An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

And yet, what did it all suggest so strongly? Death! Death!

More definitely than anything he had ever seen before.

Death! But also a still, quiet, unprotesting type of death into

which one, by reason of choice or hypnosis or unutterable

weariness, might joyfully and gratefully sink. So quiet—so

shaded—so serene. Even Roberta exclaimed over this. And

he now felt for the first time the grip of some seemingly

strong, and yet friendly sympathetic, hands laid firmly on his

shoulders. The comfort of them! The warmth! The strength!

For now they seemed to have a steadying effect on him

and he liked them—their reassurance—their support. If only

they would not be removed! If only they would remain

always—the hands of this friend! For where had he ever

known this comforting and almost tender sensation before

in all his life? Not anywhere—and somehow this calmed

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him and he seemed to slip away from the reality of all

things.

To be sure, there was Roberta over there, but by now she

had faded to a shadow or thought really, a form of illusion

more vaporous than real. And while there was something

about her in color, form that suggested reality—still she was

very insubstantial—so very—and once more now he felt

strangely alone. For the hands of the friend of firm grip had

vanished also. And Clyde was alone, so very much alone

and forlorn, in this somber, beautiful realm to which

apparently he had been led, and then deserted, Also he felt

strangely cold—the spell of this strange beauty

overwhelming him with a kind of chill.

He had come here for what?

And he must do what?

Kill Roberta? Oh, no!

And again he lowered his head and gazed into the

fascinating and yet treacherous depths of that magnetic,

bluish, purple pool, which, as he continued to gaze,

seemed to change its form kaleidoscopically to a large,

crystalline ball. But what was that moving about in this

crystal? A form! It came nearer—clearer—and as it did so,

he recognized Roberta struggling and waving her thin white

arms out of the water and reaching toward him! God! How

terrible! The expression on her face! What in God’s name

was he thinking of anyway? Death! Murder!

And suddenly becoming conscious that his courage, on

which he had counted so much this long while to sustain

him here, was leaving him, and he instantly and consciously

plumbing the depths of his being in a vain search to

recapture it.

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Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!

Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!

Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!

(The weird, haunting cry of that unearthly bird again. So

cold, so harsh! Here it was once more to startle him out of

his soul flight into a realization of the real or unreal

immediate problem with all of its torturesome angles that

lay before him.)

He must face this thing! He must!

Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!

Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!

What was it sounding—a warning—a protest—

condemnation? The same bird that had marked the very

birth of this miserable plan. For there it was now upon that

dead tree—that wretched bird. And now it was flying to

another one—as dead—a little farther inland and crying as

it did so. God!

And then to the shore again in spite of himself. For Clyde, in

order to justify his having brought his bag, now must

suggest that pictures of this be taken—and of Roberta—

and of himself, possibly—on land and water. For that would

bring her into the boat again, without his bag, which would

be safe and dry on land. And once on shore, actually

pretending to be seeking out various special views here

and there, while he fixed in his mind the exact tree at the

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base of which he might leave his bag against his return—

which must be soon now—must be soon. They would not

come on shore again together. Never! Never! And that in

spite of Roberta protesting that she was getting tired; and

did he not think they ought to be starting back pretty soon?

It must be after five, surely. And Clyde, assuring her that

presently they would—after he had made one or two more

pictures of her in the boat with those wonderful trees—that

island and this dark water around and beneath her.

His wet, damp, nervous hands!

And his dark, liquid, nervous eyes, looking anywhere but at her.

And then once more on the water again.—about five

hundred feet from shore, the while he fumbled aimlessly

with the hard and heavy and yet small camera that he now

held, as the boat floated out nearer the center. And then, at

this point and time looking fearfully about. For now—now—

in spite of himself, the long evaded and yet commanding

moment. And no voice or figure or sound on shore. No road

or cabin or smoke! And the moment which he or something

had planned for him, and which was now to decide his fate

at hand! The moment of action—of crisis! All that he

needed to do now was to turn swiftly and savagely to one

side or the other—leap up—upon the left wale or right and

upset the boat; or, failing that, rock it swiftly, and if Roberta

protested too much, strike her with the camera in his hand,

or one of the oars at his right. It could be done—it could be

done—swiftly and simply, were he now of the mind and

heart, or lack of it—with him swimming swiftly away

thereafter to freedom—to success—of course—to Sondra

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and happiness—a new and greater and sweeter life than

any he had ever known.

Yet why was he waiting now?

What was the matter with him, anyhow?

Why was he waiting?

At this cataclysmic moment, and in the face of the utmost,

the most urgent need of action, a sudden palsy of the will—

of courage—of hate or rage sufficient; and with Roberta

from her seat in the stern of the boat gazing at his troubled

and then suddenly distorted and fulgurous, yet weak and

even unbalanced face—a face of a sudden, instead of

angry, ferocious, demoniac—confused and all but

meaningless in its registration of a balanced combat

between fear (a chemic revulsion against death or

murderous brutality that would bring death) and a harried

and restless and yet selfrepressed desire to do—to do—to

do—yet temporarily unbreakable here and now—a static

between a powerful compulsion to do and yet not to do.

And in the meantime his eyes—the pupils of the same

growing momentarily larger and more lurid; his face and

body and hands tense and contracted—the stillness of his

position, the balanced immobility of the mood more and

more ominous, yet in truth not suggesting a brutal,

courageous power to destroy, but the imminence of trance

or spasm.

And Roberta, suddenly noticing the strangeness of it all—

the something of eerie unreason or physical and mental

indetermination so strangely and painfully contrasting with

this scene, exclaiming: “Why, Clyde! Clyde! What is it?

Whatever is the matter with you anyhow? You look so—so

strange—so—so— Why, I never saw you look like this

before. What is it?” And suddenly rising, or rather leaning

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forward, and by crawling along the even keel, attempting to

approach him, since he looked as though he was about to

fall forward into the boat—or to one side and out into the

water. And Clyde, as instantly sensing the profoundness of

his own failure, his own cowardice or inadequateness for

such an occasion, as instantly yielding to a tide of

submerged hate, not only for himself, but Roberta—her

power—or that of life to restrain him in this way. And yet

fearing to act in any way—being unwilling to—being willing

only to say that never, never would he marry her—that

never, even should she expose him, would he leave here

with her to marry her—that he was in love with Sondra and

would cling only to her—and yet not being able to say that

even. But angry and confused and glowering. And then, as

she drew near him, seeking to take his hand in hers and the

camera from him in order to put it in the boat, he flinging out

at her, but not even then with any intention to do other than

free himself of her—her touch—her pleading—consoling

sympathy—her presence forever—God!

Yet (the camera still unconsciously held tight) pushing at

her with so much vehemence as not only to strike her lips

and nose and chin with it, but to throw her back sidewise

toward the left wale which caused the boat to careen to the

very water’s edge. And then he, stirred by her sharp

scream, (as much due to the lurch of the boat, as the cut on

her nose and lip), rising and reaching half to assist or

recapture her and half to apologize for the unintended blow

—yet in so doing completely capsizing the boat—himself