An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

will you slay a man because he is the victim of fear? And

again, after all, if a man has once and truly decided that he

cannot and will not endure a given woman, or a woman a

man—that to live with her could only prove torturesome—

what would you have that person do? Marry her? To what

end? That they may hate and despise and torture each

other forever after? Can you truly say that you agree with

that as a rule, or a method, or a law? Yet as the defense

sees it, a truly intelligent and fair enough thing, under the

circumstances, was done in this instance. An offer, but

without marriage—and alas, without avail—was made. A

suggestion for a separate life, with him working to support

her while she dwelt elsewhere. Her own letters, read only

yesterday in this court, indicate something of the kind. But

the oh, so often tragic insistence upon what in so many

cases were best left undone! And then that last, long,

argumentative trip to Utica, Grass Lake, and Big Bittern.

And all to no purpose. Yet with no intention to kill or betray

unto death. Not the slightest. And we will show you why.

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“Gentlemen, once more I insist that it was cowardice,

mental and moral, and not any plot or plan for any crime of

any kind, that made Clyde Griffiths travel with Roberta

Alden under various aliases to all the places I have just

mentioned—that made him write ‘Mr. and Mrs. Carl

Graham,’‘Mr. and Mrs. Clifford Golden’—mental and moral

fear of the great social mistake as well as sin that he had

committed in pursuing and eventually allowing himself to

fall into this unhallowed relationship with her—mental and

moral fear or cowardice of what was to follow.

“And again, it was mental and moral cowardice that

prevented him there at Big Bittern, once the waters of the

lake had so accidentally closed over her, from returning to

Big Bittern Inn and making public her death. Mental and

Moral Cowardice—and nothing more and nothing less. He

was thinking of his wealthy relatives in Lycurgus, their rule

which his presence here on the lake with this girl would

show to have been broken—of the suffering and shame

and rage of her parents. And besides, there was Miss X—

the brightest star in the brightest constellation of all his

dreams.

“We admit all that, and we are completely willing to

concede that he was, or must have been, thinking of all

these things. The prosecution charges, and we admit that

such is the fact, that he had been so completely ensnared

by this Miss X, and she by him, that he was willing and

eager to forsake this first love who had given herself to him,

for one who, because of her beauty and her wealth,

seemed so much more desirable—even as to Roberta

Alden he seemed more desirable than others. And if she

erred as to him—as plainly she did—might not—might not

he have erred eventually in his infatuated following of one

who in the ultimate—who can say?—might not have cared

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so much for him. At any rate, one of his strongest fear

thoughts at this time, as he himself has confessed to us, his

counsel, was that if this Miss X learned that he had been up

there with this other girl of whom she had not even so much

as heard, well then, it would mean the end of her regard for

him.

“I know that as you gentlemen view such things, such

conduct has no excuse for being. One may be the victim of

an internal conflict between two illicit moods, yet

nevertheless, as the law and the church see it, guilty of sin

and crime. But the truth, none-the-less, is that they do exist

in the human heart, law or no law, religion or no religion,

and in scores of cases they motivate the actions of the

victims. And we admit that they motivated the actions of

Clyde Griffiths.

“But did he kill Roberta Alden?

“No!

“And again, no!

“Or did he plot in any way, half-heartedly or otherwise, to

drag her up there under the guise of various aliases and

then, because she would not set him free, drown her?

Ridiculous! Impossible! Insane! His plan was completely

and entirely different.

“But, gentlemen,” and here he suddenly paused as though

a new or overlooked thought had just come to him,

“perhaps you would be better satisfied, with my argument

and the final judgment you are to render if you were to have

the testimony of one eye-witness at least of Roberta

Alden’s death—one who, instead of just hearing a voice,

was actually present, and who saw and hence knows how

she met her death.”

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He now looked at Jephson as much as to say: Now,

Reuben, at last, here we are! And Reuben, turning to

Clyde, easily and yet with iron in his every motion,

whispered: “Well, here we are, Clyde, it’s up to you now.

Only I’m going along with you, see? I’ve decided to

examine you myself. I’ve drilled and drilled you, and I guess

you won’t have any trouble in telling me, will you?” He

beamed on Clyde genially and encouragingly, and Clyde,

because of Belknap’s strong plea as well as this newest

and best development in connection with Jephson, now

stood up and with almost a jaunty air, and one out of all

proportion to his mood of but four hours before, now

whispered: “Gee! I’m glad you’re going to do it. I’ll be all

right now, I think.”

But in the meantime the audience, hearing that an actual

eye-witness was to be produced, and not by the

prosecution but the defense, was at once upon its feet,

craning and stirring. And Justice Oberwaltzer, irritated to an

exceptional degree by the informality characteristic of this

trial, was now rapping with his gavel while his clerk cried

loudly: “Order! Order! Unless everybody is seated, all

spectators will be dismissed! The deputies will please see

that all are seated.” And then a hushed and strained silence

falling as Belknap called: “Clyde Griffiths, take the witness

chair.” And the audience—seeing to its astonishment,

Clyde, accompanied by Reuben Jephson, making his way

forward—straining and whispering in spite of all the gruff

commands of the judge and the bailiffs. And even Belknap,

as he saw Jephson approaching, being a little astonished,

since it was he who according to the original plan was to

have led Clyde through his testimony. But now Jephson

drawing near to him as Clyde was being seated and sworn,

merely whispered: “Leave him to me, Alvin, I think it’s best.

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He looks a little too strained and shaky to suit me, but I feel

sure I can pull him through.”

And then the audience noting the change and whispering in

regard to it. And Clyde, his large nervous eyes turning here

and there, thinking: Well, I’m on the witness stand at last.

And now everybody’s watching me, of course. I must look

very calm, like I didn’t care so very much, because I didn’t

really kill her. That’s right, I didn’t. Yet his skin blue and the

lids of his eyes red and puffy and his hands trembling

slightly in spite of himself. And Jephson, his long, tensile

and dynamic body like that of a swaying birch, turning

toward him and looking fixedly into Clyde’s brown eyes with

his blue ones, beginning:

“Now, Clyde, the first thing we want to do is make sure that

the jury and every one else hears our questions and

answers. And next, when you’re all set, you’re going to

begin with your life as you remember it—where you were

born, where you came from, what your father did and your

mother, too, and finally, what you did and why, from the

time you went to work until now. I may interrupt you with a

few questions now and then, but in the main I’m going to let

you tell it, because I know you can tell it better than any

one.” Yet in order to reassure Clyde and to make him know

each moment that he was there—a wall, a bulwark,

between him and the eager, straining, unbelieving and

hating crowd—he now drew nearer, at times so close as to

put one foot on the witness stand, or if not that to lean

forward and lay a hand on the arm of the chair in which

Clyde sat. And all the while saying, “Yay-uss—Yay-

uss.”“And then what?”“And then?” And invariably at the

strong and tonic or protective sound of his voice Clyde

stirring as with a bolstering force and finding himself able,

and without shaking or quavering, to tell the short but

straitened story of his youth.

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“I was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan. My parents were

conducting a mission there at that time and used to hold