An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

testimony of the driver who drove you over—that you were

‘very nervous’ and that you asked him whether there were

many people over that that day?”

“I recall it, yes, sir, but I wasn’t nervous at all. I may have

asked about the people, but I can’t see anything wrong with

that. It seems to me that any one might ask that.”

“And so it seems to me,” echoed Jephson. “Then what

happened after you registered at Big Bittern Inn and got into

that boat and went out on the lake with Miss Alden? Were

you or she especially preoccupied or nervous or in any

state different from that of any ordinary person who goes

out on a lake to row? Were you particularly happy or

particularly gloomy, or what?”

“Well, I don’t think I was especially gloomy—no, sir. I was

thinking of all I was going to tell her, of course, and of what

was before me either way she decided. I wasn’t exactly

gay, I guess, but I thought it would be all right whichever

way things went. I had decided that I was willing to marry

her.”

“And how about her? Was she quite cheerful?”

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“Well—yes, sir. She seemed to feel much happier for some

reason.”

“And what did you talk about?”

“Oh, about the lake first—how beautiful it was and where

we would have our lunch when we were ready for it. And

then we rowed along the west shore looking for water lilies.

She was so happy that I hated to bring up anything just

then, and so we just kept on rowing until about two, when

we stopped for lunch.”

“Just where was that? Just get up and trace on the map

with that pointer there just where you did go and how long

you stopped and for what.”

And so Clyde, pointer in hand and standing before the large

map of the lake and region which particularly concerned

this tragedy, now tracing in detail the long row along the

shore, a group of trees, which, after having lunch, they had

rowed to see—a beautiful bed of water lilies which they had

lingered over—each point at which they had stopped, until

reaching Moon Cove at about five in the afternoon, they

had been so entranced by its beauty that they had merely

sat and gazed, as he said. Afterwards, in order that he

might take some pictures, they had gone ashore in the

woods nearby —he all the while preparing himself to tell

Roberta of Miss X and ask her for her final decision. And

then having left the bag on shore for a few moments while

they rowed out and took some snapshots in the boat, they

had drifted in the calmof the water and the stillness and

beauty until finally he had gathered sufficient courage to tell

her what was in his heart. And at first, as he now said,

Roberta seemed greatly startled and depressed and began

crying a little, saying that perhaps it was best for her not to

live any longer—she felt so miserable. But, afterwards,

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when he had impressed on her the fact that he was really

sorry and perfectly willing to make amends, she had

suddenly changed and begun to grow more cheerful, and

then of a sudden, in a burst of tenderness and gratefulness

—he could not say exactly—she had jumped up and tried to

come to him. Her arms were outstretched and she moved

as if to throw herself at his feet or into his lap. But just then,

her foot, or her dress, had caught and she had stumbled.

And he—camera in hand—(a last minute decision or legal

precaution on the part of Jephson)—had risen instinctively

to try to catch her and stop her fall. Perhaps—he would not

be able to say here—her face or hand had struck the

camera. At any rate, the next moment, before he quite

understood how it all happened, and without time for

thought or action on his part or hers, both were in the water

and the boat, which had overturned, seemed to have struck

Roberta, for she seemed to be stunned.

“I called to her to try to get to the boat—it was moving away

—to take hold of it, but she didn’t seem to hear me or

understand what I meant. I was afraid to go too near her at

first because she was striking out in every direction—and

before I could swim ten strokes forward her head had gone

down once and come up and then gone down again for a

second time. By then the boat had floated all of thirty or

forty feet away and I knew that I couldn’t get her into that.

And then I decided that if I wanted to save myself I had

better swim ashore.”

And once there, as he now narrated, it suddenly occurred to

him how peculiar and suspicious were all the circumstances

surrounding his present position. He suddenly realized, as

he now said, how bad the whole thing looked from the

beginning. The false registering. The fact his bag was there

—hers not. Besides, to return now meant that he would

have to explain and it would become generally known—and

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everything connected with his life would go—Miss X, his

work, his social position—all—whereas, if he said nothing

(and here it was, and for the first time, as he now swore,

that this thought occurred to him), it might be assumed that

he too had drowned. In view of this fact and that any

physical help he might now give her would not restore her

to life, and that acknowledgment would mean only trouble

for him and shame for her, he decided to say nothing. And

so, to remove all traces, he had taken off his clothes and

wrung them out and wrapped them for packing as best he

could. Next, having left the tripod on shore with his bag, he

decided to hide that, and did. His first straw hat, the one

without the lining (but about which absent lining he now

declared he knew nothing), had been lost with the

overturning of the boat, and so now he had put on the extra

one he had with him, although he also had a cap which he

might have worn. (He usually carried an extra hat on a trip

because so often, it seemed, something happened to one.)

Then he had ventured to walk south through the woods

toward a railroad which he thought cut through the woods in

that direction. He had not known of any automobile road

through there then, and as for making for the Cranstons’ so

directly, he confessed quite simply that he would naturally

have gone there. They were his friends and he wanted to

get off somewhere where he could think about this terrible

thing that had descended upon him so suddenly out of a

clear sky.

And then having testified to so much—and no more

appearing to occur either to Jephson or himself—the former

after a pause now turned and said, most distinctly and yet

somehow quietly:

“Now, Clyde, you have taken a solemn oath before this jury,

this judge, all these people here, and above all your God, to

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tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You

realize what that means, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“You swear before God that you did not strike Roberta

Alden in that boat?”

“I swear. I did not.”

“Or throw her into the lake?”

“I swear it. I did not.”

“Or willfully or willingly in any way attempt to upset that boat

or in any other fashion bring about the death that she

suffered?”

“I swear it!” cried Clyde, emphatically and emotionally.

“You swear that it was an accident—unpremeditated and

undesigned by you?”

“I do,” lied Clyde, who felt that in fighting for his life he was

telling a part of the truth, for that accident was

unpremeditated and undesigned. It had not been as he had

planned and he could swear to that.

And then Jephson, running one of his large strong hands

over his face and looking blandly and nonchalantly around

upon the court and jury, the while he compressed his thin

lips into a long and meaningful line, announced: “The

prosecution may take the witness.”

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Chapter 25

THE mood of Mason throughout the entire direct

examination was that of a restless harrier anxious to be off

at the heels of its prey—of a foxhound within the last leap of

its kill. A keen and surging desire to shatter this testimony,

to show it to be from start to finish the tissue of lies that in

part at least it was, now animated him. And no sooner had

Jephson concluded than he leaped up and confronted

Clyde, who, seeing him blazing with this desire to undo him,