An American Tragedy - Theodore Dreiser (librera reader txt) 📗

caring for each other as we did then, marry her, maybe.”

“You actually thought of marrying her then, did you?”

“Yes, sir. I know I did in the way that I’ve said, of course.”

“But that was before you met this Miss X?”

“Yes, sir, that was before that.”

(“Beautifully done!” observed Mason, sarcastically, under his breath to State Senator Redmond. “Excellent stage play,” replied Redmond in a stage whisper.)

“But did you ever tell her in so many words?” continued Jephson.

“Well, no, sir. I don’t recall that I did⁠—not just in so many words.”

“You either told her or you didn’t tell her. Now, which was it?”

“Well, neither, quite. I used to tell her that I loved her and that I never wanted her to leave me and that I hoped she never would.”

“But not that you wanted to marry her?”

“No, sir. Not that I wanted to marry her.”

“Well, well, all right!⁠—and she⁠—what did she say?”

“That she never would leave me,” replied Clyde, heavily and fearsomely, thinking, as he did so, of Roberta’s last cries and her eyes bent on him. And he took from his pocket a handkerchief and began to wipe his moist, cold face and hands.

(“Well staged!” murmured Mason, softly and cynically. “Pretty shrewd⁠—pretty shrewd!” commented Redmond, lightly.)

“But, tell me,” went on Jephson, softly and coldly, “feeling as you did about Miss Alden, how was it that upon meeting this Miss X, you could change so quickly? Are you so fickle that you don’t know your own mind from day to day?”

“Well, I didn’t think so up to that time⁠—no, sir!”

“Had you ever had a strong and binding love affair at any time in your life before you met Miss Alden?”

“No, sir.”

“But did you consider this one with Miss Alden strong and binding⁠—a true love affair⁠—up to the time you met this Miss X?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“And afterwards⁠—then what?”

“Well⁠—afterwards⁠—it wasn’t quite like that any more.”

“You mean to say that on sight of Miss X, after encountering her once or twice, you ceased to care for Miss Alden entirely?”

“Well, no, sir. It wasn’t quite like that,” volunteered Clyde, swiftly and earnestly. “I did continue to care for her some⁠—quite a lot, really. But before I knew it I had completely lost my head over⁠—over Miss⁠—Miss⁠—”

“Yes, this Miss X. We know. You fell madly and unreasonably in love with her. Was that the way of it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then?”

“Well⁠—and then⁠—I just couldn’t care for Miss Alden so much any more.” A thin film of moisture covered Clyde’s forehead and cheeks as he spoke.

“I see! I see!” went on Jephson, oratorically and loudly, having the jury and audience in mind. “A case of the Arabian Nights, of the enscorcelled and the enscorcellor.”

“I don’t think I know what you mean,” said Clyde.

“A case of being bewitched, my poor boy⁠—by beauty, love, wealth, by things that we sometimes think we want very, very much, and cannot ever have⁠—that is what I mean, and that is what much of the love in the world amounts to.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Clyde, quite innocently, concluding rightly that this was mere show of rhetoric on Jephson’s part.

“But what I want to know is⁠—how was it that loving Miss Alden as much as you say you did⁠—and having reached that relationship which should have been sanctified by marriage⁠—how was it that you could have felt so little bound or obligated to her as to entertain the idea of casting her over for this Miss X? Now just how was that? I would like to know, and so would this jury, I am sure. Where was your sense of gratitude? Your sense of moral obligation? Do you mean to say that you have none? We want to know.”

This was really cross-examination⁠—an attack on his own witness. Yet Jephson was within his rights and Mason did not interfere.

“Well⁠ ⁠…” and here Clyde hesitated and stumbled, quite as if he had not been instructed as to all this beforehand, and seemed to and did truly finger about in his own mind or reason for some thought that would help him to explain all this. For although it was true that he had memorized the answer, now that he was confronted by the actual question here in court, as well as the old problem that had so confused and troubled him in Lycurgus, he could scarcely think clearly of all he had been told to say, but instead twisted and turned, and finally came out with:

“The fact is, I didn’t think about those things at all very much. I couldn’t after I saw her. I tried to at times, but I couldn’t. I only wanted her and I didn’t want Miss Alden any more. I knew I wasn’t doing right⁠—exactly⁠—and I felt sorry for Roberta⁠—but just the same I didn’t seem able to do anything much about it. I could only think of Miss X and I couldn’t think of Roberta as I had before no matter how hard I tried.”

“Do you mean to say that you didn’t suffer in your own conscience on account of this?”

“Yes, sir, I suffered,” replied Clyde. “I knew I wasn’t doing right, and it made me worry a lot about her and myself, but just the same I didn’t seem to be able to do any better.” (He was repeating words that Jephson had written out for him, although at the time he first read them he felt them to be fairly true. He had suffered some.)

“And then?”

“Well, then she began to complain because I didn’t go round to see her as much as before.”

“In other words, you began to neglect her.”

“Yes, sir, some⁠—but not entirely⁠—no, sir.”

“Well, when you found you were so infatuated with this Miss X, what did you do? Did you go and tell Miss Alden that you were no longer in love with her but in love with someone else?”

“No, I didn’t. Not then.”

“Why not then? Did you think it fair and honorable to be telling two girls at once that you