An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

concealed looseness that characterized them—than he was

in the social phase of the world which they represented.

And wasn’t that what brought about his downfall in Kansas

City? Here in Lycurgus, of all places, he was least likely to

forget it—aspiring to something better as he now did.

None-the-less, at eight-thirty on the following Wednesday,

evening—they were off, Clyde full of eager anticipation. And

by nine o’clock they were in the midst of one of those semi-

religious, semi-social and semi-emotional church affairs, the

object of which was to raise money for the church—the

general service of which was to furnish an occasion for

gossip among the elders, criticism and a certain amount of

enthusiastic, if disguised courtship and flirtation among the

younger members. There were booths for the sale of quite

everything from pies, cakes and ice cream to laces, dolls

and knickknacks of every description, supplied by the

members and parted with for the benefit of the church. The

Reverend Peter Isreals, the minister, and his wife were

present. Also Dillard’s uncle and aunt, a pair of brisk and

yet uninteresting people whom Clyde could sense were of

no importance socially here. They were too genial and

altogether social in the specific neighborhood sense,

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although Grover Wilson, being a buyer for Stark and

Company, endeavored to assume a serious and important

air at times.

He was an undersized and stocky man who did not seem to

know how to dress very well or could not afford it. In

contrast to his nephew’s almost immaculate garb, his own

suit was far from perfect-fitting. It was unpressed and

slightly soiled. And his tie the same. He had a habit of

rubbing his hands in a clerkly fashion, of wrinkling his brows

and scratching the back of his head at times, as though

something he was about to say had cost him great thought

and was of the utmost importance. Whereas, nothing that

he uttered, as even Clyde could see, was of the slightest

importance.

And so, too, with the stout and large Mrs. Wilson, who

stood beside him while he was attempting to rise to the

importance of Clyde. She merely beamed a fatty beam.

She was almost ponderous, and pink, with a tendency to a

double chin. She smiled and smiled, largely because she

was naturally genial and on her good behavior here, but

incidentally because Clyde was who he was. For as Clyde

himself could see, Walter Dillard had lost no time in

impressing his relatives with the fact that he was a Griffiths.

Also that he had encountered and made a friend of him and

that he was now chaperoning him locally.

“Walter has been telling us that you have just come on here

to work for your uncle. You’re at Mrs. Cuppy’s now, I

understand. I don’t know her but I’ve always heard she

keeps such a nice, refined place. Mr. Parsley, who lives

here with her, used to go to school with me. But I don’t see

much of him any more. Did you meet him yet?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Clyde in return.

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“Well, you know, we expected you last Sunday to dinner,

only Walter had to go home. But you must come soon. Any

time at all. I would love to have you.” She beamed and her

small grayish brown eyes twinkled.

Clyde could see that because of the fame of his uncle he

was looked upon as a social find, really. And so it was with

the remainder of this company, old and young—the Rev.

Peter Isreals and his wife; Mr. Micah Bumpus, a local

vendor of printing inks, and his wife and son; Mr. and Mrs.

Maximilian Pick, Mr. Pick being a wholesale and retail

dealer in hay, grain and feed; Mr. Witness, a florist, and

Mrs. Throop, a local real estate dealer. All knew Samuel

Griffiths and his family by reputation and it seemed not a

little interesting and strange to all of them that Clyde, a real

nephew of so rich a man, should be here in their midst. The

only trouble with this was that Clyde’s manner was very soft

and not as impressive as it should be—not so aggressive

and contemptuous. And most of them were of that type of

mind that respects insolence even where it pretends to

condemn it.

In so far as the young girls were concerned, it was even

more noticeable. For Dillard was making this important

relationship of Clyde’s perfectly plain to every one. “This is

Clyde Griffiths, the nephew of Samuel Griffiths, Mr. Gilbert

Griffiths’ cousin, you know. He’s just come on here to study

the collar business in his uncle’s factory.” And Clyde, who

realized how shallow was this pretense, was still not a little

pleased and impressed by the effect of it all. This Dillard’s

effrontery. The brassy way in which, because of Clyde, he

presumed to patronize these people. On this occasion, he

kept guiding Clyde here and there, refusing for the most

part to leave him alone for an instant. In fact he was

determined that all whom he knew and liked among the

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girls and young men should know who and what Clyde was

and that he was presenting him. Also that those whom he

did not like should see as little of him as possible—not be

introduced at all. “She don’t amount to anything. Her father

only keeps a small garage here. I wouldn’t bother with her if

I were you.” Or, “He isn’t much around here. Just a clerk in

our store.” At the same time, in regard to some others, he

was all smiles and compliments, or at worst apologetic for

their social lacks.

And then he was introduced to Zella Shuman and Rita

Dickerman, who, for reasons of their own, not the least

among which was a desire to appear a little wise and more

sophisticated than the others here, came a little late. And it

was true, as Clyde was to find out afterwards, that they

were different, too—less simple and restricted than quite all

of the girls whom Dillard had thus far introduced him to.

They were not as sound religiously and morally as were

these others. And as even Clyde noted on meeting them,

they were as keen for as close an approach to pagan

pleasure without admitting it to themselves, as it was

possible to be and not be marked for what they were. And

in consequence, there was something in their manner, the

very spirit of the introduction, which struck him as different

from the tone of the rest of this church group—not exactly

morally or religiously unhealthy but rather much freer, less

repressed, less reserved than were these others.

“Oh, so you’re Mr. Clyde Griffiths,” observed Zella Shuman.

“My, you look a lot like your cousin, don’t you? I see him

driving down Central Avenue ever so often. Walter has

been telling us all about you. Do you like Lycurgus?”

The way she said “Walter,” together with something

intimate and possessive in the tone of her voice, caused

Clyde to feel at once that she must feel rather closer to and

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freer with Dillard than he himself had indicated. A small

scarlet bow of velvet ribbon at her throat, two small garnet

earrings in her ears, a very trim and tight-fitting black dress,

with a heavily flounced skirt, seemed to indicate that she

was not opposed to showing her figure, and prized it, a

mood which except for a demure and rather retiring poise

which she affected, would most certainly have excited

comment in such a place as this.

Rita Dickerman, on the other hand, was lush and blonde,

with pink cheeks, light chestnut hair, and bluish gray eyes.

Lacking the aggressive smartness which characterized

Zella Shuman, she still radiated a certain something which

to Clyde seemed to harmonize with the liberal if secret

mood of her friend. Her manner, as Clyde could see, while

much less suggestive of masked bravado was yielding and

to him designedly so, as well as naturally provocative. It

had been arranged that she was to intrigue him. Very much

fascinated by Zella Shuman and in tow of her, they were

inseparable. And when Clyde was introduced to her, she

beamed upon him in a melting and sensuous way which

troubled him not a little. For here in Lycurgus, as he was

telling himself at the time, he must be very careful with

whom he became familiar. And yet, unfortunately, as in the

case of Hortense Briggs, she evoked thoughts of intimacy,

however unproblematic or distant, which troubled him. But

he must be careful. It was just such a free attitude as this

suggested by Dillard as well as these girls’ manners that

had gotten him into trouble before.

“Now we’ll just have a little ice cream and cake,” suggested

Dillard, after the few preliminary remarks were over, “and