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

“Oh, my God, I’m drowning, I’m drowning. Help! Oh, my God!

“Clyde, Clyde!”

And then the voice at his ear!

“But this⁠—this⁠—is not this that which you have been thinking and wishing for this while⁠—you in your great need? And behold! For despite your fear, your cowardice, this⁠—this⁠—has been done for you. An accident⁠—an accident⁠—an unintentional blow on your part is now saving you the labor of what you sought, and yet did not have the courage to do! But will you now, and when you need not, since it is an accident, by going to her rescue, once more plunge yourself in the horror of that defeat and failure which has so tortured you and from which this now releases you? You might save her. But again you might not! For see how she strikes about. She is stunned. She herself is unable to save herself and by her erratic terror, if you draw near her now, may bring about your own death also. But you desire to live! And her living will make your life not worth while from now on. Rest but a moment⁠—a fraction of a minute! Wait⁠—wait⁠—ignore the pity of that appeal. And then⁠—then⁠—But there! Behold. It is over. She is sinking now. You will never, never see her alive any more⁠—ever. And there is your own hat upon the water⁠—as you wished. And upon the boat, clinging to that rowlock a veil belonging to her. Leave it. Will it not show that this was an accident?”

And apart from that, nothing⁠—a few ripples⁠—the peace and solemnity of this wondrous scene. And then once more the voice of that weird, contemptuous, mocking, lonely bird.

Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!

Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!

Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!

The cry of that devilish bird upon that dead limb⁠—the wier-wier.

And then Clyde, with the sound of Roberta’s cries still in his ears, that last frantic, white, appealing look in her eyes, swimming heavily, gloomily and darkly to shore. And the thought that, after all, he had not really killed her. No, no. Thank God for that. He had not. And yet (stepping up on the nearby bank and shaking the water from his clothes) had he? Or, had he not? For had he not refused to go to her rescue, and when he might have saved her, and when the fault for casting her in the water, however accidentally, was so truly his? And yet⁠—and yet⁠—

The dusk and silence of a closing day. A concealed spot in the depths of the same sheltering woods where alone and dripping, his dry bag near, Clyde stood, and by waiting, sought to dry himself. But in the interim, removing from the side of the bag the unused tripod of his camera and seeking an obscure, dead log farther in the woods, hiding it. Had anyone seen? Was anyone looking? Then returning and wondering as to the direction! He must go west and then south. He must not get turned about! But the repeated cry of that bird⁠—harsh, nerve shaking. And then the gloom, in spite of the summer stars. And a youth making his way through a dark, uninhabited wood, a dry straw hat upon his head, a bag in his hand, walking briskly and yet warily⁠—south⁠—south.

Cataraqui County extending from the northernmost line of the village known as Three Mile Bay on the south to the Canadian border, on the north a distance of fifty miles. And from Senaschet and Indian Lakes on the east to the Rock and Scarf Rivers on the west⁠—a width of thirty miles. Its greater portion covered by uninhabited forests and lakes, yet dotted here and there with such villages and hamlets as Koontz, Grass Lake, North Wallace, Brown Lake, with Bridgeburg, the county seat, numbering no less than two thousand souls of the fifteen thousand in the entire county. And the central square of the town occupied by the old and yet not ungraceful county courthouse, a cupola with a clock and some pigeons surmounting it, the four principal business streets of the small town facing it.

In the office of the County Coroner in the northeast corner of the building on Friday, July ninth, one Fred Heit, coroner, a large and broad-shouldered individual with a set of gray-brown whiskers such as might have graced a Mormon elder. His face was large and his hands and his feet also. And his girth was proportionate.

At the time that this presentation begins, about two-thirty in the afternoon, he was lethargically turning the leaves of a mail-order catalogue for which his wife had asked him to write. And while deciphering from its pages the price of shoes, jackets, hats, and caps for his five omnivorous children, a greatcoat for himself of soothing proportions, high collar, broad belt, large, impressive buttons chancing to take his eye, he had paused to consider regretfully that the family budget of three thousand dollars a year would never permit of so great luxury this coming winter, particularly since his wife, Ella, had had her mind upon a fur coat for at least three winters past.

However his thoughts might have eventuated on this occasion, they were interrupted by the whirr of a telephone bell.

“Yes, this is Mr. Heit speaking⁠—Wallace Upham of Big Bittern. Why, yes, go on, Wallace⁠—young couple drowned⁠—all right, just wait a minute⁠—”

He turned to the politically active youth who drew a salary from the county under the listing of “secretary to the coroner”⁠—“Get these points, Earl.” Then into the telephone: “All right, Wallace, now give me all the facts⁠—everything⁠—yes. The body of the wife found but not that of the husband⁠—yes⁠—a boat upset on the south shore⁠—yes⁠—straw hat without any lining⁠—yes⁠—some marks about her mouth and eye⁠—her coat and hat at the inn⁠—yes⁠—a letter in one of the pockets of the coat⁠—addressed to who?⁠—Mrs. Titus Alden, Biltz, Mimico County⁠—yes⁠—still dragging for the man’s body, are they?⁠—yes⁠—no trace of him yet⁠—I see. All right, Wallace⁠—Well⁠—I’ll tell you, Wallace, have them leave the