An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

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!

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“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

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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

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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.

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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?

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Chapter 19

OCTOBER 15—with gray clouds and a sharp, almost