An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

waxy paleness of his face, he assumed must be Clyde. And

at once he now approached him, as might an angry wasp

or hornet, only pausing first to ask of Swenk where he had

been captured and by whom—then gazing at Clyde critically

and austerely as befitted one who represented the power

and majesty of the law.

“So you are Clyde Griffiths, are you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, Mr. Griffiths, my name is Orville Mason. I am the

district attorney of the county in which Big Bittern and Grass

Lake are situated. I suppose you are familiar enough with

those two places by now, aren’t you?”

An American Tragedy

821

He paused to see the effect of this sardonic bit of

commentary. Yet although he expected to see him wince

and quail, Clyde merely gazed at him, his nervous, dark

eyes showing enormous strain. “No, sir, I can’t say that I

am.”

For with each step through the woods thus far back, there

had been growing within him the utter and unshakable

conviction that in the face of whatever seeming proof or

charges might now appear, he dared not tell anything in

regard to himself, his connection with Roberta, his visit to

Big Bittern or Grass Lake. He dared not. For that would be

the same as a confession of guilt in connection with

something of which he was not really guilty. And no one

must believe—never—Sondra, or the Griffiths, or any of

these fine friends of his, that he could ever have been guilty

of such a thought, even. And yet here they were, all within

call, and at any moment might approach and so learn the

meaning of his arrest. And while he felt the necessity for so

denying any knowledge in connection with all this, at the

same time he stood in absolute terror of this man—the

opposition and irritated mood such an attitude might arouse

in him. That broken nose. His large, stern eyes.

And then Mason, eyeing him as one might an unheard-of

and yet desperate animal and irritated also by his denial,

yet assuming from his blanched expression that he might

and no doubt would shortly be compelled to confess his

guilt, continuing with: “You know what you are charged with,

Mr. Griffiths, of course.”

“Yes, sir, I just heard it from this man here.”

“And you admit it?”

An American Tragedy

822

“Why, no sir, of course I don’t admit it,” replied Clyde, his

thin and now white lips drawn tight over his even teeth, his

eyes full of a deep, tremulous yet evasive terror.

“Why, what nonsense! What effrontery! You deny being up

to Grass Lake and Big Bittern on last Wednesday and

Thursday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, then,” and now Mason stiffened himself in an angry

and at the same time inquisitorial way, “I suppose you are

going to deny knowing Roberta Alden—the girl you took to

Grass Lake, and then out on Big Bittern in that boat last

Thursday—the girl you knew in Lycurgus all last year, who

lived at Mrs. Gilpin’s and worked under you in your

department at Griffiths & Company—the girl to whom you

gave that toilet set last Christmas! I suppose you’re going to

say that your name isn’t Clyde Griffiths and that you haven’t

been living with Mrs. Peyton. in Taylor Street, and that

these aren’t letters and cards from your trunk there—from

Roberta Alden and from Miss Finchley, all these cards and

notes.” And extracting the letters and cards as he spoke

and waving them before Clyde. And at each point in this

harangue, thrusting his broad face, with its flat, broken nose

and somewhat aggressive chin directly before Clyde’s, and

blazing at him with sultry, contemptuous eyes, while the

latter leaned away from him, wincing almost perceptibly and

with icy chills running up and down his spine and affecting

his heart and brain. Those letters! All this information

concerning him! And back in his bag in the tent there, all

those more recent letters of Sondra’s in which she dwelt on

how they were to elope together this coming fall. If only he

had destroyed them! And now this man might find those—

would—and question Sondra maybe, and all these others.

He shrunk and congealed spiritually, the revealing effects of

An American Tragedy

823

his so poorly conceived and executed scheme weighing

upon him as the world upon the shoulders of an inadequate

Atlas.

And yet, feeling that he must say something and yet not

admit anything. And finally replying: “My name’s Clyde

Griffiths all right, but the rest of this isn’t true. I don’t know

anything about the rest of it.”

“Oh, come now, Mr. Griffiths! Don’t begin by trying to play

fast and loose with me. We won’t get anywhere that way.

You won’t help yourself one bit by that with me, and

besides I haven’t any time for that now. Remember these

men here are witnesses to what you say. I’ve just come

from Lycurgus—your room at Mrs. Peyton’s—and I have in

my possession your trunk and this Miss Alden’s letters to

you—indisputable proof that you did know this girl, that you

courted and seduced her last winter, and that since then—

this spring—when she became pregnant on your account,

you induced her first to go home and then later to go away

with you on this trip in order, as you told her, to marry her.

Well, you married her all right—to the grave—that’s how

you married her—to the water at the bottom of Big Bittern

Lake! And you can actually stand here before me now,

when I tell you that I have all the evidence I need right on

my person, and say that you don’t even know her! Well, I’ll

be damned!”

And as he spoke his voice grew so loud that Clyde feared

that it could be clearly heard in the camp beyond. And that

Sondra herself might hear it and come over. And although

at the outrush and jab and slash of such dooming facts as

Mason so rapidly outlined, his throat tightened and his

hands were with difficulty restrained from closing and

clinching vise-wise, at the conclusion of it all he merely

replied: “Yes, sir.”

An American Tragedy

824

“Well, I’ll be damned!” reiterated Mason. “I can well believe

now that you would kill a girl and sneak away in just such a

way as you did—and with her in that condition! But then to

try to deny her own letters to you! Why, you might as well

try to deny that you’re here and alive. These cards and

notes here—what about them? I suppose they’re not from

Miss Finchley? How about those? Do you mean to tell me

these are not from her either?”

He waved them before Clyde’s eyes. And Clyde, seeing

that the truth concerning these, Sondra being within call,

was capable of being substantiated here and now, replied:

“No, I don’t deny that those are from her.”

“Very good. But these others from your trunk in the same

room are not from Miss Alden to you?”

“I don’t care to say as to that,” he replied, blinking feebly as

Mason waved Roberta’s letters before him.

“Tst! Tst! Tst! Of all things,” clicked Mason in high dudgeon.

“Such nonsense! Such effrontery! Oh, very well, we won’t

worry about all that now. I can easily prove it all when the

time comes. But how you can stand there and deny it,

knowing that I have the evidence, is beyond me! A card in

your own handwriting which you forgot to take out of the

bag you had her leave at Gun Lodge while you took yours

with you. Mr. Carl Graham, Mr. Clifford Golden, Mr. Clyde

Griffiths,—a card on which you wrote ‘From Clyde to Bert,

Merry Xmas.’ Do you remember that? Well, here it is.” And

here he reached into his pocket and drew forth the small

card taken from the toilet set and waved it under Clyde’s

nose. “Have you forgotten that, too? Your own handwriting!”

And then pausing and getting no reply, finally adding: “Why,

what a dunce you are!—what a poor plotter, without even

the brains not to use your own initials in getting up those

An American Tragedy

825

fake names you had hoped to masquerade under—Mr. Carl

Graham—Mr. Clifford Golden!”

At the same time, fully realizing the importance of a

confession and wondering how it was to be brought about

here and now, Mason suddenly—Clyde’s expression, his

frozen-faced terror, suggesting the thought that perhaps he

was too frightened to talk at once changed his tactics—at

least to the extent of lowering his voice, smoothing the

formidable wrinkles from his forehead and about his mouth.

“You see, it’s this way, Griffiths,” he now began, much more

calmly and simply. “Lying or just foolish thoughtless denial

under such circumstances as these can’t help you in the

least. It can only harm you, and that’s the truth. You may

think I’ve been a little rough so far, but it was only because