An American Tragedy II. Теодор Драйзер
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houses in Wykeagy Avenue are certainly the cats’. You won’t see anything finer in Albany or Utica or Rochester either. Are you Samuel Griffiths’ own nephew? You don’t say! Well, that’ll certainly mean a lot to you here. I wish I had a connection like that. You bet I’d make it count.”
He beamed on Clyde eagerly and hopefully, and through him Clyde sensed even more how really important this blood relation was. Only think how much it meant to this strange youth.
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Clyde dubiously, and yet very much flattered by this assumption of intimacy. “I came on to learn the collar business, you know. Not to play about very much. My uncle wants me to stick to that, pretty much.”
“Sure, sure. I know how that is,” replied Dillard, “that’s the way my uncle feels about me, too. He wants me to stick close to the work here and not play about very much. He’s the buyer for Stark and Company, you know. But still a man can’t work all the time, either. He’s got to have a little fun.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Clyde – for the first time in his life a little condescendingly.
They walked along in silence for a few moments. Then:
“Do you dance?”
“Yes,” answered Clyde.
“Well, so do I. There are a lot of cheap dance halls around here, but I never go to any of those. You can’t do it and keep in with the nice people. This is an awfully close town that way, they say. The best people won’t have anything to do with you unless you go with the right crowd. It’s the same way up at Fonda. You have to ‘belong’ or you can’t go out anywhere at all. And that’s right, I guess. But still there are a lot of nice girls here that a fellow can go with – girls of right nice families – not in society, of course – but still, they’re not talked about, see. And they’re not so slow, either. Pretty hot stuff, some of them. And you don’t have to marry any of ’em, either.” Clyde began to think of him as perhaps a little too lusty for his new life here, maybe. At the same time he liked him some. “By the way,” went on Dillard, “what are you doing next Sunday afternoon?”
“Well, nothing in particular, that I know of just now,” replied Clyde, sensing a new problem here. “I don’t know just what I may have to do by then, but I don’t know of anything now.”
“Well, how’d you like to come with me, if you’re not too busy. I’ve come to know quite a few girls since I’ve been here. Nice ones. I can take you out and introduce you to my uncle’s family, if you like. They’re nice people. And afterwards – I know two girls we can go and see – peaches. One of ’em did work in the store, but she don’t now – she’s not doing anything now. The other is her pal. They have a Victrola and they can dance. I know it isn’t the thing to dance here on Sundays but no one need know anything about that. The girls’ parents don’t mind. Afterwards we might take ’em to a movie or something – if you want to – not any of those things down near the mill district but one of the better ones – see?”
There formulated itself in Clyde’s mind the question as to what, in regard to just such proposals as this, his course here was to be. In Chicago, and recently – because of what happened in Kansas City – he had sought to be as retiring and cautious as possible. For – after that and while connected with the club, he had been taken with the fancy of trying to live up to the ideals with which the seemingly stern face of that institution had inspired him – conservatism – hard work – saving one’s money – looking neat and gentlemanly. It was such an Eveless paradise, that.
In spite of his quiet surroundings here, however, the very air of the city seemed to suggest some such relaxation as this youth was now suggesting – a form of diversion that was probably innocent enough but still connected with girls and their entertainment – there were so many of them here, as he could see. These streets, after dinner, here, were so alive with good-looking girls, and young men, too. But what might his new found relatives think of him in case he was seen stepping about in the manner and spirit which this youth’s suggestions seemed to imply? Hadn’t he just said that this was an awfully close town and that everybody knew nearly everything about everybody else? He paused in doubt. He must decide now. And then, being lonely and hungry for companionship, he replied:
“Yes – well – I think that’s all right.” But he added a little dubiously: “Of course my relatives here – ”
“Oh, sure, that’s all right,” replied Dillard smartly. “You have to be careful, of course. Well, so do I.” If he could only go around with a Griffiths, even if he was new around here and didn’t know many people – wouldn’t it reflect a lot of credit on him? It most certainly would – did already, as he saw it.
And forthwith he offered to buy Clyde some cigarettes – a soda – anything he liked. But Clyde, still feeling very strange and uncertain, excused himself, after a time, because this youth with his complacent worship of society and position, annoyed him a little, and made his way back to his room. He had promised his mother a letter and he thought he had better go back and write it, and incidentally to think a little on the wisdom of this new contact.
Chapter 8
Nevertheless, the next day being a Saturday and half holiday the year round in this concern, Mr. Whiggam came through with the pay envelopes.
“Here you are, Mr. Griffiths,” he said, as though he were especially impressed with Clyde’s position.
Clyde, taking it, was rather pleased with this mistering, and going back toward his locker, promptly tore it open and pocketed the money. After that, taking his hat and coat, he wandered off in the direction of his room, where he had his lunch. But, being very lonely, and Dillard not being present because he had to work, he decided upon a trolley ride to Gloversville, which was a city of some twenty thousand inhabitants and reported to be as active, if not as beautiful, as Lycurgus. And that trip amused and interested him because it took him into a city very different form Lycurgus in its social texture.
But the next day – Sunday – he spent idly in Lycurgus, wandering about by himself. For, as it turned out, Dillard was compelled to return to Fonda for some reason and could not fulfill the Sunday understanding. Encountering Clyde, however, on Monday evening, he announced that on the following Wednesday evening, in the basement of the Diggby Avenue Congregational Church, there was to be held a social with refreshments. And according to young Dillard, at least this promised to prove worth while.
“We can just go out there,” was the way he put it to Clyde, and buzz the girls a little. I want you to meet my uncle and aunt. They’re nice people all right. And so are the girls. They’re no slouches. Then we can edge out afterwards, about ten, see, and go around to either Zella or Rita’s place. Rita has more good records over at her place, but Zella has the nicest place to dance. By the way, you didn’t chance to bring along your dress suit with you, did you?” he inquired. For having already inspected Clyde’s room, which was above his own on the third floor, in Clyde’s absence and having discovered that he had only a dress suit case and no trunk, and apparently no dress suit anywhere, he had decided that in spite of Clyde’s father conducting a hotel and Clyde having worked in the Union League Club in Chicago, he must be very indifferent to social equipment. Or, if not, must be endeavoring to make his own way on some character-building plan without help from any one. This was not to his liking, exactly. A man should never neglect these social essentials. Nevertheless, Clyde was a Griffiths and that was enough to cause him to overlook nearly anything, for the present anyhow.
“No, I didn’t,” replied Clyde, who was not exactly sure as to the value of this adventure – even yet – in spite of his own loneliness – “but I intend to get one.” He had already thought since coming here of his lack in this respect, and was thinking of taking at least thirty-five of his more recently hard-earned savings and indulging in a suit of this kind.
Dillard buzzed on about the fact that while Zella Shuman’s family wasn’t rich – they owned the house they lived in – still she went with a lot of nice girls here, too. So did Rita Dickerman. Zella’s father owned a little cottage upon Eckert Lake, near Fonda. When next summer came – and with it the holidays