry his bag in this instance. Else why the plan to go south

to that island and from thence through the woods?

(Oh, the grimness and the terror of this plan! Could he really

execute it?)

But that strange cry of that bird at Big Bittern. He had not

liked that, or seeing that guide up there who might

remember him now. He had not talked to him at all—had

not even gotten out of the car, but had only looked out at

him through the window; and in so far as he could recall the

guide had not even once looked at him—had merely talked

to Grant Cranston and Harley Baggott, who had gotten out

and had done all the talking. But supposing this guide

should be there and remember him? But how could that be

when he really had not seen him? This guide would

probably not remember him at all—might not even be there.

But why should his hands and face be damp all the time

now—wet almost, and cold—his knees shaky?

(This train was following the exact curve of this stream—

and last summer he and Roberta. But no—)

As soon as they reached Utica now this was the way he

would do—and must keep it well in mind and not get rattled

in any way. He must not—he must not. He must let her

walk up the street before him, say a hundred feet or so

between them, so that no one would think he was following

her, of course. And then when they were quite alone

somewhere he would catch up with her and explain all

about this—be very nice as though he cared for her as

much as ever now—he would have to—if he were to get

her to do as he wanted. And then—and then, oh, yes, have

her wait while he went for that extra straw hat that he was

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going to—well, leave on the water, maybe. And the oars,

too, of course. And her hat—and—well—

(The long, sad sounding whistle of this train. Damn. He was

getting nervous already.)

But before going to the hotel, he must go back to the depot

and put his new hat in the bag, or better yet, carry it while

he looked for the sort of hotel he wanted, and then, before

going to Roberta, take the hat and put it in his bag. Then he

would go and find her and have her come to the entrance

of the hotel he had found and wait for him, while he got the

bags. And, of course, if there was no one around or very

few, they would enter together, only she could wait in the

ladies’ parlor somewhere, while he went and registered as

Charles Golden, maybe, this time. And then, well, in the

morning, if she agreed, or to-night, for that matter, if there

were any trains—he would have to find out about that—they

could go up to Grass Lake in separate cars until they were

past Twelfth Lake and Sharon, at any rate.

(The beautiful Cranston Lodge there and Sondra.)

And then—and then—

(That big red barn and that small white house near it. And

that wind-mill. So like those houses and barns that he had

seen out there in Illinois and Missouri. And Chicago, too.)

And at the same time Roberta in her car forward thinking

that Clyde had not appeared so very unfriendly to her. To

be sure, it was hard on him, making him leave Lycurgus in

this way, and when he might be enjoying himself as he

wished to. But on the other hand, here was she—and there

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was no other way for her to be. She must be very genial

and yet not put herself forward too much or in his way. And

yet she must not be too receding or weak, either, for, after

all, Clyde was the one who had placed her in this position.

And it was only fair, and little enough for him to do. She

would have a baby to look after in the future, and all that