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

spite of himself. For Clyde, in order to justify his having brought his bag, now must suggest that pictures of this be taken⁠—and of Roberta⁠—and of himself, possibly⁠—on land and water. For that would bring her into the boat again, without his bag, which would be safe and dry on land. And once on shore, actually pretending to be seeking out various special views here and there, while he fixed in his mind the exact tree at the base of which he might leave his bag against his return⁠—which must be soon now⁠—must be soon. They would not come on shore again together. Never! Never! And that in spite of Roberta protesting that she was getting tired; and did he not think they ought to be starting back pretty soon? It must be after five, surely. And Clyde, assuring her that presently they would⁠—after he had made one or two more pictures of her in the boat with those wonderful trees⁠—that island and this dark water around and beneath her.

His wet, damp, nervous hands!

And his dark, liquid, nervous eyes, looking anywhere but at her.

And then once more on the water again⁠—about five hundred feet from shore, the while he fumbled aimlessly with the hard and heavy and yet small camera that he now held, as the boat floated out nearer the center. And then, at this point and time looking fearfully about. For now⁠—now⁠—in spite of himself, the long evaded and yet commanding moment. And no voice or figure or sound on shore. No road or cabin or smoke! And the moment which he or something had planned for him, and which was now to decide his fate at hand! The moment of action⁠—of crisis! All that he needed to do now was to turn swiftly and savagely to one side or the other⁠—leap up⁠—upon the left wale or right and upset the boat; or, failing that, rock it swiftly, and if Roberta protested too much, strike her with the camera in his hand, or one of the oars at his right. It could be done⁠—it could be done⁠—swiftly and simply, were he now of the mind and heart, or lack of it⁠—with him swimming swiftly away thereafter to freedom⁠—to success⁠—of course⁠—to Sondra and happiness⁠—a new and greater and sweeter life than any he had ever known.

Yet why was he waiting now?

What was the matter with him, anyhow?

Why was he waiting?

At this cataclysmic moment, and in the face of the utmost, the most urgent need of action, a sudden palsy of the will⁠—of courage⁠—of hate or rage sufficient; and with Roberta from her seat in the stern of the boat gazing at his troubled and then suddenly distorted and fulgurous, yet weak and even unbalanced face⁠—a face of a sudden, instead of angry, ferocious, demoniac⁠—confused and all but meaningless in its registration of a balanced combat between fear (a chemic revulsion against death or murderous brutality that would bring death) and a harried and restless and yet self-repressed desire to do⁠—to do⁠—to do⁠—yet temporarily unbreakable here and now⁠—a static between a powerful compulsion to do and yet not to do.

And in the meantime his eyes⁠—the pupils of the same growing momentarily larger and more lurid; his face and body and hands tense and contracted⁠—the stillness of his position, the balanced immobility of the mood more and more ominous, yet in truth not suggesting a brutal, courageous power to destroy, but the imminence of trance or spasm.

And Roberta, suddenly noticing the strangeness of it all⁠—the something of eerie unreason or physical and mental indetermination so strangely and painfully contrasting with this scene, exclaiming: “Why, Clyde! Clyde! What is it? Whatever is the matter with you anyhow? You look so⁠—so strange⁠—so⁠—so⁠—Why, I never saw you look like this before. What is it?” And suddenly rising, or rather leaning forward, and by crawling along the even keel, attempting to approach him, since he looked as though he was about to fall forward into the boat⁠—or to one side and out into the water. And Clyde, as instantly sensing the profoundness of his own failure, his own cowardice or inadequateness for such an occasion, as instantly yielding to a tide of submerged hate, not only for himself, but Roberta⁠—her power⁠—or that of life to restrain him in this way. And yet fearing to act in any way⁠—being unwilling to⁠—being willing only to say that never, never would he marry her⁠—that never, even should she expose him, would he leave here with her to marry her⁠—that he was in love with Sondra and would cling only to her⁠—and yet not being able to say that even. But angry and confused and glowering. And then, as she drew near him, seeking to take his hand in hers and the camera from him in order to put it in the boat, he flinging out at her, but not even then with any intention to do other than free himself of her⁠—her touch⁠—her pleading⁠—consoling sympathy⁠—her presence forever⁠—God!

Yet (the camera still unconsciously held tight) pushing at her with so much vehemence as not only to strike her lips and nose and chin with it, but to throw her back sidewise toward the left wale which caused the boat to careen to the very water’s edge. And then he, stirred by her sharp scream (as much due to the lurch of the boat, as the cut on her nose and lip), rising and reaching half to assist or recapture her and half to apologize for the unintended blow⁠—yet in so doing completely capsizing the boat⁠—himself and Roberta being as instantly thrown into the water. And the left wale of the boat as it turned, striking Roberta on the head as she sank and then rose for the first time, her frantic, contorted face turned to Clyde, who by now had righted himself. For she was stunned, horror-struck, unintelligible with pain and fear⁠—her lifelong fear of water and drowning and the blow he had so accidentally and all but unconsciously administered.

“Help!