An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

I’ve been under a great strain myself in connection with this

case, trying to catch up with some one I thought would be a

very different type from yourself. But now that I see you and

see how you feel about it all—how really frightened you are

by what has happened—it just occurs to me that there may

be something in connection with this case, some

extenuating circumstances, which, if they were related by

you now, might throw a slightly different light on all this. Of

course, I don’t know. You yourself ought to be the best

judge, but I’m laying the thought before you for what it’s

worth. For, of course, here are these letters. Besides, when

we get to Three Mile Bay to-morrow, as we will, I hope,

there will be those three men who met you the other night

walking south from Big Bittern. And not only those, but the

innkeeper from Grass Lake, the innkeeper from Big Bittern,

the boatkeeper up there who rented that boat, and the

driver who drove you and Roberta Alden over from Gun

Lodge. They will identify you. Do you think they won’t know

you—not any of them—not be able to say whether you

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were up there with her or not, or that a jury when the time

comes won’t believe them?”

And all this Clyde registered mentally like a machine

clicking to a coin, yet said nothing,—merely staring, frozen.

“And not only that,” went on Mason, very softly and most

ingratiatingly, “but there’s Mrs. Peyton. She saw me take

these letters and cards out of that trunk of yours in your

room and from the top drawer of your chiffonier. Next, there

are all those girls in that factory where you and Miss Alden

worked. Do you suppose they’re not going to remember all

about you and her when they learn that she is dead? Oh,

what nonsense! You ought to be able to see that for

yourself, whatever you think. You certainly can’t expect to

get away with that. It makes a sort of a fool out of you. You

can see that for yourself.”

He paused again, hoping for a confession. But Clyde still

convinced that any admission in connection with Roberta or

Big Bittern spelled ruin, merely stared while Mason

proceeded to add:

“All right, Griffiths, I’m now going to tell you one more thing,

and I couldn’t give you better advice if you were my own

son or brother and I were trying to get you out of this

instead of merely trying to get you to tell the truth. If you

hope to do anything at all for yourself now, it’s not going to

help you to deny everything in the way you are doing. You

are simply making trouble and condemning yourself in other

people’s eyes. Why not say that you did know her and that

you were up there with her and that she wrote you those

letters, and be done with it? You can’t get out of that,

whatever else you may hope to get out of. Any sane person

—your own mother, if she were here—would tell you the

same thing. It’s too ridiculous and indicates guilt rather than

innocence. Why not come clean here and now as to those

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facts, anyhow, before it’s too late to take advantage of any

mitigating circumstances in connection with all this—if there

are any? And if you do now, and I can help you in any way,

I promise you here and now that I’ll be only too glad to do

so. For, after all, I’m not out here just to hound a man to

death or make him confess to something that he hasn’t

done, but merely to get at the truth in the case. But if you’re

going to deny that you even knew this girl when I tell you I

have all the evidence and can prove it, why then——” and

here the district attorney lifted his hands aloft most wearily

and disgustedly.

But now as before Clyde remained silent and pale. In spite

of all Mason had revealed, and all that this seemingly

friendly, intimate advice seemed to imply, still he could not

conceive that it would be anything less than disastrous for

him to admit that he even knew Roberta. The fatality of

such a confession in the eyes of these others here. The

conclusion of all his dreams in connection with Sondra and

this life. And so, in the face of this—silence, still. And at

this, Mason, irritated beyond measure, finally exclaiming:

“Oh, very well, then. So you’ve finally decided not to talk,

have you?” And Clyde, blue and weak, replied: “I had

nothing to do with her death. That’s all I can say now,” and

yet even as he said it thinking that perhaps he had better

not say that—that perhaps he had better say—well, what?

That he knew Roberta, of course, had been up there with

her, for that matter—but that he had never intended to kill

her—that her drowning was an accident. For he had not

struck her at all, except by accident, had he? Only it was

best not to confess to having struck her at all, wasn’t it? For

who under such circumstances would believe that he had

struck her with a camera by accident. Best not to mention

the camera, since there was no mention anywhere in the

papers that he had had one with him.

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And he was still cogitating while Mason was exclaiming:

“Then you admit that you knew her?”

“No, sir.”

“Very well, then,” he now added, turning to the others, “I

suppose there’s nothing for it but to take him back there

and see what they know about him. Perhaps that will get

something out of this fine bird—to confront him with his

friends. His bag and things are still back there in one of

those tents, I believe. Suppose we take him down there,

gentlemen, and see what these other people know about

him.”

And now, swiftly and coldly he turned, while Clyde, already

shrinking at the horror of what was coming, exclaimed: “Oh,

please, no! You don’t mean to do that, do you? Oh, you

won’t do that! Oh, please, no!”

And at this point Kraut speaking up and saying: “He asked

me back there in the woods if I wouldn’t ask you not to take

him in there.”“Oh, so that’s the way the wind blows, is it?”

exclaimed Mason at this. “Too thin-skinned to be shown up

before ladies and gentlemen of the Twelfth Lake colony, but

not even willing to admit that you knew the poor little

working-girl who worked for you. Very good. Well, then, my

fine friend, suppose you come through with what you really

do know now, or down there you go.” And he paused a

moment to see what effect that would have. “We’ll call all

those people together and explain just how things are, and

then see if you will be willing to stand there and deny

everything!” But noting still a touch of hesitation in Clyde he

now added: “Bring him along, boys.” And turning toward the

camp he proceeded to walk in that direction a few paces

while Kraut taking one arm, and Swenk another, and

beginning to move Clyde he ended by exclaiming:

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“Oh, please, no! Oh, I hope you won’t do anything like that,

will you, Mr. Mason? Oh, I don’t want to go back there if you

don’t mind. It isn’t that I’m guilty, but you can get all my

things without my going back there. And besides it will

mean so much to me just now.” Beads of perspiration once

more burst forth on his pale face and hands and he was

deadly cold.

“Don’t want to go, eh?” exclaimed Mason, pausing as he

heard this. “It would hurt your pride, would it, to have ’em

know? Well, then, supposing you just answer some of the

things I want to know—and come clean and quick, or off we

go—and that without one more moment’s delay! Now, will

you answer or won’t you?” And again he turned to confront

Clyde, who, with lips trembling and eyes confused and

wavering, nervously and emphatically announced:

“Of course I knew her. Of course I did. Sure! Those letters

show that. But what of it? I didn’t kill her. And I didn’t go up

there with her with any intention of killing her, either. I didn’t.

I didn’t, I tell you! It was all an accident. I didn’t even want

to take her up there. She wanted me to go—to go away

with her somewhere, because—because, well you know—

her letters show. And I was only trying to get her to go off

somewhere by herself, so she would let me alone, because

I didn’t want to marry her. That’s all. And I took her out