An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

could pay it back, you know, soon, if you would. You

wouldn’t need to pay me anything for your room until you

had.”

She looked at Clyde so tensely, so urgently, that he felt

quite shaken by the force of the cogency of the request.

And before he could add anything to the nervous gloom

which shadowed her face, she added: “That other money

was for her, you know, to bring her back here after her—

her”—she hesitated over the appropriate word but finally

added—“husband left her there in Pittsburgh. I suppose she

told you that.”

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178

“Yes, she did,” replied Clyde, heavily and sadly. For after

all, Esta’s condition was plainly critical, which was

something that he had not stopped to meditate on before.

“Gee, Ma,” he exclaimed, the thought of the fifty dollars in

his pocket and its intended destination troubling him

considerably—the very sum his mother was seeking. “I

don’t know whether I can do that or not. I don’t know any of

the boys down there well enough for that. And they don’t

make any more than I do, either. I might borrow a little

something, but it won’t look very good.” He choked and

swallowed a little, for lying to his mother in this way was not

easy. In fact, he had never had occasion to lie in connection

with anything so trying—and so despicably. For here was

fifty dollars in his pocket at the moment, with Hortense on

the one hand and his mother and sister on the other, and

the money would solve his mother’s problem as fully as it

would Hortense’s, and more respectably. How terrible it

was not to help her. How could he refuse her, really?

Nervously he licked his lips and passed a hand over his

brow, for a nervous moisture had broken out upon his face.

He felt strained and mean and incompetent under the

circumstances.

“And you haven’t any money of your own right now that you

could let me have, have you?” his mother half pleaded. For

there were a number of things in connection with Esta’s

condition which required immediate cash and she had so

little.

“No, I haven’t, Ma,” he said, looking at his mother

shamefacedly, for a moment, then away, and if it had not

been that she herself was so distrait, she might have seen

the falsehood on his face. As it was, he suffered a pang of

commingled self-commiseration and self-contempt, based

on the distress he felt for his mother. He could not bring

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179

himself to think of losing Hortense. He must have her. And

yet his mother looked so lone and so resourceless. It was

shameful. He was low, really mean. Might he not, later, be

punished for a thing like this?

He tried to think of some other way—some way of getting a

little money over and above the fifty that might help. If only

he had a little more time—a few weeks longer. If only

Hortense had not brought up this coat idea just now.

“I’ll tell you what I might do,” he went on, quite foolishly and

dully the while his mother gave vent to a helpless “Tst! Tst!

Tst!”“Will five dollars do you any good?”

“Well, it will be something, anyhow,” she replied. “I can use

it.”

“Well, I can let you have that much,” he said, thinking to

replace it out of his next week’s tips and trust to better luck

throughout the week. “And I’ll see what I can do next week.

I might let you have ten then. I can’t say for sure. I had to

borrow some of that other money I gave you, and I haven’t

got through paying for that yet, and if I come around trying

to get more, they’ll think—well, you know how it is.”

His mother sighed, thinking of the misery of having to fall

back on her one son thus far. And just when he was trying

to get a start, too. What would he think of all this in after

years? What would he think of her—of Esta—the family?

For, for all his ambition and courage and desire to be out

and doing, Clyde always struck her as one who was not any

too powerful physically or rock-ribbed morally or mentally.

So far as his nerves and emotions were concerned, at

times he seemed to take after his father more than he did

after her. And for the most part it was so easy to excite him

—to cause him to show tenseness and strain—as though

he were not so very well fitted for either. And it was she,

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180

because of Esta and her husband and their joint and

unfortunate lives, that was and had been heaping the

greater part of this strain on him.

“Well, if you can’t, you can’t,” she said. “I must try and think

of some other way.” But she saw no clear way at the

moment.

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181

Chapter 17

IN CONNECTION with the automobile ride suggested and

arranged for the following Sunday by Hegglund through his

chauffeur friend, a change of plan was announced. The car

—an expensive Packard, no less—could not be had for that

day, but must be used by this Thursday or Friday, or not at

all. For, as had been previously explained to all, but not with

the strictest adherence to the truth, the car belonged to a

certain Mr. Kimbark, an elderly and very wealthy man who

at the time was traveling in Asia. Also, what was not true

was that this particular youth was not Mr. Kimbark’s

chauffeur at all, but rather the rakish, ne’er-do-well son of

Sparser, the superintendent of one of Mr. Kimbark’s stock

farms. This son being anxious to pose as something more

than the son of a superintendent of a farm, and as an

occasional watchman, having access to the cars, had

decided to take the very finest of them and ride in it.

It was Hegglund who proposed that he and his hotel friends

be included on some interesting trip. But since the general

invitation had been given, word had come that within the

next few weeks Mr. Kimbark was likely to return. And

because of this, Willard Sparser had decided at once that it

might be best not to use the car any more. He might be

taken unawares, perhaps, by Mr. Kimbark’s unexpected

arrival. Laying this difficulty before Hegglund, who was

eager for the trip, the latter had scouted the idea. Why not

use it once more anyhow? He had stirred up the interest of

all of his friends in this and now hated to disappoint them.

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The following Friday, between noon and six o’clock, was

fixed upon as the day. And since Hortense had changed in

her plans she now decided to accompany Clyde, who had

been invited, of course.

But as Hegglund had explained to Ratterer and Higby since

it was being used without the owner’s consent, they must

meet rather far out—the men in one of the quiet streets

near Seventeenth and West Prospect, from which point

they could proceed to a meeting place more convenient for

the girls, namely, Twentieth and Washington. From thence

they would speed via the west Parkway and the Hannibal

Bridge north and east to Harlem, North Kansas City,

Minaville and so through Liberty and Moseby to Excelsior

Springs. Their chief objective there was a little inn—the

Wigwam—a mile or two this side of Excelsior which was

open the year around. It was really a combination of

restaurant and dancing parlor and hotel. A Victrola and

Wurlitzer player-piano furnished the necessary music. Such

groups as this were not infrequent, and Hegglund as well as

Higby, who had been there on several occasions, described

it as dandy. The food was good and the road to it excellent.

There was a little river just below it where in the summer

time at least there was rowing and fishing. In winter some

people skated when there was ice. To be sure, at this time

—January—the road was heavily packed with snow, but

easy to get over, and the scenery fine. There was a little

lake, not so far from Excelsior, at this time of year also

frozen over, and according to Hegglund, who was always

unduly imaginative and high-spirited, they might go there

and skate.

“Will you listen to who’s talkin’ about skatin’ on a trip like

this?” commented Ratterer, rather cynically, for to his way

of thinking this was no occasion for any such side athletics,

but for love-making exclusively.

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“Aw, hell, can’t a fellow have a funny idea even widout bein’

roasted for it?” retorted the author of the idea.

The only one, apart from Sparser, who suffered any qualms

in connection with all this was Clyde himself. For to him,

from the first, the fact that the car to be used did not belong