An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

by Slack and Sissel and followed by Kraut and Swenk—yet

protected on either side by two extra deputies in case there

should be an outbreak or demonstration of any kind—Clyde

himself, attempting to look as jaunty and nonchalant as

possible, yet because of the many rough and strange faces

about him—men in heavy racoon coats and caps, and with

thick whiskers, or in worn and faded and nondescript

clothes such as characterized many of the farmers of this

region, accompanied by their wives and children, and all

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staring so strangely and curiously—he felt not a little

nervous, as though at any moment there might be a

revolver shot, or some one might leap at him with a knife—

the deputies with their hands on their guns lending not a

little to the reality of his mood. Yet only cries of: “Here he

comes! Here he comes!”“There he is!”“Would you believe

that he could do a thing like that?”

And then the cameras clicking and whirring and his two

protectors shouldering closer and closer to him while he

shrank down within himself mentally.

And then a flight of five brown stone steps leading up to an

old courthouse door. And beyond that, an inner flight of

steps to a large, long, brown, high-ceilinged chamber, in

which, to the right and left, and in the rear facing east, were

tall, thin, round-topped windows, fitted with thin panes,

admitting a flood of light. And at the west end, a raised

platform, with a highly ornamental, dark brown carved

bench upon it. And behind it, a portrait—and on either side,

north and south, and at the rear, benches and benches in

rows—each tier higher than the other, and all crowded with

people, the space behind them packed with standing

bodies, and all apparently, as he entered, leaning and

craning and examining him with sharp keen eyes, while

there went about a conversational buzz or brrh. He could

hear a general sssss—pppp—as he approached and

passed through a gate to an open space beyond it,

wherein, as he could see, were Belknap and Jephson at a

table, and between them a vacant chair for him. And he

could see and feel the eyes and faces on which he was not

quite willing to look.

But directly before him, at another table in the same

square, but more directly below the raised platform at the

west end, as he could see now, were Mason and several

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men whom he seemed to recollect—Earl Newcomb and

Burton Burleigh and yet another man whom he had never

seen before, all four turning and gazing at him as he came.

And about this inner group, an outer circle of men and

women writers and sketch artists.

And then, after a time, recalling Belknap’s advice, he

managed to straighten up and with an air of studied ease

and courage—which was belied to a certain extent by his

strained, pale face and somewhat hazy stare—look at the

writers and artists who were either studying or sketching

him, and even to whisper: “Quite a full house, eh?” But just

then, and before he could say anything more a resounding

whack, whack, from somewhere. And then a voice: “Order

in the Court! His Honor, the Court! Everybody please rise!”

And as suddenly the whispering and stirring audience

growing completely silent. And then, through a door to the

south of the dais, a large urbane and florid and smooth-

faced man, who in an ample black gown, walked swiftly to

the large chair immediately behind the desk, and after

looking steadily upon all before him, but without appearing

to see any one of them seated himself. Whereupon every

one assembled in the courtroom sat down.

And then to the left, yet below the judge, at a smaller desk,

a smaller and older individual standing and calling, “Oyez!

Oyez! All persons having business before the honorable,

the Supreme Court of the State of New York, County of

Cataraqui, draw near and give attention. This court is now

in session!”

And after that this same individual again rising and

beginning: “The State of New York against Clyde Griffiths.”

Then Mason, rising and standing before his table, at once

announced: “The People are ready.” Whereupon Belknap

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arose, and in a courtly and affable manner, stated: “The

defendant is ready.”

Then the same clerk reached into a square box that was

before him, and drawing forth a piece of paper, called

“Simeon Dinsmore,” whereupon a little, hunched and brown-

suited man, with claw-like hands, and a ferret-like face,

immediately scuttled to the jury box and was seated. And

once there he was approached by Mason, who, in a brisk

manner—his flat-nosed face looking most aggressive and

his strong voice reaching to the uttermost corners of the

court, began to inquire as to his age, his business, whether

he was single or married, how many children he had,

whether he believed or did not believe in capital

punishment. The latter question as Clyde at once noted

seemed to stir in him something akin to resentment or

suppressed emotion of some kind, for at once and with

emphasis, he answered: “I most certainly do—for some

people”—a reply which caused Mason to smile slightly and

Jephson to turn and look toward Belknap, who mumbled

sarcastically: “And they talk about the possibility of a fair

trial here.” But at the same time Mason feeling that this very

honest, if all too convinced farmer, was a little too emphatic

in his beliefs, saying: “With the consent of the Court, the

People will excuse the talesman.” And Belknap, after an

inquiring glance from the Judge, nodding his agreement, at

which the prospective juror was excused.

And the clerk, immediately drawing out of the box a second

slip of paper, and then calling: “Dudley Sheerlinel”

Whereupon, a thin, tall man of between thirty-eight and

forty, neatly dressed and somewhat meticulous and

cautious in his manner, approached and took his place in

the box. And Mason once more began to question him as

he had the other.

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In the meantime, Clyde, in spite of both Belknap’s and

Jephson’s preliminary precautions, was already feeling stiff

and chill and bloodless. For, decidedly, as he could feel,

this audience was inimical. And amid this closely pressing

throng, as he now thought, with an additional chill, there

must be the father and mother, perhaps also the sisters and

brothers, of Roberta, and all looking at him, and hoping with

all their hearts, as the newspapers during the weeks past

informed him, that he would be made to suffer for this.

And again, all those people of Lycurgus and Twelfth Lake,

no one of whom had troubled to communicate with him in

any way, assuming him to be absolutely guilty, of course—

were any of those here? Jill or Gertrude or Tracy Trumbull,

for instance? Or Wynette Phant or her brother? She had

been at that camp at Bear Lake the day he was arrested.

His mind ran over all the social personages whom he had

encountered during the last year and who would now see

him as he was—poor and commonplace and deserted, and

on trial for such a crime as this. And after all his bluffing

about his rich connections here and in the west. For now, of

course, they would believe him as terrible as his original

plot, without knowing or caring about his side of the story—

his moods and fears—that predicament that he was in with

Roberta—his love for Sondra and all that she had meant to

him. They wouldn’t understand that, and he was not going

to be allowed to tell anything in regard to it, even if he were

so minded.

And yet, because of the advice of Belknap and Jephson, he

must sit up and smile, or at least look pleasant and meet

the gaze of every one boldly and directly. And in

consequence, turning, and for the moment feeling

absolutely transfixed. For there—God, what a resemblance!

—to the left of him on one of those wall benches, was a

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woman or girl who appeared to be the living image of

Roberta! It was that sister of hers—Emily—of whom she

had often spoken—but oh, what a shock! His heart almost

stopped. It might even be Robertal And transfixing him with

what ghostly, and yet real, and savage and accusing eyes!

And next to her another girl, looking something like her, too

—and next to her that old man, Roberta’s father—that

wrinkled old man whom he had encountered that day he

had called at his farm door for information, now looking at

him almost savagely, a gray and weary look that said so

plainly: “You murderer! You murderer!” And beside him a

mild and small and ill-looking woman of about fifty, veiled

and very shrunken and sunken-eyed, who, at his glance

dropped her own eyes and turned away, as if stricken with