An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

Griffiths smiled so cynically? And what sort of a woman was

this Mrs. Braley? Had he done wisely to come on here?

Would this family do anything for him now that he was here?

It was thus that, strolling west along River Street on which

were a number of other kinds of factories, and then north

through a few other streets that held more factories—tin-

ware, wickwire, a big vacuum carpet cleaning plant, a rug

manufacturing company, and the like—that he came finally

upon a miserable slum, the like of which, small as it was, he

had not seen outside of Chicago or Kansas City. He was so

irritated and depressed by the poverty and social angularity

and crudeness of it—all spelling but one thing, social

misery, to him—that he at once retraced his steps and

recrossing the Mohawk by a bridge farther west soon found

himself in an area which was very different indeed—a

region once more of just such homes as he had been

admiring before he left for the factory. And walking still

farther south, he came upon that same wide and tree-lined

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avenue—which he had seen before—the exterior

appearance of which alone identified it as the principal

residence thoroughfare of Lycurgus. It was so very broad

and well-paved and lined by such an arresting company of

houses. At once he was very much alive to the personnel of

this street, for it came to him immediately that it must be in

this street very likely that his uncle Samuel lived. The

houses were nearly all of French, Italian or English design,

and excellent period copies at that, although he did not

know it.

Impressed by their beauty and spaciousness, however, he

walked along, now looking at one and another, and

wondering which, if any, of these was occupied by his

uncle, and deeply impressed by the significance of so much

wealth. How superior and condescending his cousin Gilbert

must feel, walking out of some such place as this in the

morning.

Then pausing before one which, because of trees, walks,

newly-groomed if bloomless flower beds, a large garage at

the rear, a large fountain to the left of the house as he

faced it, in the center of which was a boy holding a swan in

his arms, and to the right of the house one lone cast iron

stag pursued by some cast iron dogs, he felt especially

impelled to admire, and charmed by the dignity of this

place, which was a modified form of old English, he now

inquired of a stranger who was passing—a middle-aged

man of a rather shabby working type, “Whose house is that,

mister?” and the man replied: “Why, that’s Samuel Griffiths’

residence. He’s the man who owns the big collar factory

over the river.”

At once Clyde straightened up, as though dashed with cold

water. His uncle’s! His residence! Then that was one of his

automobiles standing before the garage at the rear there.

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And there was another visible through the open door of the

garage.

Indeed in his immature and really psychically unilluminated

mind it suddenly evoked a mood which was as of roses,

perfumes, lights and music. The beauty! The ease! What

member of his own immediate family had ever even

dreamed that his uncle lived thus! The grandeur! And his

own parents so wretched—so poor, preaching on the

streets of Kansas City and no doubt Denver. Conducting a

mission! And although thus far no single member of this

family other than his chill cousin had troubled to meet him,

and that at the factory only, and although he had been so

indifferently assigned to the menial type of work that he

had, still he was elated and uplifted. For, after all, was he

not a Griffiths, a full cousin as well as a full nephew to the

two very important men who lived here, and now working

for them in some capacity at least? And must not that spell

a future of some sort, better than any he had known as yet?

For consider who the Griffiths were here, as opposed to

“who” the Griffiths were in Kansas City, say—or Denver.

The enormous difference! A thing to be as carefully

concealed as possible. At the same time, he was

immediately reduced again, for supposing the Griffiths here

—his uncle or his cousin or some friend or agent of theirs—

should now investigate his parents and his past? Heavens!

The matter of that slain child in Kansas City! His parents’

miserable makeshift life! Esta! At once his face fell, his

dreams being so thickly clouded over. If they should guess!

If they should sense!

Oh, the devil—who was he anyway? And what did he really

amount to? What could he hope for from such a great world

as this really, once they knew why he had troubled to come

here?

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A little disgusted and depressed he turned to retrace his

steps, for all at once he felt himself very much of a nobody.

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Chapter 6

THE room which Clyde secured this same day with the aid

of Mrs. Braley, was in Thorpe Street, a thoroughfare

enormously removed in quality if not in distance from that in

which his uncle resided. Indeed the difference was

sufficient to decidedly qualify his mounting notions of

himself as one who, after all, was connected with him. The

commonplace brown or gray or tan colored houses, rather

smoked or decayed, which fronted it—the leafless and

winter harried trees which in spite of smoke and dust

seemed to give promise of the newer life so near at hand—

the leaves and flowers of May. Yet as he walked into it with

Mrs. Braley, many drab and commonplace figures of men

and girls, and elderly spinsters resembling Mrs. Braley in

kind, were making their way home from the several

factories beyond the river. And at the door Mrs. Braley and

himself were received by a none-too-polished woman in a

clean gingham apron over a dark brown dress, who led the

way to a second floor room, not too small or uncomfortably

furnished—which she assured him he could have for four

dollars without board or seven and one-half dollars with—a

proposition which, seeing that he was advised by Mrs.

Braley that this was somewhat better than he would get in

most places for the same amount, he decided to take. And

here, after thanking Mrs. Braley, he decided to remain—

later sitting down to dinner with a small group of mill-town

store and factory employees, such as partially he had been

accustomed to in Paulina Street in Chicago, before moving

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to the better atmosphere of the Union League. And after

dinner he made his way out into the principal thoroughfares

of Lycurgus, only to observe such a crowd of nondescript

mill-workers as, judging these streets by day, he would not

have fancied swarmed here by night—girls and boys, men

and women of various nationalities, and types—Americans,

Poles, Hungarians, French, English—and for the most part

—if not entirely touched with a peculiar something—

ignorance or thickness of mind or body, or with a certain

lack of taste and alertness or daring, which seemed to mark

them one and all as of the basement world which he had

seen only this afternoon. Yet in some streets and stores,

particularly those nearer Wykeagy Avenue, a better type of

girl and young man who might have been and no doubt

were of the various office groups of the different companies

over the river—neat and active.

And Clyde, walking to and fro, from eight until ten, when as

though by pre-arrangement, the crowd in the more

congested streets seemed suddenly to fade away, leaving

them quite vacant. And throughout this time contrasting it

all with Chicago and Kansas City. (What would Ratterer

think if he could see him now—his uncle’s great house and

factory?) And perhaps because of its smallness, liking it—

the Lycurgus Hotel, neat and bright and with a brisk local

life seeming to center about it. And the post-office and a

handsomely spired church, together with an old and

interesting graveyard, cheek by jowl with an automobile

salesroom. And a new moving picture theater just around

the corner in a side street. And various boys and girls, men

and women, walking here and there, some of them flirting

as Clyde could see. And with a suggestion somehow

hovering over it all of hope and zest and youth—the hope

and zest and youth that is at the bottom of all the

constructive energy of the world everywhere. And finally

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returning to his room in Thorpe Street with the conclusion

that he did like the place and would like to stay here. That

beautiful Wykeagy Avenue! His uncle’s great factory! The

many pretty and eager girls he had seen hurrying to and fro!

In the meantime, in so far as Gilbert Griffiths was