An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

there was about Jephson a hard, integrated earnestness

which soon convinced Clyde of his technical, if not his

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emotional interest. And after a while he began looking

toward this younger man, even more than toward Belknap

as the one who might do most for him.

“Of course, you know that those letters which Miss Alden

wrote you are very strong?” began Jephson, after hearing

Clyde restate his story.

“Yes, sir.”

“They’re very sad to any one who doesn’t know all of the

facts, and on that account they are likely to prejudice any

jury against you, especially when they’re put alongside Miss

Finchley’s letters.”

“Yes, I suppose they might,” replied Clyde, “but then, she

wasn’t always like that, either. It was only after she got in

trouble and I wanted her to let me go that she wrote like

that.”

“I know. I know. And that’s a point we want to think about

and maybe bring out, if we can. If only there were some

way to keep those letters out,” he now turned to Belknap to

say. Then, to Clyde, “but what I want to ask you now is this

—you were close to her for something like a year, weren’t

you?”

“Yes.”

“In all of that time that you were with her, or before, was

she ever friendly, or maybe intimate, with any other young

man anywhere—that is, that you know of?”

As Clyde could see, Jephson was not afraid, or perhaps not

sufficiently sensitive, to refrain from presenting any thought

or trick that seemed to him likely to provide a loophole for

escape. But, far from being cheered by this suggestion, he

was really shocked. What a shameful thing in connection

with Roberta and her character it would be to attempt to

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introduce any such lie as this. He could not and would not

hint at any such falsehood, and so he replied:

“No, sir. I never heard of her going with any one else. In

fact, I know she didn’t.”

“Very good! That settles that,” snapped Jephson. “I judged

from her letters that what you say is true. At the same time,

we must know all the facts. It might make a very great

difference if there were some one else.”

And at this point Clyde could not quite make sure whether

he was attempting to impress upon him the value of this as

an idea or not, but just the same he decided it was not right

even to consider it. And yet he was thinking: If only this

man could think of a real defense for me! He looks so

shrewd.

“Well, then,” went on Jephson, in the same hard, searching

tone, devoid, as Clyde saw it, of sentiment or pity of any

kind, “here’s something else I want to ask you. In all the

time that you knew her, either before you were intimate with

her or afterwards, did she ever write you a mean or

sarcastic or demanding or threatening letter of any kind?”

“No, sir, I can’t say that she ever did,” replied Clyde, “in fact,

I know she didn’t. No, sir. Except for those few last ones,

maybe—the very last one.”

“And you never wrote her any, I suppose?”

“No, sir, I never wrote her any letters.”

“Why”

“Well, she was right there in the factory with me, you see.

Besides at the last there, after she went home, I was afraid

to.”

“I see.”

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At the same time, as Clyde now proceeded to point out,

and that quite honestly, Roberta could be far from sweet-

tempered at times—could in fact be quite determined and

even stubborn. And she had paid no least attention to his

plea that her forcing him to marry her now would ruin him

socially as well as in every other way, and that even in the

face of his willingness to work along and pay for her support

—an attitude which, as he now described it, was what had

caused all the trouble—whereas Miss Finchley (and here he

introduced an element of reverence and enthusiasm which

Jephson was quick to note) was willing to do everything for

him.

“So you really loved that Miss Finchley very much then, did

you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you couldn’t care for Roberta any more after you met

her?”

“No, no. I just couldn’t.”

“I see,” observed Jephson, solemnly nodding his head, and

at the same time meditating on how futile and dangerous,

even, it might be to let the jury know that. And then thinking

that possibly it were best to follow the previous suggestion

of Belknap’s, based on the customary legal proceeding of

the time, and claim insanity, or a brain storm, brought about

by the terrifying position in which he imagined himself to be.

But apart from that he now proceeded:

“You say something came over you when you were in the

boat out there with her on that last day—that you really

didn’t know what you were doing at the time that you struck

her?”

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“Yes, sir, that’s the truth.” And here Clyde went on to

explain once more just what his state was at that time.

“All right, all right, I believe you,” replied Jephson,

seemingly believing what Clyde said but not actually able to

conceive it at that. “But you know, of course, that no jury, in

the face of all these other circumstances, is going to believe

that,” he now announced. “There are too many things that’ll

have to be explained and that we can’t very well explain as

things now stand. I don’t know about that idea.” He now

turned and was addressing Belknap. “Those two hats, that

bag—unless we’re going to plead insanity or something like

that. I’m not so sure about all this. Was there ever any

insanity” in your family that you know of?” he now added,

turning to Clyde once more.

“No, sir, not that I know of.”

“No uncle or cousin or grandfather who had fits or strange

ideas or anything like that?”

“Not that I ever heard of, no, sir.”

“And your rich relatives down there in Lycurgus—I suppose

they’d not like it very much if I were to step up and try to

prove anything like that?”

“I’m afraid they wouldn’t, no, sir,” replied Clyde, thinking of

Gilbert.

“Well, let me see,” went on Jephson after a time. “That

makes it rather hard. I don’t see, though, that anything else

would be as safe.” And here he turned once more to

Belknap and began to inquire as to what he thought of

suicide as a theory, since Roberta’s letters themselves

showed a melancholy trend which might easily have led to

thoughts of suicide. And could they not say that once out on

the lake with Clyde and pleading with him to marry her, and

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he refusing to do so, she had jumped overboard. And he

was too astounded and mentally upset to try to save her.

“But what about his own story that the wind had blown his

hat off, and in trying to save that he upset the boat?”

interjected Belknap, and exactly as though Clyde were not

present.

“Well, that’s true enough, too, but couldn’t we say that

perhaps, since he was morally responsible for her

condition, which in turn had caused her to take her life, he

did not want to confess to the truth of her suicide?”

At this Clyde winced, but neither now troubled to notice him.

They talked as though he was not present or could have no

opinion in the matter, a procedure which astonished but by

no means moved him to object, since he was feeling so

helpless.

“But the false registrations! The two hats—the suit—his

bag!” insisted Belknap staccatically, a tone which showed

Clyde how serious Belknap considered his predicament to

be.

“Well, whatever theory we advance, those things will have

to be accounted for in some way,” replied Jephson,

dubiously. “We can’t admit the true story of his plotting

without an insanity plea, not as I see it—at any rate. And

unless we use that, we’ve got that evidence to deal with

whatever we do.” He threw up his hands wearily and as if to

say: I swear I don’t know what to do about this.

“But,” persisted Belknap, “in the face of all that, and his

refusal to marry her, after his promises referred to in her

letters—why, it would only react against him, so that public

opinion would be more prejudiced against him than ever.

No, that won’t do,” he concluded. “We’ll have to think of

something which will create some sort of sympathy for him.”

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And then once more turning to Clyde as though there had

been no such discussion. And looking at him as much as to

say: “You are a problem indeed.” And then Jephson,

observing: “And, oh, yes, that suit you dropped in that lake