surely no harm could spring from service in His cause. He
must not ask her to lie. But if he said the word, she would
so gladly attempt to raise the necessary money and come
to his aid—sit in his cell and plan with him—holding his
hands—but as Clyde so well knew and thought at this time
and which caused him to decide that she must not come yet
—demanding of him the truth—with those clear, steady
blue eyes of hers looking into his own. He could not stand
that now.
For, frowning directly before him, like a huge and basalt
headland above a troubled and angry sea, was the trial
itself, with all that it implied—the fierce assault of Mason
which he could only confront, for the most part, with the lies
framed for him by Jephson and Belknap. For, although he
was constantly seeking to salve his conscience with the
thought that at the last moment he had not had the courage
to strike Roberta, nevertheless this other story was so
terribly difficult for him to present and defend—a fact which
both Belknap and Jephson realized and which caused the
latter to appear most frequently at Clyde’s cell door with the
greeting: “Well, how’s tricks to-day?”
The peculiarly rusty and disheveled and indifferently tailored
character of Jephson’s suits! The worn and disarranged
effect of his dark brown soft hat, pulled low over his eyes!
His long, bony, knotty hands, suggesting somehow an
enormous tensile strength. And the hard, small blue eyes
filled with a shrewd, determined cunning and courage, with
which he was seeking to inoculate Clyde, and which
somehow did inoculate him!
An American Tragedy
922
“Any more preachers around to-day? Any more country girls
or Mason’s boys?” For during this time, because of the
enormous interest aroused by the pitiable death of Roberta,
as well as the evidence of her rich and beautiful rival, Clyde
was being visited by every type of shallow crime-or-sex-
curious country bumpkin lawyer, doctor, merchant, yokel
evangelist or minister, all friends or acquaintances of one or
another of the officials of the city, and who, standing before
his cell door betimes, and at the most unexpected
moments, and after surveying him with curious, or resentful,
or horrified eyes, asked such questions as: “Do you pray,
brother? Do you get right down on your knees and
pray?” (Clyde was reminded of his mother and father at
such times.) Had he made his peace with God? Did he
actually deny that he had killed Roberta Alden? In the case
of three country girls: “Would you mind telling us the name
of the girl you are supposed to be in love with, and where
she is now? We won’t tell any one. Will she appear at the
trial?” Questions which Clyde could do no more than ignore,
or if not, answer as equivocally or evasively or indifferently
as possible. For although he was inclined to resent them,
still was he not being constantly instructed by both Belknap
and Jephson that for the good of his own cause he must try
to appear genial and civil and optimistic? Then there came
also newspaper men, or women, accompanied by artists or
photographers, to interview and make studies of him. But
with these, for the most part and on the advice of Belknap
and Jephson he refused to communicate or said only what
he was told to say.
“You can talk all you want,” suggested Jephson, genially,
“so long as you don’t say anything. And the stiff upper lip,
you know. And the smile that won’t come off, see? Not
failing to go over that list, are you?” (He had provided Clyde
with a long list of possible questions which no doubt would
An American Tragedy
923
be asked him on the stand and which he was to answer
according to answers typewritten beneath them, or to
suggest something better. They all related to the trip to Big
Bittern, his reason for the extra hat, his change of heart—
why, when, where.) “That’s your litany, you know.” And then
he might light a cigarette without ever offering one to Clyde,
since for the sake of a reputation for sobriety he was not to
smoke here.
And for a time, after each visit, Clyde finding himself
believing that he could and would do exactly as Jephson
had said—walk briskly and smartly into court—bear up
against every one, every eye, even that of Mason himself—
forget that he was afraid of him, even when on the witness
stand—forget all the terror of those many facts in Mason’s
possession, which he was to explain with this list of answers
—forget Roberta and her last cry, and all the heartache and
misery that went with the loss of Sondra and her bright
world.
Yet, with thenight having once more fallen, or the day
dragging on with only the lean and bearded Kraut or the sly
and evasive Sissel, or both, hanging about, or coming to
the door to say, “Howdy!” or to discuss something that had
occurred in town, or to play chess, or checkers, Clyde
growing more and more moody and deciding, maybe, that
there was no real hope for him after all. For how alone he
was, except for his attorneys and mother and brother and
sisters! Never a word from Sondra, of course. For along
with her recovery to some extent from her original shock
and horror, she was now thinking somewhat differently of
him—that after all it was for love of her, perhaps, that he
had slain Roberta and made himself the pariah and victim
that he now was. Yet, because of the immense prejudice
and horror expressed by the world, she was by no means
able to think of venturing to send him a word. Was he not a
An American Tragedy
924
murderer? And in addition, that miserable western family of
his, pictured as street preachers, and he, too,—or as a
singing and praying boy from a mission! Yet occasionally
returning in thought, and this quite in spite of herself, to his
eager, unreasoning and seemingly consuming enthusiasm
for her. (How deeply he must have cared to venture upon
so deadly a deed!) And hence wondering whether at some
time, once this case was less violently before the public
eye, it might not be possible to communicate with him in
some guarded and unsigned way, just to let him know,
perhaps, that because of his great love for her she desired
him to know that he was not entirely forgotten. Yet as
instantly deciding, no, no—her parents—if they should learn
—or guess—or the public, or her one-time associates. Not
now, oh, not now at least. Maybe later if he were set free—
or—or—convicted—she couldn’t tell. Yet suffering
heartaches for the most part—as much as she detested
and abhorred the horrible crime by which he had sought to
win her.
And in the interim, Clyde in his cell, walking to and fro, or
looking out on the dull square through the heavily barred
windows, or reading and re-reading the newspapers, or
nervously turning the pages of magazines or books
furnished by his counsel, or playing chess or checkers, or
eating his meals, which, by special arrangement on the part
of Belknap and Jephson (made at the request of his uncle),
consisted of better dishes than were usually furnished to
the ordinary prisoner.
Yet with the iterated and reiterated thought, based on the
seemingly irreparable and irreconcilable loss of Sondra, as
to whether it was possible for him to go on with this—make
this, as he at times saw it, almost useless fight.
An American Tragedy
925
At times, in the middle of the night or just before dawn, with
all the prison silent—dreams—a ghastly picture of all that
he most feared and that dispelled every trace of courage
and drove him instantly to his feet, his heart pounding
wildly, his eyes strained, a cold damp upon his face and
hands. That chair, somewhere in the State penitentiary. He
had read of it—how men died in it. And then he would walk
up and down, thinking how, how, in case it did not come
about as Jephson felt so sure that it would—in case he was
convicted and a new trial refused—then, well—then, might
one be able to break out of such a jail as this, maybe, and
run away? These old brick walls. How thick were they? But
was it possible that with a hammer or a stone, or something
that some one might bring him—his brother Frank, or his
sister Julia, or Ratterer, or Hegglund—if only he could get in
communication with some one of them and get him or her
to bring him something of the kind—— If only he could get
a saw, to saw those bars! And then run, run, as he should
have in those woods up there that time! But how? And
whither?
An American Tragedy
926
Chapter 19
OCTOBER 15—with gray clouds and a sharp, almost