An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

understood it (Belknap’s argument having cleared it up for

him) he had burned with that wild fever which was not

unakin in its manifestations to a form of insanity. The

beautiful Sondra! The glorious Sondral The witchery and

fire of her smile then! Even now that dreadful fever was not

entirely out but only smoldering—smothered by all of the

dreadful things that had since happened to him.

Also, it must be said on his behalf now, must it not—that

never, under any other circumstances, would he have

succumbed to any such terrible thought or plot as that—to

kill any one—let alone a girl like Roberta—unless he had

been so infatuated—lunatic, even. But had not the jury

there at Bridgeburg listened to that plea with contempt?

And would the Court of Appeals think differently? He feared

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not. And yet was it not true? Or was he all wrong? Or what?

Could the Rev. McMillan or any one else to whom he would

explain tell him as to that? He would like to talk to him

about it—confess everything perhaps, in order to get

himself clear on all this. Further, there was the fact that

having plotted for Sondra’s sake (and God, if no one else,

knew that) he still had not been able to execute it. And that

had not been brought out in the trial, because the false form

of defense used permitted no explanation of the real truth

then—and yet it was a mitigating circumstance, was it not—

or would the Rev. McMillan think so? A lie had to be used,

as Jephson saw it. But did that make it any the less true?

There were phases of this thing, the tangles and doubts

involved in that dark, savage plot of his, as he now saw and

brooded on it, which were not so easily to be disposed of.

Perhaps the two worst were, first, that in bringing Roberta

there to that point on that lake—that lone spot—and then

growing so weak and furious with himself because of his

own incapacity to do evil, he had frightened her into rising

and trying to come to him. And that in the first instance

made it possible for her to be thus accidentally struck by

him and so made him, in part at least, guilty of that blow—

or did it?—a murderous, sinful blow in that sense. Maybe.

What would the Rev. McMillan say to that? And since

because of that she had fallen into the water, was he not

guilty of her falling? It was a thought that troubled him very

much now—his constructive share of guilt in all that.

Regardless of what Oberwaltzer had said there at the trial

in regard to his swimming away from her—that if she had

accidentally fallen in the water, it was no crime on his part,

supposing he refused to rescue her,—still, as he now saw

it, and especially when taken, in connection with all that he

had thought in regard to Roberta up to that moment, it was

a crime just the same, was it not? Wouldn’t God—McMillan

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—think so? And unquestionably, as Mason had so shrewdly

pointed out at the trial, he might have saved her. And would

have too, no doubt, if she had been Sondra—or even the

Roberta of the summer before. Besides, the fear of her

dragging him down had been no decent fear. (It was at

nights in his bunk at this time that he argued and reasoned

with himself, seeing that McMillan was urging him now to

repent and make peace with his God.) Yes, he would have

to admit that to himself. Decidedly and instantly he would

have sought to save her life, if it had been Sondra. And

such being the case, he would have to confess that—if he

confessed at all to the Rev. McMillan—or to whomever else

one told the truth—when one did tell it—the public at large

perhaps. But such a confession once made, would it not

surely and truly lead to his conviction? And did he want to

convict himself now and so die?

No, no, better wait a while perhaps—at least until the Court

of Appeals had passed on his case. Why jeopardize his

case when God already knew what the truth was? Truly,

truly he was sorry. He could see how terrible all this was

now—how much misery and heartache, apart from the

death of Roberta, he had caused. But still—still—was not

life sweet? Oh, if he could only get out! Oh, if he could only

go away from here—never to see or hear or feel anything

more of this terrible terror that now hung over him. The slow

coming dark—the slow coming dawn. The long night! The

sighs—the groans. The tortures by day and by night until it

seemed at times as though he should go mad; and would

perhaps except for McMillan, who now appeared devoted to

him—so kind, appealing and reassuring, too, at times. He

would just like to sit down some day—here or somewhere—

and tell him all and get him to say how really guilty, if at all,

he thought him to be—and if so guilty to get him to pray for

him. At times he felt so sure that his mother’s and the Rev.

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Duncan McMillan’s prayers would do him so much more

good with this God than any prayers of his own would.

Somehow he couldn’t pray yet. And at times hearing

McMillan pray, softly and melodiously, his voice entering

through the bars—or, reading from Galatians,

Thessalonians, Corinthians, he felt as though he must tell

him everything, and soon.

But the days going by until finally one day six weeks after—

and when because of his silence in regard to himself, the

Rev. Duncan was beginning to despair of ever affecting him

in any way toward his proper contrition and salvation—a

letter or note from Sondra. It came through the warden’s

office and by the hand of the Rev. Preston Guilford, the

Protestant chaplain of the prison, but was not signed. It

was, however, on good paper, and because the rule of the

prison so requiring had been opened and read.

Nevertheless, on account of the nature of the contents

which seemed to both the warden and the Rev. Guilford to

be more charitable and punitive than otherwise, and

because plainly, if not verifiably, it was from that Miss X of

repute or notoriety in connection with his trial, it was

decided, after due deliberation, that Clyde should be

permitted to read it—even that it was best that he should.

Perhaps it would prove of value as a lesson. The way of the

transgressor. And so it was handed to him at the close of a

late fall day—after a long and dreary summer had passed

(soon a year since he had entered here). And he taking it.

And although it was typewritten with no date nor place on

the envelope, which was postmarked New York—yet

sensing somehow that it might be from her. And growing

decidedly nervous—so much so that his hand trembled

slightly. And then reading—over and over and over—during

many days thereafter: “Clyde—This is so that you will not

think that some one once dear to you has utterly forgotten

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you. She has suffered much, too. And though she can

never understand how you could have done as you did, still,

even now, although she is never to see you again, she is

not without sorrow and sympathy and wishes you freedom

and happiness.”

But no signature—no trace of her own handwriting. She

was afraid to sign her name and she was too remote from

him in her mood now to let him know where she was. New

York! But it might have been sent there from anywhere to

mail. And she would not let him know—would never let him

know—even though he died here later, as well he might.

His last hope—the last trace of his dream vanished.

Forever! It was at that moment, as when night at last falls

upon the faintest remaining gleam of dusk in the west. A

dim, weakening tinge of pink—and then the dark.

He seated himself on his cot. The wretched stripes of his

uniform and his gray felt shoes took his eye. A felon. These

stripes. These shoes. This cell. This uncertain, threatening

prospect so very terrible to contemplate at any time. And

then this letter. So this was the end of all that wonderful

dream! And for this he had sought so desperately to

disengage himself from Roberta—even to the point of

deciding to slay her. This! This! He toyed with the letter,

then held it quite still. Where was she now? Who in love

with, maybe? She had had time to change perhaps. She

had only been captivated by him a little, maybe. And then

that terrible revelation in connection with him had destroyed