An American Tragedy Theodore Dreiser (whitelam books .TXT) 📖

Gloversville, Little Falls? Have you not ridden in separate cars or seats before and could you not do so now? Is it not presumably to be a secret marriage? Then why not a secret honeymoon?”

“True enough⁠—true enough.”

“And once you have arranged for that and arrive at Big Bittern or some lake like it⁠—there are so many there⁠—how easy to row out on such a lake? No questions. No registry under your own name or hers. A boat rented for an hour or half-day or day. You saw the island far to the south on that lone lake. Is it not beautiful? It is well worth seeing. Why should you not go there on such a pleasure trip before marriage? Would she not be happy so to do⁠—as weary and distressed as she is now⁠—an outing⁠—a rest before the ordeal of the new life? Is not that sensible⁠—plausible? And neither of you will ever return presumably. You will both be drowned, will you not? Who is to see? A guide or two⁠—the man who rents you the boat⁠—the innkeeper once, as you go. But how are they to know who you are? Or who she is? And you heard the depth of the water.”

“But I do not want to kill her. I do not want to kill her. I do not want to injure her in any way. If she will but let me go and she go her own way, I will be so glad and so happy never to see her more.”

“But she will not let you go or go her way unless you accompany her. And if you go yours, it will be without Sondra and all that she represents, as well as all this pleasant life here⁠—your standing with your uncle, his friends, their cars, the dances, visits to the lodges on the lakes. And what then? A small job! Small pay! Another such period of wandering as followed that accident at Kansas City. Never another chance like this anywhere. Do you prefer that?”

“But might there not be some accident here, destroying all my dreams⁠—my future⁠—as there was in Kansas City?”

“An accident, to be sure⁠—but not the same. In this instance the plan is in your hands. You can arrange it all as you will. And how easy! So many boats upsetting every summer⁠—the occupants of them drowning, because in most cases they cannot swim. And will it ever be known whether the man who was with Roberta Alden on Big Bittern could swim? And of all deaths, drowning is the easiest⁠—no noise⁠—no outcry⁠—perhaps the accidental blow of an oar⁠—the side of a boat. And then silence! Freedom⁠—a body that no one may ever find. Or if found and identified, will it not be easy, if you but trouble to plan, to make it appear that you were elsewhere, visiting at one of the other lakes before you decided to go to Twelfth Lake. What is wrong with it? Where is the flaw?”

“But assuming that I should upset the boat and that she should not drown, then what? Should cling to it, cry out, be saved and relate afterward that⁠ ⁠… But no, I cannot do that⁠—will not do it. I will not hit her. That would be too terrible⁠ ⁠… too vile.”

“But a little blow⁠—any little blow under such circumstances would be sufficient to confuse and complete her undoing. Sad, yes, but she has an opportunity to go her own way, has she not? And she will not, nor let you go yours. Well, then, is this so terribly unfair? And do not forget that afterwards there is Sondra⁠—the beautiful⁠—a home with her in Lycurgus⁠—wealth, a high position such as elsewhere you may never obtain again⁠—never⁠—never. Love and happiness⁠—the equal of anyone here⁠—superior even to your cousin Gilbert.”

The voice ceased temporarily, trailing off into shadow⁠—silence, dreams.

And Clyde, contemplating all that had been said, was still unconvinced. Darker fears or better impulses supplanted the counsel of the voice in the great hall. But presently thinking of Sondra and all that she represented, and then of Roberta, the dark personality would as suddenly and swiftly return and with amplified suavity and subtlety.

“Ah, still thinking on the matter. And you have not found a way out and you will not. I have truly pointed out to you and in all helpfulness the only way⁠—the only way⁠—It is a long lake. And would it not be easy in rowing about to eventually find some secluded spot⁠—some invisible nook near that south shore where the water is deep? And from there how easy to walk through the woods to Three Mile Bay and Upper Greys Lake? And from there to the Cranstons’? There is a boat from there, as you know. Pah⁠—how cowardly⁠—how lacking in courage to win the thing that above all things you desire⁠—beauty⁠—wealth⁠—position⁠—the solution of your every material and spiritual desire. And with poverty, commonplace, hard and poor work as the alternative to all this.

“But you must choose⁠—choose! And then act. You must! You must! You must!”

Thus the voice in parting, echoing from some remote part of the enormous chamber.

And Clyde, listening at first with horror and in terror, later with a detached and philosophic calm as one who, entirely apart from what he may think or do, is still entitled to consider even the wildest and most desperate proposals for his release, at last, because of his own mental and material weakness before pleasures and dreams which he could not bring himself to forego, psychically intrigued to the point where he was beginning to think that it might be possible. Why not? Was it not even as the voice said⁠—a possible and plausible way⁠—all his desires and dreams to be made real by this one evil thing? Yet in his case, because of flaws and weaknesses in his own unstable and highly variable will, the problem was not to be solved by thinking thus⁠—then⁠—nor for the next ten days for that matter.

He could not really act on such a