An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

approaching marriage, they occupied a single room

together. Yet the only reason it was forty-eight instead of

twenty-four hours was that he had made a mistake in

regard to the solitude of Grass Lake. Finding it brisk with

life, the center of a summer religious colony, he decided to

leave and go to Big Bittern, which was more lonely. And so

you have the astounding and bitter spectacle, gentlemen, of

a supposedly innocent and highly misunderstood young

man dragging this weary and heart-sick girl from place to

place, in order to find a lake deserted enough in which to

drown her. And with her but four months from motherhood!

“And then, having arrived at last at one lake lonely enough,

putting her in a boat and taking her out from the inn where

he had again falsely registered as Mr. Clifford Golden and

wife, to her death. The poor little thing imagined that she

was going for a brief outing before that marriage of which

he talked and which was to seal and sanctify it. To seal and

sanctify it! To seal and sanctify, as closing waters seal and

sanctify, but in no other way—no other way. And with him

walking, whole and sly—as a wolf from its kill—to freedom,

to marriage, to social and material and affectionate bliss

and superiority and ease, while she slept still and nameless

in her watery grave.

“But, oh, gentlemen, the ways of nature, or of God, and the

Providence that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we

An American Tragedy

950

may! It is man who proposes, but God—God—who

disposes!

“The defendant is still wondering, I am sure, as to how I

know that she thought she was still going to be married

after leaving the inn at Big Bittern. And I have no doubt that

he still has some comforting thoughts to the effect that I

cannot really and truly know it. But how shrewd and deep

must be that mind that would foresee and forestall all the

accidents and chances of life. For, as he sits there now,

secure in the faith that his counsel may be able to extract

him safely from this” (and at this Clyde sat bolt upright, his

hair tingling, and his hands concealed beneath the table,

trembling slightly), “he does not know that that girl, while in

her room in the Grass Lake Inn, had written her mother a

letter, which she had not had time to mail, and which was in

the pocket of her coat left behind because of the heat of the

day, and because she imagined she was coming back, of

course. And which is here now upon this table.”

At this Clyde’s teeth fairly chattered. He shook as with a

chill. To be sure, she had left her coat behind! And Belknap

and Jephson also sat up, wondering what this could be.

How fatally, if at all, could it mar or make impossible the

plan of defense which they had evolved? They could only

wait and see.

“But in that letter,” went on Mason, “she tells why she was

up there—to be married, no less” (and at this point Jephson

and Belknap, as well as Clyde, heaved an enormous sigh

of relief—it was directly in the field of their plan) “and within

a day or two,” continued Mason, thinking still that he was

literally riddling Clyde with fear. “But Griffiths, or Graham, of

Albany, or Syracuse, or anywhere, knew better. He knew

he was not coming back. And he took all of his belongings

with him in that boat. And all afternoon long, from noon until

An American Tragedy

951

evening, he searched for a spot on that lonely lake—a spot

not easily observed from any point of the shore, as we will

show. And as evening fell, he found it. And walking south

through the woods afterwards, with a new straw hat upon

his head, a clean, dry bag in his hand, he imagined himself

to be secure. Clifford Golden was no more—Carl Graham

was no more—drowned—at the bottom of Big Bittern, along

with Roberta Alden. But Clyde Griffiths was alive and free,

and on his way to Twelfth Lake, to the society he so loved.

“Gentlemen, Clyde Griffiths killed Roberta Alden before he

put her in that lake. He beat her on the head and face, and

he believed no eye saw him. But, as her last death cry rang

out over the water of Big Bittern, there was a witness, and

before the prosecution has closed its case, that witness will

be here to tell you the story.”

Mason had no eye witness, but he could not resist this

opportunity to throw so disrupting a thought into the

opposition camp.

And decidedly, the result was all that he expected, and

more. For Clyde, who up to this time and particularly since

the thunderbolt of the letter, had been seeking to face it all

with an imperturbable look of patient innocence, now

stiffened and then wilted. A witness! And here to testify!

God! Then he, whoever he was, lurking on the lone shore

of the lake, had seen the unintended blow, had heard her

cries—had seen that he had not sought to aid her! Had

seen him swim to shore and steal away—maybe had

watched him in the woods as he changed his clothes. God!

His hands now gripped the sides of the chair, and his head

went back with a jerk as if from a powerful blow, for that

meant death—his sure execution. God! No hope now! His

head dropped and he looked as though he might lapse into

a state of coma.

An American Tragedy

952

As to Belknap, Mason’s revelation at first caused him to

drop the pencil with which he was making notes, then next

to stare in a puzzled and dumbfounded way, since they had

no evidence wherewith to forefend against such a smash

as this—But as instantly recalling how completely off his

guard he must look, recovering. Could it be that Clyde

might have been lying to them, after all—that he had killed

her intentionally, and before this unseen witness? If so it

might be necessary for them to withdraw from such a

hopeless and unpopular case, after all.

As for Jephson, he was for the moment stunned and

flattened. And through his stern and not easily shakable

brain raced such thoughts as—was there really a witness?—

has Clyde lied?—then the die was cast, for had he not

already admitted to them that he had struck Roberta, and

the witness must have seen that? And so the end of any

plea of a change of heart. Who would believe that, after

such testimony as this?

But because of the sheer contentiousness and

determination of his nature, he would not permit himself to

be completely baffled by this smashing announcement

Instead he turned, and after surveying the flustered and yet

self-chastising Belknap and Clyde, commented: “I don’t

believe it He’s lying, I think, or bluffing. At any rate, we’ll

wait and see. It’s a long time between now and our side of

the story. Look at all those witnesses there. And we can

cross-question them by the week, if we want to—until he’s

out of oil. Plenty of time to do a lot of things—find out about

this witness in the meantime. And besides, there’s suicide,

or there’s the actual thing that happened. We can let Clyde

swear to what did happen—a cataleptic trance—no courage

to do it. It’s not likely anybody can see that at five hundred

feet.” And he smiled grimly. At almost the same time he

An American Tragedy

953

added, but not for Clyde’s ears: “We might be able to get

him off with twenty years at the worst, don’t you think?”

An American Tragedy

954

Chapter 21

AND then witnesses, witnesses, witnesses—to the number

of one hundred and twenty-seven. And their testimony,

particularly that of the doctors, three guides, the woman

who heard Roberta’s last cry, all repeatedly objected to by

Jephson and Belknap, for upon such weakness and

demonstrable error as they could point out depended the

plausibility of Clyde’s daring defense. And all of this carrying

the case well into November, and after Mason had been

overwhelmingly elected to the judgeship which he had so

craved. And because of the very vigor and strife of the trial,

the general public from coast to coast taking more and

more interest. And obviously, as the days passed and the

newspaper writers at the trial saw it, Clyde was guilty. Yet

he, because of the repeated commands of Jephson, facing

each witness who assailed him with calm and even daring.

“Your name?”

‘Titus Alden.”

“You are the father of Roberta Alden?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, Mr. Alden, just tell the jury how and under what

circumstances it was that your daughter Roberta happened

to go to Lycurgus.”

“Objected to. Irrelevant, immaterial, incompetent,” snapped

Belknap.

An American Tragedy

955

“I’ll connect it up,” put in Mason, looking up at the judge,