An American Tragedy - Theodore Dreiser [389]
At this psychological moment, as the afternoon sun was already beginning to wane in the tall, narrow courtroom, and as carefully planned by him beforehand, Mason’s reading all of Roberta’s letters, one by one, in a most simple and nondeclamatory fashion, yet with all the sympathy and emotion which their first perusal had stirred in him. They had made him cry.
He began with letter number one, dated June eighth, only three days after her departure from Lycurgus, and on through them all down to letters fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen, in which, in piecemeal or by important references here and there, she related her whole contact with Clyde down to his plan to come for her in three weeks, then in a month, then on July eighth or ninth, and then the sudden threat from her which precipitated his sudden decision to meet her at Fonda. And as Mason read them, all most movingly, the moist eyes and the handkerchiefs and the coughs in the audience and among the jurors attested their import:
“You said I was not to worry or think so much about how I feel, and have a good time. That’s all right for you to say, when you’re in Lycurgus and surrounded by your friends and invited everywhere. It’s hard for me to talk over there at Wilcox’s with somebody always in earshot and with you constantly reminding me that I mustn’t say this or that. But I had so much to ask and no chance there. And all that you would say was that everything was all right. But you didn’t say positively that you were coming on the 27th, that because of something I couldn’t quite make out—there was so much buzzing on the wire—you might not be able to start until later. But that can’t be, Clyde. My parents are leaving for Hamilton where my uncle lives on the third. And Tom and Emily are going to my sister’s on the same day. But I can’t and won’t go there again. I can’t stay here all alone. So you must, you really must come, as you agreed. I can’t wait any longer than that, Clyde, in the condition that I’m in, and so you just must come and take me away. Oh, please, please, I beg of you, not to torture me with any more delays now.”
And again:
“Clyde, I came home because I thought I could trust you. You told me so solemnly before I left that if I would, you would come and get me in three weeks at the most—that it would not take you longer than that to get ready, have enough money for the time we would be together, or until you could get something to do somewhere else. But yesterday, although the third of July will be nearly a month since I left, you were not at all sure at first that you could come by then, and when as I told you my parents are surely leaving for Hamilton to be gone for ten days. Of course, afterwards, you said you would come, but you said it as though you were just trying to quiet me. It has been troubling me awfully ever since.
“For I tell you, Clyde, I am sick, very. I feel faint nearly all the time. And besides, I am so worried as to what I shall do if you don’t come that I am nearly out of my mind.”
“Clyde, I know that you don’t care for me any more like you did and that you are wishing things could be different. And yet, what am I to do? I know you’ll say that it has all been as much my fault as yours. And the world, if it knew, might think so, too. But how often did I beg you not to make me do what I did not want to do, and which I was afraid even then I would regret, although I loved you too much to let you go, if you still insisted on having your way.”
“Clyde, if I could only die. That would solve all this. And I have prayed and prayed that I would lately, yes I have. For life does not mean as much to me now as when I