and hopefully.
“Yes, sir. About that maybe. I couldn’t be quite sure.”
“And now with you over there and the boat here, where was
Miss Alden at that time?”
And Clyde now sensed that Mason must have some
geometric or mathematic scheme in mind whereby he
proposed to establish his guilt. And at once he was on his
guard, and looking in the direction of Jephson. At the same
time he could not see how he was to put Roberta too far
away either. He had said she couldn’t swim. Wouldn’t she
be nearer the boat than he was? Most certainly. He leaped
foolishly—wildly—at the thought that it might be best to say
that she was about half that distance—not more, very likely.
And said so. And at once Mason proceeded with:
“Well, then she was not more than fifteen feet or so from
you or the boat.”
“No, sir, maybe not. I guess not.”
“Well then, do you mean to say that you couldn’t have
swum that little distance and buoyed her up until you could
reach the boat just fifteen feet beyond her?”
An American Tragedy
1048
“Well, as I say, I was a little dazed when I came up and she
was striking about and screaming so.”
“But there was that boat—not more than thirty-five feet
away, according to your own story—and a mighty long way
for a boat to move in that time, I’ll say. And do you mean to
say that when you could swim five hundred feet to shore
afterwards that you couldn’t have swum to that boat and
pushed it to her in time for her to save herself? She was
struggling to keep herself up, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, sir. But I was rattled at first,” pleaded Clyde, gloomily,
conscious of the eyes of all the jurors and all the spectators
fixed upon his face, “and … and …” (because of the general
strain of the suspicion and incredulity now focused as a
great force upon him, his nerve was all but failing him, and
he was hesitating and stumbling) …“I didn’t think quite
quick enough I guess, what to do. Besides I was afraid if I
went near her …”
“I know. A mental and moral coward,” sneered Mason.
“Besides very slow to think when it’s to your advantage to
be slow and swift when it’s to your advantage to be swift. Is
that it?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, if it isn’t, just tell me this, Griffiths, why was it,
after you got out of the water a few moments later you had
sufficient presence of mind to stop and bury that tripod
before starting through the woods, whereas, when it came
to rescuing her you got rattled and couldn’t do a thing? How
was it that you could get so calm and calculating the
moment you set your foot on land? What can you say to
that?”
“Well … a … I told you that afterwards I realized that there
was nothing else to do.”
An American Tragedy
1049
“Yes, we know all about that. But doesn’t it occur to you that
it takes a pretty cool head after so much panic in the water
to stop at a moment like that and take such a precaution as
that—burying that tripod? How was it that you could think
so well of that and not think anything about the boat a few
moments before?”
“Well … but …”
“You didn’t want her to live, in spite of your alleged change
of heart! Isn’t that it?” yelled Mason. “Isn’t that the black,
sad truth? She was drowning, as you wanted her to drown,
and you just let her drown! Isn’t that so?”
He was fairly trembling as he shouted this, and Clyde, the
actual boat before him and Roberta’s eyes and cries as she
sank coming back to him with all their pathetic and horrible
force, now shrank and cowered in his seat—the closeness
of Mason’s interpretation of what had really happened
terrifying him. For never, even to Jephson and Belknap,
had he admitted that when Roberta was in the water he
had not wished to save her. Changelessly and secretively
he insisted he had wanted to but that it had all happened so
quickly, and he was so dazed and frightened by her cries
and movements, that he had not been able to do anything
before she was gone.
“I … I wanted to save her,” he mumbled, his face quite
gray, “but … but … as I said, I was dazed … and … and
and …”
“Don’t you know that you’re lying!” shouted Mason, leaning
still closer, his stout arms aloft, his disfigured face glowering
and scowling like some avenging nemesis or fury of
gargoyle design—“that you deliberately and with cold-
hearted cunning allowed that poor, tortured girl to die there
when you might have rescued her as easily as you could
An American Tragedy
1050
have swum fifty of those five hundred feet you did swim in
order to save yourself?” For by now he was convinced that
he knew just how Clyde had actually slain Roberta,
something in his manner and mood convincing him, and he
was determined to drag it out of him if he could. And
although Belknap was instantly on his feet with a protest
that his client was being unfairly prejudiced in the eyes of
the jury and that he was really entitled to—and now
demanded—a mistrial—which complaint Justice
Oberwaltzer eventually overruled—still Clyde had time to
reply, but most meekly and feebly: “No! No! I didn’t. I
wanted to save her if I could.” Yet his whole manner, as
each and every juror noted, was that of one who was not
really telling the truth, who was really all of the mental and
moral coward that Belknap had insisted he was—but worse
yet, really guilty of Roberta’s death. For after all, asked
each juror of himself as he listened, why couldn’t he have
saved her if he was strong enough to swim to shore
afterwards—or at least have swum to and secured the boat
and helped her to take hold of it?
“She only weighed a hundred pounds, didn’t she?” went on
Mason feverishly.
“Yes, I think so.”
“And you—what did you weigh at the time?”
“About a hundred and forty,” replied Clyde.
“And a hundred and forty pound man,” sneered Mason,
turning to the jury, “is afraid to go near a weak, sick,
hundred-pound little girl who is drowning, for fear she will
cling to him and drag him under! And a perfectly good boat,
strong enough to hold three or four up, within fifteen or
twenty feet! How’s that?”
An American Tragedy
1051
And to emphasize it and let it sink in, he now paused, and
took from his pocket a large white handkerchief, and after
wiping his neck and face and wrists—since they were quite
damp from his emotional and physical efforts—turned to
Burton Burleigh and called: “You might as well have this
boat taken out of here, Burton. We’re not going to need it
for a little while anyhow.” And forthwith the four deputies
carried it out.
And then, having recovered his poise, he once more turned
to Clyde and began with: “Griffiths, you knew the color and
feel of Roberta Alden’s hair pretty well, didn’t you? You
were intimate enough with her, weren’t you?”
“I know the color of it or I think I do,” replied Clyde wincing—
an anguished chill at the thought of it affecting him almost
observably.
“And the feel of it, too, didn’t you?” persisted Mason. “In
those very loving days of yours before Miss X came along—
you must have touched it often enouh.”
“I don’t know whether I did or not,” replied Clyde, catching a
glance from Jephson.
“Well, roughly. You must know whether it was coarse or fine
—silky or coarse. You know that, don’t you?”
“It was silky, yes.”
“Well, here’s a lock of it,” he now added more to torture
Clyde than anything else—to wear him down nervously—
and going to his table where was an envelope and from it
extracting a long lock of light brown hair. “Don’t that look
like her hair?” And now he shoved it forward at Clyde who
shocked and troubled withdrew from it as from some
unclean or dangerous thing—yet a moment after sought to
recover himself—the watchful eyes of the jury having noted
An American Tragedy
1052
all. “Oh, don’t be afraid,” persisted Mason, sardonically. “It’s
only your dead love’s hair.”
And shocked by the comment—and noting the curious eyes
of the jury, Clyde took it in his hand. “That looks and feels
like her hair, doesn’t it?” went on Mason.
“Well, it looks like it anyhow,” returned Clyde shakily.
“And now here,” continued Mason, stepping quickly to the
table and returning with the camera in which between the
lid and the taking mechanism were caught the two threads
of Roberta’s hair put there by Burleigh, and then holding it