An American Tragedy II. Теодор Драйзер
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so very much of it yet, but what I have I like. This street is one of the nicest I have ever seen anywhere,” he added enthusiastically. “The houses are so large and the grounds so beautiful.”
“Yes, we here in Lycurgus pride ourselves on Wykeagy Avenue,” smiled Mrs. Griffiths, who took no end of satisfaction in the grace and rank of her own home in this street. She and her husband had been so long climbing up to it. “Every one who sees it seems to feel the same way about it. It was laid out many years ago when Lycurgus was just a village. It is only within the last fifteen years that it has come to be as handsome as it is now.
“But you must tell me something about your mother and father. I never met either of them, you know, though, of course, I have heard my husband speak of them often – that is, of his brother, anyhow,” she corrected. “I don’t believe he ever met your mother. How is your father?”
“Oh, he’s quite well,” replied Clyde, simply. “And Mother, too. They’re living in Denver now. We did live for a while in Kansas City, but for the last three years they’ve been out there. I had a letter from Mother only the other day. She says everything is all right.”
“Then you keep up a correspondence with her, do you? That’s nice.” She smiled, for by now she had become interested by and, on the whole, rather taken with Clyde’s appearance. He looked so neat and generally presentable, so much like her own son that she was a little startled at first and intrigued on that score. If anything, Clyde was taller, better built and hence better looking, only she would never have been willing to admit that. For to her Gilbert, although he was intolerant and contemptuous even to her at times, simulating an affection which was as much a custom as a reality, was still a dynamic and aggressive person putting himself and his conclusions before everyone else. Whereas Clyde was more soft and vague and fumbling. Her son’s force must be due to the innate ability of her husband as well as the strain of some relatives in her own line who had not been unlike Gilbert, while Clyde probably drew his lesser force from the personal unimportance of his parents.
But having settled this problem in her son’s favor, Mrs. Griffiths was about to ask after his sisters and brothers, when they were interrupted by Samuel Griffiths who now approached. Measuring Clyde, who had risen, very sharply once more, and finding him very satisfactory in appearance at least, he observed: “Well, so here you are, eh? They’ve placed you, I believe, without my ever seeing you.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Clyde, very deferentially and half bowing in the presence of so great a man.
“Well, that’s all right. Sit down! Sit down! I’m very glad they did. I hear you’re working down in the shrinking room at present. Not exactly a pleasant place, but not such a bad place to begin, either – at the bottom. The best people start there sometimes.” He smiled and added: “I was out of the city when you came on or I would have seen you.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Clyde, who had not ventured to seat himself again until Mr. Griffiths had sunk into a very large stuffed chair near the divan. And the latter, now that he saw Clyde in an ordinary tuxedo with a smart pleated shirt and black tie, as opposed to the club uniform in which he had last seen him in Chicago, was inclined to think him even more attractive than before – not quite as negligible and unimportant as his son Gilbert had made out. Still, not being dead to the need of force and energy in business and sensing that Clyde was undoubtedly lacking in these qualities, he did now wish that Clyde had more vigor and vim in him. It would reflect more handsomely on the Griffiths end of the family and please his son more, maybe.
“Like it where you are now?” he observed condescendingly.
“Well, yes, sir, that is, I wouldn’t say that I like it exactly,” replied Clyde quite honestly. “But I don’t mind it. It’s as good as any other way to begin, I suppose.” The thought in his mind at the moment was that he would like to impress on his uncle that he was cut out for something better. And the fact that his cousin Gilbert was not present at the moment gave him the courage to say it.
“Well, that’s the proper spirit,” commented Samuel Griffiths, pleased. “It isn’t the most pleasant part of the process, I will admit, but it’s one of the most essential things to know, to begin with. And it takes a little time, of course, to get anywhere in any business these days.”
From this Clyde wondered how long he was to be left in that dim world below stairs.
But while he was thinking this Myra came forward, curious about him and what he would be like, and very pleased to see that he was not as uninteresting as Gilbert had painted him. There was something, as she now saw, about Clyde’s eyes – nervous and somewhat furtive and appealing or seeking – that at once interested her, and reminded her, perhaps, since she was not much of a success socially either, of something in herself.
“Your cousin, Clyde Griffiths, Myra,” observed Samuel rather casually, as Clyde arose. “My daughter Myra,” he added, to Clyde. “This is the young man I’ve been telling you about.”
Clyde bowed and then took the cool and not very vital hand that Myra extended to him, but feeling it just the same to be more friendly and considerate than the welcome of the others.
“Well, I hope you’ll like it, now that you’re here,” she began, genially. “We all like Lycurgus, only after Chicago I suppose it will not mean so very much to you.” She smiled and Clyde, feeling very formal and stiff in the presence of all these very superior relatives, now returned a stiff “thank you,” and was just about to seat himself when the outer door opened and Gilbert Griffiths strode in. The whirring of a motor had preceded this – a motor that had stopped outside the large east side entrance. “Just a minute, Dolge,” he called to some one outside. “I won’t be long.” Then turning to the family, he added: “Excuse me, folks, I’ll be back in a minute.” He dashed up the rear stairs, only to return after a time and confront Clyde, if not the others, with that same rather icy and inconsiderate air that had so far troubled him at the factory. He was wearing a light, belted motoring coat of a very pronounced stripe, and a dark leather cap and gauntlets which gave him almost a military air. After nodding to Clyde rather stiffly, and adding, “How do you do,” he laid a patronizing hand on his father’s shoulder and observed: “Hi, Dad. Hello, Mother. Sorry I can’t be with you to-night. But I just came over from Amsterdam with Dolge and Eustis to get Constance and Jacqueline. There’s some doings over at the Bridgemans’. But I’ll be back again before morning. Or at the office, anyhow. Everything all right with you, Mr. Griffiths?” he observed to his father.
“Yes, I have nothing to complain of,” returned his father. “But it seems to me you’re making a pretty long night of it, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I don’t mean that,” returned his son, ignoring Clyde entirely. “I just mean that if I can’t get back by two, I’ll stay over, that’s all, see.” He tapped his father genially on the shoulder again.
“I hope you’re not driving that car as fast as usual,” complained his mother. “It’s not safe at all.”
“Fifteen miles an hour, Mother. Fifteen miles an hour. I know the rules.” He smiled loftily.
Clyde did not fail to notice the tone of condescension and authority that went with all this. Plainly here, as at the factory, he was a person who had to be reckoned with. Apart from his father, perhaps, there was no one here to whom he offered any reverence. What a superior attitude, thought Clyde!
How wonderful it must be to be a son who, without having had to earn all this, could still be so much, take oneself so seriously, exercise so much command and authority. It might be, as it plainly was, that this youth was very superior and indifferent in tone toward him. But think of being such a youth, having so much power at one’s command!
Chapter 10
At this point a maid announced that supper was served and instantly Gilbert took his departure. At the same time the family arose and Mrs. Griffiths asked the maid: “Has Bella telephoned yet?”
“No, ma’am,” replied the servant, “not yet.”
“Well, have Mrs. Truesdale call up the Finchleys and see if she’s there. You tell