An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser (i can read book club .TXT) 📕

really⁠—a horrible, terrible crime? He must not even think of such a thing. It was wrong⁠—wrong⁠—terribly wrong. And yet, supposing⁠—by accident, of course⁠—such a thing as this did occur? That would be the end, then, wouldn’t it, of all his troubles in connection with Roberta? No more terror as to her⁠—no more fear and heartache even as to Sondra. A noiseless, pathless, quarrelless solution of all his present difficulties, and only joy before him forever. Just an accidental, unpremeditated drowning⁠—and then the glorious future which would be his!

But the mere thinking of such a thing in connection with Roberta at this time⁠—(why was it that his mind persisted in identifying her with it?) was terrible, and he must not, he must not, allow such a thought to enter his mind. Never, never, never! He must not. It was horrible! Terrible! A thought of murder, no less! Murder?!!! Yet so wrought up had he been, and still was, by the letter which Roberta had written him, as contrasted with the one from Sondra⁠—so delightful and enticing was the picture of her life and his as she now described it, that he could not for the life of him quite expel that other and seemingly easy and so natural a solution of all his problem⁠—if only such an accident could occur to him and Roberta. For after all he was not planning any crime, was he? Was he not merely thinking of an accident that, had it occurred or could it but occur in his case⁠ ⁠… Ah⁠—but that “could it but occur.” There was the dark and evil thought about which he must not, He must not think. He must not. And yet⁠—and yet⁠ ⁠… He was an excellent swimmer and could swim ashore, no doubt⁠—whatever the distance. Whereas Roberta, as he knew from swimming with her at one beach and another the previous summer, could not swim. And then⁠—and then⁠—well and then, unless he chose to help her, of course⁠ ⁠…

As he thought, and for the time, sitting in the lamplight of his own room between nine-thirty and ten at night, a strange and disturbing creepiness as to flesh and hair and fingertips assailed him. The wonder and the horror of such a thought! And presented to him by this paper in this way. Wasn’t that strange? Besides, up in that lake country to which he was now going to Sondra, were many, many lakes about everywhere⁠—were there not? Scores up there where Sondra was. Or so she had said. And Roberta loved the out-of-doors and the water so⁠—although she could not swim⁠—could not swim⁠—could not swim. And they or at least he was going where lakes were, or they might, might they not⁠—and if not, why not? since both had talked of some Fourth of July resort in their planning, their final departure⁠—he and Roberta.

But, no! no! The mere thought of an accident such as that in connection with her, however much he might wish to be rid of her⁠—was sinful, dark and terrible! He must not let his mind run on any such things for even a moment. It was too wrong⁠—too vile⁠—too terrible! Oh, dreadful thought! To think it should have come to him! And at this time of all times⁠—when she was demanding that he go away with her!

Death!

Murder!

The murder of Roberta!

But to escape her of course⁠—this unreasonable, unshakable, unchangeable demand of hers! Already he was quite cold, quite damp⁠—with the mere thought of it. And now⁠—when⁠—when⁠—! But he must not think of that! The death of that unborn child, too!!

But how could anyone even think of doing any such thing with calculation⁠—deliberately? And yet⁠—many people were drowned like that⁠—boys and girls⁠—men and women⁠—here and there⁠—everywhere the world over in the summer time. To be sure, he would not want anything like that to happen to Roberta. And especially at this time. He was not that kind of a person, whatever else he was. He was not. He was not. He was not. The mere thought now caused a damp perspiration to form on his hands and face. He was not that kind of a person. Decent, sane people did not think of such things. And so he would not either⁠—from this hour on.

In a tremulous state of dissatisfaction with himself⁠—that any such grisly thought should have dared to obtrude itself upon him in this way⁠—he got up and lit the lamp⁠—reread this disconcerting item in as cold and reprobative way as he could achieve, feeling that in so doing he was putting anything at which it hinted far from him once and for all. Then, having done so, he dressed and went out of the house for a walk⁠—up Wykeagy Avenue, along Central Avenue, out Oak, and then back on Spruce and to Central again⁠—feeling that he was walking away from the insinuating thought or suggestion that had so troubled him up to now. And after a time, feeling better, freer, more natural, more human, as he so much wished to feel⁠—he returned to his room, once more to sleep, with the feeling that he had actually succeeded in eliminating completely a most insidious and horrible visitation. He must never think of it again! He must never think of it again. He must never, never, never think of it⁠—never.

And then falling into a nervous, feverish doze soon thereafter, he found himself dreaming of a savage black dog that was trying to bite him. Having escaped from the fangs of the creature by waking in terror, he once more fell asleep. But now he was in some very strange and gloomy place, a wood or a cave or narrow canyon between deep hills, from which a path, fairly promising at first, seemed to lead. But soon the path, as he progressed along it, became narrower and narrower and darker, and finally disappeared entirely. And then, turning to see if he could not get back as he had come, there directly behind him were arrayed an entangled mass of snakes