An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

animality the force and meaning of that chemistry and urge

toward mating which lies back of all youthful thought and

action. And in herself, as from time to time she observed

lovers or flirtation-seekers who lingered at street corners or

about doorways, and who looked at her in a longing and

seeking way, there was a stirring, a nerve plasm palpitation

that spoke loudly for all the seemingly material things of life,

not for the thin pleasantries of heaven.

And the glances drilled her like an invisible ray, for she was

pleasing to look at and was growing more attractive hourly.

And the moods in others awakened responsive moods in

her, those rearranging chemisms upon which all the

morality or immorality of the world is based.

And then one day, as she was coming home from school, a

youth of that plausible variety known as “masher” engaged

her in conversation, largely because of a look and a mood

which seemed to invite it. And there was little to stay her,

for she was essentially yielding, if not amorous. Yet so great

had been her home drilling as to the need of modesty,

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32

circumspection, purity and the like, that on this occasion at

least there was no danger of any immediate lapse. Only this

attack once made, others followed, were accepted, or not

so quickly fled from, and by degrees, these served to break

down that wall of reserve which her home training had

served to erect. She became secretive and hid her ways

from her parents.

Youths occasionally walked and talked with her in spite of

herself. They demolished that excessive shyness which had

been hers, and which had served to put others aside for a

time at least. She wished for other contacts—dreamed of

some bright, gay, wonderful love of some kind, with some

one.

Finally, after a slow but vigorous internal growth of mood

and desire, there came this actor, one of those vain,

handsome, animal personalities, all clothes and airs, but no

morals (no taste, no courtesy or real tenderness even), but

of compelling magnetism, who was able within the space of

one brief week and a few meetings to completely befuddle

and enmesh her so that she was really his to do with as he

wished. And the truth was that he scarcely cared for her at

all. To him, dull as he was, she was just another girl—fairly

pretty, obviously sensuous and inexperienced, a silly who

could be taken by a few soft words—a show of seemingly

sincere affection, talk of the opportunity of a broader, freer

life on the road, in other great cities, as his wife.

And yet his words were those of a lover who would be true

forever. All she had to do, as he explained to her, was to

come away with him and be his bride, at once—now. Delay

was so vain when two such as they had met. There was

difficulty about marriage here, which he could not explain—

it related to friends—but in St. Louis he had a preacher

friend who would wed them. She was to have new and

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better clothes than she had ever known, delicious

adventures, love. She would travel with him and see the

great world. She would never need to trouble more about

anything save him; and while it was truth to her—the verbal

surety of a genuine passion—to him it was the most ancient

and serviceable type of blarney, often used before and

often successful.

In a single week then, at odd hours, morning, afternoon and

night, this chemic witchery was accomplished.

Coming home rather late one Saturday night in April from a

walk which he had taken about the business heart, in order

to escape the regular Saturday night mission services,

Clyde found his mother and father worried about the

whereabouts of Esta. She had played and sung as usual at

this meeting. And all had seemed all right with her. After the

meeting she had gone to her room, saying that she was not

feeling very well and was going to bed early. But by eleven

o’clock, when Clyde returned, her mother had chanced to

look into her room and discovered that she was not there

nor anywhere about the place. A certain bareness in

connection with the room—some trinkets and dresses

removed, an old and familiar suitcase gone—had first

attracted her mother’s attention. Then the house search

proving that she was not there, Asa had gone outside to

look up and down the street. She sometimes walked out

alone, or sat or stood in front of the mission during its idle or

closed hours.

This search revealing nothing, Clyde and he had walked to

a corner, then along Missouri Avenue. No Esta. At twelve

they returned and after that, naturally, the curiosity in regard

to her grew momentarily sharper.

At first they assumed that she might have taken an

unexplained walk somewhere, but as twelve-thirty, and

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finally one, and one-thirty, passed, and no Esta, they were

about to notify the police, when Clyde, going into her room,

saw a note pinned to the pillow of her small wooden bed—a

missive that had escaped the eye of his mother. At once he

went to it, curious and comprehending, for he had often

wondered in what way, assuming that he ever wished to

depart surreptitiously, he would notify his parents, for he

knew they would never countenance his departure unless

they were permitted to supervise it in every detail. And now

here was Esta missing, and here was undoubtedly some

such communication as he might have left. He picked it up,

eager to read it, but at that moment his mother came into

the room and, seeing it in his hand, exclaimed: “What’s

that? A note? Is it from her?” He surrendered it and she

unfolded it, reading it quickly. He noted that her strong

broad face, always tanned a reddish brown, blanched as

she turned away toward the outer room. Her biggish mouth

was now set in a firm, straight line. Her large, strong hand

shook the least bit as it held the small note aloft.

“Asa!” she called, and then tramping into the next room

where he was, his frizzled grayish hair curling distractedly

above his round head, she said: “Read this.”

Clyde, who had followed, saw him take it a little nervously in

his pudgy hands, his lips, always weak and beginning to

crinkle at the center with age, now working curiously. Any

one who had known his life’s history would have said it was

the expression, slightly emphasized, with which he had

received most of the untoward blows of his life in the past.

“Tst! Tst! Tst!” was the only sound he made at first, a

sucking sound of the tongue and palate—most weak and

inadequate, it seemed to Clyde. Next there was another

“Tst! Tst! Tst!”, his head beginning to shake from side to

side. Then, “Now, what do you suppose could have caused

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her to do that?” Then he turned and gazed at his wife, who

gazed blankly in return. Then, walking to and fro, his hands

behind him, his short legs taking unconscious and queerly

long steps, his head moving again, he gave vent to another

ineffectual “Tst! Tst! Tst!”

Always the more impressive, Mrs. Griffiths now showed

herself markedly different and more vital in this trying

situation, a kind of irritation or dissatisfaction with life itself,

along with an obvious physical distress, seeming to pass

through her like a visible shadow. Once her husband had

gotten up, she reached out and took the note, then merely

glared at it again, her face set in hard yet stricken and

disturbing lines. Her manner was that of one who is

intensely disquieted and dissatisfied, one who fingers

savagely at a material knot and yet cannot undo it, one who

seeks restraint and freedom from complaint and yet who

would complain bitterly, angrily. For behind her were all

those years of religious work and faith, which somehow, in

her poorly integrated conscience, seemed dimly to indicate

that she should justly have been spared this. Where was

her God, her Christ, at this hour when this obvious evil was

being done? Why had He not acted for her? How was He to

explain this? His Biblical promises! His perpetual guidance!

His declared mercies!

In the face of so great a calamity, it was very hard for her,

as Clyde could see, to get this straightened out, instantly at

least. Although, as Clyde had come to know, it could be

done eventually, of course. For in some blind, dualistic way

both she and Asa insisted, as do all religionists, in

disassociating God from harm and error and misery, while

granting Him nevertheless supreme control. They would

seek for something else—some malign, treacherous,

deceiving power which, in the face of God’s omniscience

and omnipotence, still beguiles and betrays—and find it