An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

“Yes, I know.” His voice was thick and heavy. He could

scarcely form the words. They were smothered, choked.

His lips tightened to a thinner white line than before. His

face grew paler still.

“Why, what’s the matter, Clydie?” Sondra asked, of a

sudden, looking at him more closely. “You look so pale!

Your eyes. Anything wrong? Aren’t you feeling well to-night,

or is it this light out here?”

She turned to look at some of the others in order to make

sure, then back at him. And he, feeling the extreme

importance of looking anything but the way she was

describing him now drew himself up as best he could, and

replied: “Oh, no. It must be the light, I guess. Sure, it’s the

light. I had—a—a hard day yesterday, that’s all. I shouldn’t

have come over to-night, I suppose.” And then achieving

the weirdest and most impossible of smiles. And Sondra,

gazing most sympathetically, adding: “Was he so tired? My

Clydie-mydie boy, after his work yesterday. Why didn’t my

baby boy tell me that this morning instead of doing all that

An American Tragedy

796

we did to-day? Want me to get Frank to run you down to

the Cranstons’ now? Or maybe you’d like to go up in his

room and lie down? He won’t mind, I know. Shall I ask

him?”

She turned as if to speak to Frank, but Clyde, all but panic-

stricken by this latest suggestion, and yet angling for an

excuse to leave, exclaimed earnestly and yet shakily:

“Please, please don’t, darling. I—I—don’t want you to. I’ll be

all right. I’ll go up after a bit if I want to, or maybe home a

little early, if you’re going after a while, but not now. I’m not

feeling as good as I should, but I’ll be all right.”

Sondra, because of his strained and as she now fancied

almost peevish tone, desisted with: “All right, honey. All

right. But if you don’t feel well, I wish you would let me get

Frank to take you down or go upstairs. He won’t mind. And

then after a while—about ten-thirty—I’ll excuse myself and

you can go down with me to your place. I’ll take you there

before I go home and whoever else wants to go. Won’t my

baby boy do something like that?”

And Clyde saying: “Well, I think I’ll go up and get a drink,

anyhow.” And disappearing in one of the spacious baths of

the Harriet home, locking the door and sitting down and

thinking, thinking—of Roberta’s body recovered, of the

possibilities of a bruise of some kind, of the possibility of the

print of his own feet in the mud and sandy loam of the

shore; of that suit over at the Cranstons’, the men in the

wood, Roberta’s bag, hat and coat, his own liningless hat

left on the water—and wondering what next to do. How to

act! How to talk! Whether to go downstairs to Sondra now

and persuade her to go, or whether to stay and suffer and

agonize? And what would the morrow’s papers reveal?

What? What? And was it wise, in case there was any news

which would make it look as though eventually he was to

An American Tragedy

797

be sought after, or in any way connected with this, to go on

that proposed camping trip to-morrow! Or, wiser, to run

away from here? He had some money now. He could go to

New York, Boston, New Orleans where Ratterer was—but

oh, no—not where any one knew him.

Oh, God! The folly of all his planning in connection with all

this to date! The flaws! Had he ever really planned it right

from the start? Had he ever really imagined, for instance,

that Roberta’s body would be found in that deep water?

And yet, here it was—risen so soon—this first day—to

testify against him! And although he had signed as he had

on those registers up there, was it not possible now, on

account of those three men and that girl on that boat, for

him to be traced? He must think, think, think! And get out of

here as soon as possible, before anything really fatal in

connection with that suit should happen.

Growing momentarily weaker and more terrorized, he now

decided to return to Sondra below, and say that he was

really feeling quite sick and that if she did not object he

would prefer to go home with her, if she could arrange it.

And consequently, at ten-thirty, when the evening still had

hours to go, Sondra announced to Burchard that she was

not feeling well and would he run her and Clyde and Jill

down to her place, but that she would see them all on the

morrow in time for the proposed departure for Bear Lake.

And Clyde, though brooding as to whether this early leaving

on his part was not another of those wretched errors which

had seemed to mark every step of this desperate and

murderous scheme so far, finally entering the swift launch

and being raced to the Cranston lodge in no time. And once

there, excusing himself to Burchard and Sondra as

nonchalantly and apologetically as might be, and then

hurrying to his own room only to find the suit as he had left it

An American Tragedy

798

—no least evidence that any one had been there to disturb

the serenity of his chamber. Just the same, nervously and

suspiciously, he now took it out and tied it up, and then

waiting and listening for a silent moment in which to slip

from the house unobserved—finally ambled out as though

going for a short walk. And then, by the shore of the lake—

about a quarter of a mile distant from the house—seeking

out a heavy stone and tying the suit to that. And then

throwing it out into the water, as far as his strength would

permit. And then returning, as silently and gloomily and

nervously as he had gone, and brooding and brooding as to

what the morrow might reveal and what, if any appeared to

question him, he would say.

An American Tragedy

799

Chapter 8

THE morrow dawned after an all but sleepless night,

harrowed by the most torturesome dreams in regard to

Roberta, men who arrived to arrest him, and the hike, until

at last he arose, his nerves and eyes aching. Then,

venturing to come downstairs about an hour later, he saw

Frederick, the chauffeur who had driven him out the day

before, getting one of the cars out. And thereupon

instructing him to bring all the morning Albany and Utica

papers. And about nine-thirty, when he returned,

proceeding to his room with them, where, locking the door

and spreading one of the papers before him, he was

immediately confronted by the startling headlines:

MYSTERY IN GIRL’S DEATH BODY FOUND

YESTERDAY IN ADIRONDACK LAKE MAN COMPAN-

ION MISSING

And at once strained and white he sat down in one of the

chairs near the window and began to read:

Bridgeburg, N. Y., July 9.—The body of an unknown

girl, presumably the wife of a young man who

registered first on Wednesday morning at Grass Lake

Inn, Grass Lake, N. Y., as Carl Graham and wife, and

later, Thursday noon, at Big Bittern Lodge, Big Bittern,

as Clifford Golden and wife was taken from the waters

of the south end of Big Bittern just before noon

yesterday. Because of an upturned boat, as well as a

man’s straw hat found floating on the water in Moon

Cove, dredging with hooks and lines had been going on

all morning…. Up to seven o’clock last evening,

An American Tragedy

800

however, the body of the man had not as yet been

recovered, and according to Coroner Heit of Bridge-

burg, who by two o’clock had been summoned to the

scene of the tragedy, it was not considered at all likely

that it would be. Several marks and abrasions found

upon the dead girl’s head and face, as well as the

testimony of three men who arrived on the scene while

the search was still on and testified to having met a

young man who answered to the description of Golden

or Graham in the woods to the south of the lake the

night before, caused many to conclude that a murder

had been committed and that the murderer was

seeking to make his escape.

The girl’s brown leather traveling bag, as well as a hat

and coat belonging to her, were left, the bag in the

ticket agent’s room at Gun Lodge, which is the railway

station five miles east of Big Bittern, and the hat and

coat in the coatroom of the inn at the Lake, whereas

Graham or Golden is said to have taken his suitcase

with him into the boat.

According to the innkeeper at Big Bittern, the couple on

their arrival registered as Clifford Golden and wife of