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

was a crowd of young fellers and girls campin’ over on the east shore, yisterday, I believe, about a mile from the inn⁠—but whether they’re there now or not, I dunno. Ain’t seen none of ’em today.”

A crowd of young fellows and girls! For God’s sake! And might not they now be out on the water⁠—all of them⁠—rowing⁠—or sailing⁠—or what? And he here with her! Maybe some of them from Twelfth Lake! Just as he and Sondra and Harriet and Stuart and Bertine had come up two weeks before⁠—some of them friends of the Cranstons, Harriets, Finchleys or others who had come up here to play and who would remember him, of course. And again, then, there must be a road to the east of this lake. And all this knowledge and their presence there now might make this trip of his useless. Such silly plotting! Such pointless planning as this⁠—when at least he might have taken more time⁠—chosen a lake still farther away and should have⁠—only so tortured had he been for these last many days, that he could scarcely think how to think. Well, all he could do now was to go and see. If there were many he must think of some way to row to some real lonely spot or maybe turn and return to Grass Lake⁠—or where? Oh, what could or would he do⁠—if there were many over here?

But just then a long aisle of green trees giving out at the far end as he now recalled upon a square of lawn, and the lake itself, the little inn with its pillared verandah, facing the dark blue waters of Big Bittern. And that low, small red-roofed boathouse to the right on the water that he had seen before when he was here. And Roberta exclaiming on sight, “Oh, it is pretty, isn’t it⁠—just beautiful.” And Clyde surveying that dark, low island in the distance, to the south, and seeing but few people about⁠—none on the lake itself⁠—exclaiming nervously, “Yes, it is, you bet.” But feeling half choked as he said it.

And now the host of the inn himself appearing and approaching⁠—a medium-sized, red-faced, broad-shouldered man who was saying most intriguingly, “Staying over for a few days?”

But Clyde, irritated by this new development and after paying the guide a dollar, replying crustily and irritably, “No, no⁠—just came over for the afternoon. We’re going on down tonight.”

“You’ll be staying over for dinner then, I suppose? The train doesn’t leave till eight-fifteen.”

“Oh, yes⁠—that’s so. Sure. Yes, well, in that case, we will.”⁠ ⁠… For, of course, Roberta on her honeymoon⁠—the day before her wedding and on a trip like this, would be expecting her dinner. Damn this stocky, red-faced fool, anyway.

“Well, then, I’ll just take your bag and you can register. Your wife’ll probably be wanting to freshen up a bit anyway.”

He led the way, bag in hand, although Clyde’s greatest desire was to snatch it from him. For he had not expected to register here⁠—nor leave his bag either. And would not. He would recapture it and hire a boat. But on top of that, being compelled “for the register’s sake,” as Boniface phrased it, to sign Clifford Golden and wife⁠—before he could take his bag again.

And then to add to the nervousness and confusion engendered by all this, thoughts as to what additional developments or persons, even, he might encounter before leaving on his climacteric errand⁠—Roberta announcing that because of the heat and the fact that they were coming back to dinner, she would leave her hat and coat⁠—a hat in which he had already seen the label of Braunstein in Lycurgus⁠—and which at the time caused him to meditate as to the wisdom of leaving or extracting it. But he had decided that perhaps afterwards⁠—afterwards⁠—if he should really do this⁠—it might not make any difference whether it was there, or not. Was she not likely to be identified anyhow, if found, and if not found, who was to know who she was?

In a confused and turbulent state mentally, scarcely realizing the clarity or import of any particular thought or movement or act now, he took up his bag and led the way to the boathouse platform. And then, after dropping the bag into the boat, asking of the boathouse keeper if he knew where the best views were, that he wanted to photograph them. And this done⁠—the meaningless explanation over, assisting Roberta (an almost nebulous figure, she now seemed, stepping down into an insubstantial rowboat upon a purely ideational lake), he now stepped in after her, seating himself in the center and taking the oars.

The quiet, glassy, iridescent surface of this lake that now to both seemed, not so much like water as oil⁠—like molten glass that, of enormous bulk and weight, resting upon the substantial earth so very far below. And the lightness and freshness and intoxication of the gentle air blowing here and there, yet scarcely rippling the surface of the lake. And the softness and furry thickness of the tall pines about the shore. Everywhere pines⁠—tall and spearlike. And above them the humped backs of the dark and distant Adirondacks beyond. Not a rower to be seen. Not a house or cabin. He sought to distinguish the camp of which the guide had spoken. He could not. He sought to distinguish the voices of those who might be there⁠—or any voices. Yet, except for the lock-lock of his own oars as he rowed and the voice of the boathouse keeper and the guide in converse two hundred, three hundred, five hundred, a thousand feet behind, there was no sound.

“Isn’t it still and peaceful?” It was Roberta talking. “It seems to be so restful here. I think it’s beautiful, truly, so much more beautiful than that other lake. These trees are so tall, aren’t they? And those mountains. I was thinking all the way over how cool and silent that road was, even if it was a little rough.”

“Did you talk to anyone in