An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

promise of reward.

In the meantime, in so far as his home ties went, the

irritations and the depressions which were almost

inextricably involved with membership in the Griffiths family

were not different from what they had ever been. For,

following the disappearance of Esta, there had settled a

period of dejection which still endured. Only, in so far as

Clyde was concerned, it was complicated with a mystery

which was tantalizing and something more—irritating; for

when it came to anything which related to sex in the

Griffiths family, no parents could possibly have been more

squeamish.

And especially did this apply to the mystery which had now

surrounded Esta for some time. She had gone. She had not

An American Tragedy

131

returned. And so far as Clyde and the others knew, no word

of any kind had been received from her. However, Clyde

had noted that after the first few weeks of her absence,

during which time both his mother and father had been

most intensely wrought up and troubled, worrying greatly as

to her whereabouts and why she did not write, suddenly

they had ceased their worries, and had become very much

more resigned—at least not so tortured by a situation that

previously had seemed to offer no hope whatsoever. He

could not explain it. It was quite noticeable, and yet nothing

was said. And then one day a little later, Clyde had

occasion to note that his mother was in communication with

some one by mail—something rare for her. For so few were

her social or business connections that she rarely received

or wrote a letter.

One day, however, very shortly after he had connected

himself with the Green-Davidson, he had come in rather

earlier than usual in the afternoon and found his mother

bending over a letter which evidently had just arrived and

which appeared to interest her greatly. Also it seemed to be

connected with something which required concealment.

For, on seeing him, she stopped reading at once, and,

flustered and apparently nervous, arose and put the letter

away without commenting in any way upon what she had

been doing. But Clyde for some reason, intuition perhaps,

had the thought that it might be from Esta. He was not sure.

And he was too far away to detect the character of the

handwriting. But whatever it was, his mother said nothing

afterwards concerning it. She looked as though she did not

want him to inquire, and so reserved were their relations

that he would not have thought of inquiring. He merely

wondered, and then dismissed it partially, but not entirely,

from his mind.

An American Tragedy

132

A month or five weeks after this, and just about the time

that he was becoming comparatively well-schooled in his

work at the Green-Davidson, and was beginning to interest

himself in Hortense Briggs, his mother came to him one

afternoon with a very peculiar proposition for her. Without

explaining what it was for, or indicating directly that now she

felt that he might be in a better position to help her, she

called him into the mission hall when he came in from work

and, looking at him rather fixedly and nervously for her,

said: “You wouldn’t know, Clyde, would you, how I could

raise a hundred dollars right away?”

Clyde was so astonished that he could scarcely believe his

ears, for only a few weeks before the mere mention of any

sum above four or five dollars in connection with him would

have been preposterous. His mother knew that. Yet here

she was asking him and apparently assuming that he might

be able to assist her in this way. And rightly, for both his

clothes and his general air had indicated a period of better

days for him.

At the same time his first thought was, of course, that she

had observed his clothes and goings-on and was convinced

that he was deceiving her about the amount he earned.

And in part this was true, only so changed was Clyde’s

manner of late, that his mother had been compelled to take

a very different attitude toward him and was beginning to be

not a little dubious as to her further control over him.

Recently, or since he had secured this latest place, for

some reason he had seemed to her to have grown wiser,

more assured, less dubious of himself, inclined to go his

own way and keep his own counsel. And while this had

troubled her not a little in one sense, it rather pleased her in

another. For to see Clyde, who had always seemed

because of his sensitiveness and unrest so much of a

An American Tragedy

133

problem to her, developing in this very interesting way was

something; though at times, and in view of his very recent

finery, she had been wondering and troubled as to the

nature of the company he might be keeping. But since his

hours were so long and so absorbing, and whatever money

he made appeared to be going into clothes, she felt that

she had no real reason to complain. Her one other thought

was that perhaps he was beginning to act a little selfish—to

think too much of his own comfort—and yet in the face of

his long deprivations she could not very well begrudge him

any temporary pleasure, either.

Clyde, not being sure of her real attitude, merely looked at

her and exclaimed: “Why, where would I get a hundred

dollars, Ma?” He had visions of his new-found source of

wealth being dissipated by such unheard of and

inexplicable demands as this, and distress and distrust at

once showed on his countenance.

“I didn’t expect that you could get it all for me,” Mrs. Griffiths

suggested tactfully. “I have a plan to raise the most of it, I

think. But I did want you to help me try to think how I would

raise the rest. I didn’t want to go to your father with this if I

could help it, and you’re getting old enough now to be of

some help.” She looked at Clyde approvingly and

interestedly enough. “Your father is such a poor hand at

business,” she went on, “and he gets so worried at times.”

She passed a large and weary hand over her face and

Clyde was moved by her predicament, whatever it was. At

the same time, apart from whether he was willing to part

with so much or not, or had it to give, he was decidedly

curious about what all this was for. A hundred dollars! Gee

whiz!

After a moment or two, his mother added: “I’ll tell you what

I’ve been thinking. I must have a hundred dollars, but I can’t

An American Tragedy

134

tell you for what now, you nor any one, and you mustn’t ask

me. There’s an old gold watch of your father’s in my desk

and a solid gold ring and pin of mine. Those things ought to

be worth twenty-five dollars at least, if they were sold or

pawned. Then there is that set of solid silver knives and

forks and that silver platter and pitcher in there”—Clyde

knew the keepsakes well—“that platter alone is worth

twenty-five dollars. I believe they ought to bring at least

twenty or twenty-five together. I was thinking if I could get

you to go to some good pawnshop with them down near

where you work, and then if you would let me have five

more a week for a while” (Clyde’s countenance fell)—“I

could get a friend of mine—Mr. Murch who comes here, you

know—to advance me enough to make up the hundred,

and then I could pay him back out of what you pay me. I

have about ten dollars myself.”

She looked at Clyde as much as to say: “Now, surely, you

won’t desert me in my hour of trouble,” and Clyde relaxed,

in spite of the fact that he had been counting upon using

quite all that he earned for himself. In fact, he agreed to

take the trinkets to the pawnshop, and to advance her five

more for the time being until the difference between

whatever the trinkets brought and one hundred dollars was

made up. And yet in spite of himself, he could not help

resenting this extra strain, for it had only been a very short

time that he had been earning so much. And here was his

mother demanding more and more, as he saw it—ten

dollars a week now. Always something wrong, thought

Clyde, always something needed, and with no assurance

that there would not be more such demands later.

He took the trinkets, carried them to the most presentable

pawnshop he could find, and being offered forty-five dollars

for the lot, took it. This, with his mother’s ten, would make

fifty-five, and with forty-five she could borrow from Mr.

An American Tragedy

135

Murch, would make a hundred. Only now, as he saw, it