An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

approaching night with an eagerness which was as a fever

embodying a fear. For with what qualms—what protests on

the part of Roberta; what determination, yet not without a

sense of evil—seduction—betrayal, on the part of Clyde.

Yet the thing once done, a wild convulsive pleasure

motivating both. Yet, not without, before all this, an exaction

on the part of Roberta to the effect that never—come what

might (the natural consequences of so wild an intimacy

strong in her thoughts) would he desert her, since without

his aid she would be helpless. Yet, with no direct statement

as to marriage. And he, so completely overcome and

swayed by his desire, thoughtlessly protesting that he never

would—never. She might depend on that, at least, although

even then there was no thought in his mind of marriage. He

would not do that. Yet nights and nights—all scruples for

the time being abandoned, and however much by day

Roberta might brood and condemn herself—when each

yielded to the other completely. And dreamed thereafter,

recklessly and wildly, of the joy of it—wishing from day to

day for the time being that the long day might end—that the

concealing, rewarding feverish night were at hand.

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And Clyde feeling, and not unlike Roberta, who was firmly

and even painfully convinced of it, that this was sin—

deadly, mortal—since both his mother and father had so

often emphasized that—the seducer—adulterer—who

preys outside the sacred precincts of marriage. And

Roberta, peering nervously into the blank future, wondering

what—how, in any case, by any chance, Clyde should

change, or fail her. Yet the night returning, her mood once

more veering, and she as well as he hurrying to meet

somewhere—only later, in the silence of the middle night, to

slip into this unlighted room which was proving so much

more of a Paradise than either might ever know again—so

wild and unrecapturable is the fever of youth.

And—at times—and despite all his other doubts and fears,

Clyde, because of this sudden abandonment by Roberta of

herself to his desires, feeling for the first time, really, in all

his feverish years, that at last he was a man of the world—

one who was truly beginning to know women. And so

taking to himself an air or manner that said as plainly as

might have any words—. “Behold I am no longer the

inexperienced, neglected simpleton of but a few weeks ago,

but an individual of import now—some one who knows

something about life. What have any of these strutting

young men, and gay, coaxing, flirting girls all about me, that

I have not? And if I chose—were less loyal than I am—what

might I not do?” And this was proving to him that the notion

which Hortense Briggs, to say nothing of the more recent

fiasco in connection with Rita had tended to build up in his

mind, i.e.,—that he was either unsuccessful or ill-fated

where girls were concerned was false. He was after all and

despite various failures and inhibitions a youth of the Don

Juan or Lothario stripe.

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And if now Roberta was obviously willing to sacrifice herself

for him in this fashion, must there not be others?

And this, in spite of the present indifference of the Griffiths,

caused him to walk with even more of an air than had

hitherto characterized him. Even though neither they nor

any of those connected with them recognized him, still he

looked at himself in his mirror from time to time with an

assurance and admiration which before this he had never

possessed. For now Roberta, feeling that her future was

really dependent on his will and whim, had set herself to

flatter him almost constantly, to be as obliging and

convenient to him as possible. Indeed, according to her

notion of the proper order of life, she was now his and his

only, as much as any wife is ever to a husband, to do with

as he wished.

And for a time therefore, Clyde forgot his rather neglected

state here and was content to devote himself to her without

thinking much of the future. The one thing that did trouble

him at times was the thought that possibly, in connection

with the original fear she had expressed to him, something

might go wrong, which, considering her exclusive devotion

to him, might prove embarrassing. At the same time he did

not trouble to speculate too deeply as to that. He had

Roberta now. These relations, in so far as either of them

could see, or guess, were a dark secret. The pleasures of

this left-handed honeymoon were at full tide. And the

remaining brisk and often sunshiny and warm November

and first December days passed—as in a dream, really—an

ecstatic paradise of sorts in the very center of a humdrum

conventional and petty and underpaid work-a-day world.

In the meantime the Griffiths had been away from the city

since the middle of June and ever since their departure

Clyde had been meditating upon them and all they

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represented in his life and that of the city. Their great house

closed and silent, except for gardeners and an occasional

chauffeur or servant visible as he walked from time to time

past the place, was the same as a shrine to him, nearly—

the symbol of that height to which by some turn of fate he

might still hope to attain. For he had never quite been able

to expel from his mind the thought that his future must in

some way be identified with the grandeur that was here laid

out before him.

Yet so far as the movements of the Griffiths family and their

social peers outside Lycurgus were concerned, he knew

little other than that which from time to time he had read in

the society columns of the two local papers which almost

obsequiously pictured the comings and goings of all those

who were connected with the more important families of the

city. At times, after reading these accounts he had pictured

to himself, even when he was off somewhere with Roberta

at some unheralded resort, Gilbert Griffiths racing in his big

car, Bella, Bertine and Sondra dancing, canoeing in the

moonlight, playing tennis, riding at some of the smart

resorts where they were reported to be. The thing had had

a bite and ache for him that was almost unendurable and

had lit up for him at times and with overwhelming clarity this

connection of his with Roberta. For after all, who was she?

A factory girl! The daughter of parents who lived and

worked on a farm and one who was compelled to work for

her own living. Whereas he—he—if fortune would but favor

him a little—! Was this to be the end of all his dreams in

connection with his perspective superior life here?

So it was that at moments and in his darker moods, and

especially after she had abandoned herself to him, his

thoughts ran. She was not of his station, really—at least not

of that of the Griffiths to which still he most eagerly aspired.

Yet at the same time, whatever the mood generated by

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such items as he read in The Star, he would still return to

Roberta, picturing her, since the other mood which had

drawn him to her had by no means palled as yet, as

delightful, precious, exceedingly worth-while from the point

of view of beauty, pleasure, sweetness—the attributes and

charms which best identify any object of delight.

But the Griffiths and their friends having returned to the city,

and Lycurgus once more taken on that brisk, industrial and

social mood which invariably characterized it for at least

seven months in the year, he was again, and even more

vigorously than before, intrigued by it. The beauty of the

various houses along Wykeagy Avenue and its immediate

tributaries! The unusual and intriguing sense of movement

and life there so much in evidence. Oh, if he were but of it!

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Chapter 23

AND then, one November evening as Clyde was walking

along Wykeagy Avenue, just west of Central, a portion of

the locally celebrated avenue which, ever since he had

moved to Mrs. Peyton’s he was accustomed to traverse to

and from his work, one thing did occur which in so far as he

and the Griffiths were concerned was destined to bring

about a chain of events which none of them could possibly

have foreseen. At the time there was in his heart and mind

that singing which is the inheritance of youth and ambition

and which the dying of the old year, instead of depressing,

seemed but to emphasize. He had a good position. He was

respected here. Over and above his room and board he

had not less than fifteen dollars a week to spend on himself

and Roberta, an income which, while it did not parallel that