An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

got off up there and got settled she kept saying to me that if

I would only marry her then—that she would not want to

stay married long—that she was so sick and worried and

felt so bad—that all she wanted to do was to get through

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and give the baby a name, and after that she would go

away and let me go my way, too.”

“And then?”

“Well, and then—then we went out on the lake——”

“Which lake, Clyde?”

“Why, Grass Lake. We went out for a row after we got

there.”

“Right away? In the afternoon?”

“Yes, sir. She wanted to go. And then while we were out

there rowing around——” (He paused.)

“She got to crying again, and she seemed so much up

against it and looked so sick and so worried that I decided

that after all she was right and I was wrong—that it wouldn’t

be right, on account of the baby and all, not to marry her,

and so I thought I had better do it.”

“I see. A change of heart. And did you tell her that then and

there?”

“No, sir.”

“And why not? Weren’t you satisfied with the trouble you

had caused her so far?”

“Yes, sir. But you see just as I was going to talk to her at

that time I got to thinking of all the things I had been

thinking before I came up.”

“What, for instance?”

“Why, Miss X and my life in Lycurgus, and what we’d be up

against in case we did go away this way.”

“Yes.”

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“And … well … and then I couldn’t just tell her then—not

that day, anyhow.”

“Well, when did you tell her then?”

“Well, I told her not to cry any more—that I thought maybe it

would be all right if she gave me twenty-four hours more to

think things all out—that maybe we’d be able to settle on

something.”

“And then?”

“Well, then she said after a while that she didn’t care for

Grass Lake. She wished we would go away from there.”

“She did?”

“Yes. And then we got out the maps again and I asked a

fellow at the hotel there if he knew about the lakes up there.

And he said of all the lakes around there Big Bittern was

the most beautiful. I had seen it once, and I told Roberta

about it and what the man said, and then she asked why

didn’t we go there.”

“And is that why you went there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No other reason?”

“No, sir—none—except that it was back, or south, and we

were going that way anyhow.”

“I see. And that was Thursday, July eighth?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, now, Clyde, as you have seen, it has been charged

here that you took Miss Alden to and out on that lake with

the sole and premeditated intent of killing her—murdering

her—finding some unobserved and quiet spot and then first

striking her with your camera, or an oar, or club, or stone

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maybe, and then drowning her. Now, what have you to say

to that? Is that true, or isn’t it?”

“No, sir! It’s not true!” returned Clyde, clearly and

emphatically. “I never went there of my own accord in the

first place, and I only went there because she didn’t like

Grass Lake.” And here, because he had been sinking down

in his chair, he pulled himself up and looked at the jury and

the audience with what measure of strength and conviction

he could summon—as previously he had been told to do. At

the same time he added: “And I wanted to please her in any

way that I could so that she might be a little more cheerful.”

“Were you still as sorry for her on this Thursday as you had

been the day before?”

“Yes, sir—more, I think.”

“And had you definitely made up your mind by then as to

what you wanted to do?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, and just what was that?”

“Well, I had decided to play as fair as I could. I had been

thinking about it all night, and I realized how badly she

would feel and I too if I didn’t do the right thing by her—

because she had said three or four times that if I didn’t she

would kill herself. And I had made up my mind that morning

that whatever else happened that day, I was going to

straighten the whole thing out.”

“This was at Grass Lake. You were still in the hotel on

Thursday morning?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you were going to tell her just what?”

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“Well, that I knew that I hadn’t treated her quite right and

that I was sorry—besides, that her offer was fair enough,

and that if after what I was going to tell her she still wanted

me, I would go away with her and marry her. But that I had

to tell her first the real reason for my changing as I had—

that I had been and still was in love with another girl and

that I couldn’t help it—that probably whether I married her

or not——”

“Miss Alden you mean?”

“Yes, sir—that I would always go on loving this other girl,

because I just couldn’t get her out of my mind. But just the

same, if that didn’t make any difference to her, that I would

marry her even if I couldn’t love her any more as I once did.

That was all.”

“But what about Miss X?”

“Well, I had thought about her too, but I thought she was

better off and could stand it easier. Besides, I thought

perhaps Roberta would let me go and we could just go on

being friends and I would help her all I could.”

“Had you decided just where you would marry her?”

“No, sir. But I knew there were plenty of towns below Big

Bittern and Grass Lake.”

“But were you going to do that without one single word to

Miss X beforehand?”

“Well, no, sir—not exactly. I figured that if Roberta wouldn’t

let me off but didn’t mind my leaving her for a few days, I

would go down to where Miss X lived and tell her, and then

come back. But if she objected to that, why then I was

going to write Miss X a letter and explain how it was and

then go on and get married to Roberta.”

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“I see. But, Clyde, among other bits of testimony here, there

was that letter found in Miss Alden’s coat pocket—the one

written on Grass Lake Inn stationery and addressed to her

mother, in which she told her that she was about to be

married. Had you already told her up there at Grass Lake

that morning that you were going to marry her for sure?”

“No, sir. Not exactly, but I did say on getting up that day that

it was the deciding day for us and that she was going to be

able to decide for herself whether she wanted me to marry

her or not.”

“Oh, I see. So that’s it,” smiled Jephson, as though greatly

relieved. (And Mason and Newcomb and Burleigh and

State Senator Redmond all listening with the profoundest

attention, now exclaimed, sotto voce and almost in unison:

“Of all the bunk!”)

“Well, now we come to the trip itself. You have heard the

testimony here and the dark motive and plotting that has

been attributed to every move in connection with it. Now I

want you to tell it in your own way. It has been testified here

that you took both bags—yours and hers—up there with

you but that you left hers at Gun Lodge when you got there

and took your own out on the lake in that boat with you.

Now just why did you do that? Please speak so that all of

the jurymen can hear you.”

“Well, the reason for that was,” and here once more his

throat became so dry that he could scarcely speak, “we

didn’t know whether we could get any lunch at Big Bittern,

so we decided to take some things along with us from

Grass Lake. Her bag was packed full of things, but there

was room in mine. Besides, it had my camera with the

tripod outside. So I decided to leave hers and take mine.”

“You decided?”

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“Well, I asked her what she thought and she said she

thought that was best.”

“Where was it you asked her that?”

“On the train coming down.”

“And did you know then that you were coming back to Gun

Lodge after going out on the lake?”

“Yes, sir, I did. We had to. There was no other road. They

told us that at Grass Lake.”

“And in riding over to Big Bittern—do you recall the