An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

the other, all her desires for love, understanding,

companionship, urged her to run after him before it was too

late, and he was gone. His beautiful face, his beautiful

hands. His eyes. And still the receding echo of his feet. And

yet so binding were the conventions which had been urged

upon her up to this time that, though suffering horribly, a

balance between the two forces was struck, and she

paused, feeling that she could neither go forward nor stand

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still—understand or endure this sudden rift in their

wonderful friendship.

Pain constricted her heart and whitened her lips. She stood

there numb and silent—unable to voice anything, even the

name Clyde which persistently arose as a call in her throat.

Instead she was merely thinking, “Oh, Clyde, please don’t

go, Clyde. Oh, please don’t go.” And he was already out of

hearing, walking briskly and grimly on, the click and echo of

his receding steps falling less and less clearly on her

suffering ears.

It was the first flashing, blinding, bleeding stab of love for

her.

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Chapter 21

THE state of Roberta’s mind for that night is not easily to be

described. For here was true and poignant love, and in

youth true and poignant love is difficult to withstand.

Besides it was coupled with the most stirring and grandiose

illusions in regard to Clyde’s local material and social

condition—illusions which had little to do with anything he

had done to build up, but were based rather on conjecture

and gossip over which he had no control. And her own

home, as well as her personal situation was so unfortunate

—no promise of any kind save in his direction. And here

she was quarreling with him—sending him away angry. On

the other hand was he not beginning to push too ardently

toward those troublesome and no doubt dreadful liberties

and familiarities which her morally trained conscience would

not permit her to look upon as right? How was she to do

now? What to say?

Now it was that she said to herself in the dark of her room,

after having slowly and thoughtfully undressed and

noiselessly crept into the large, old-fashioned bed. “No, I

won’t do that. I mustn’t. I can’t. I will be a bad girl if I do. I

should not do that for him even though he does want me to,

and should threaten to leave me forever in case I refuse.

He should be ashamed to ask me.” And at the very same

moment, or the next, she would be asking herself what else

under the circumstances they were to do. For most certainly

Clyde was at least partially correct in his contention that

they had scarcely anywhere else they could go and not be

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recognized. How unfair was that rule of the company. And

no doubt apart from that rule, the Griffiths would think it

beneath him to be troubling with her, as would no doubt the

Newtons and the Gilpins for that matter, if they should hear

and know who he was. And if this information came to their

knowledge it would injure him and her. And she would not

do anything that would injure him—never.

One thing that occurred to her at this point was that she

should get a place somewhere else so that this problem

should be solved—a problem which at the moment seemed

to have little to do with the more immediate and intimate

one of desiring to enter her room. But that would mean that

she would not see him any more all day long—only at night.

And then not every night by any means. And that caused

her to lay aside this thought of seeking another place.

At the same time as she now meditated the dawn would

come to-morrow and there would be Clyde at the factory.

And supposing that he should not speak to her nor she to

him. Impossible! Ridiculous! Terrible! The mere thought

brought her to a sitting posture in bed, where distractedly a

vision of Clyde looking indifferently and coldly upon her

came to her.

On the instant she was on her feet and had turned on the

one incandescent globe which dangled from the center of

the room. She went to the mirror hanging above the old

walnut dresser in the corner and stared at herself. Already

she imagined she could see dark rings under her eyes. She

felt numb and cold and now shook her head in a helpless

and distracted way. He couldn’t be that mean. He couldn’t

be that cruel to her now—could he? Oh, if he but knew how

difficult—how impossible was the thing he was asking of

her! Oh, if the day would only come so that she could see

his face again! Oh, if it were only another night so that she

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could take his hands in hers—his arm—feel his arms about

her.

“Clyde, Clyde,” she exclaimed half aloud, “you wouldn’t do

that to me, would you—you couldn’t.”

She crossed to an old, faded and somewhat decrepit over-

stuffed chair which stood in the center of the room beside a

small table whereon lay some nondescript books and

magazines—the Saturday Evening Post, Munsey’s, the

Popular Science Monthly, Bebe’s Garden Seeds, and to

escape most distracting and searing thoughts, sat down,

her chin in her hands, her elbows planted on her knees. But

the painful thoughts continuing and a sense of chill

overtaking her, she took a comforter off the bed and folded

it about her, then opened the seed catalogue—only to

throw it down.

“No, no, no, he couldn’t do that to me, he wouldn’t.” She

must not let him. Why, he had told her over and over that

he was crazy about her—madly in love with her. They had

been to all these wonderful places together.

And now, without any real consciousness of her

movements, she was moving from the chair to the edge of

the bed, sitting with elbows on knees and chin in hands; or

she was before the mirror or peering restlessly out into the

dark to see if there were any trace of day. And at six, and

sixthirty when the light was just breaking and it was nearing

time to dress, she was still up—in the chair, on the edge of

the bed, in the corner before the mirror.

But she had reached but one definite conclusion and that

was that in some way she must arrange not to have Clyde

leave her. That must not be. There must be something that

she could say or do that would cause him to love her still—

even if, even if—well, even if she must let him stop in here

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or somewhere from time to time—some other room in some

other rooming house maybe, where she could arrange in

some way beforehand—say that he was her brother or

something.

But the mood that dominated Clyde was of a different

nature. To have understood it correctly, the full measure

and obstinacy and sullen contentiousness that had

suddenly generated, one would have had to return to

Kansas City and the period in which he had been so futilely

dancing attendance upon Hortense Briggs. Also his having

been compelled to give up Rita,—yet to no end. For,

although the present conditions and situation were different,

and he had no moral authority wherewith to charge Roberta

with any such unfair treatment as Hortense had meted out

to him, still there was this other fact that girls—all of them—

were obviously stubborn and self-preservative, always

setting themselves apart from and even above the average

man and so wishing to compel him to do a lot of things for

them without their wishing to do anything in return. And had

not Ratterer always told him that in so far as girls were

concerned he was more or less of a fool—too easy—too

eager to show his hand and let them know that he was

struck on them. Whereas, as Ratterer had explained, Clyde

possessed the looks—the “goods”—and why should he

always be trailing after girls unless they wanted him very

much. And this thought and compliment had impressed him

very much at that time. Only because of the fiascos in

connection with Hortense and Rita he was more earnest

now. Yet here he was again in danger of repeating or

bringing upon himself what had befallen him in the case of

Hortense and Rita.

At the same time he was not without the self-incriminating

thought that in seeking this, most distinctly he was driving

toward a relationship which was not legitimate and that

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would prove dangerous in the future. For, as he now darkly

and vaguely thought, if he sought a relationship which her

prejudices and her training would not permit her to look

upon as anything but evil, was he not thereby establishing