Текст книги "Jennie Gerhardt"

Автор книги: Теодор Драйзер

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CHAPTER LIV

The little town of Sandwood, “this side of Kenosha,” as Jennie had expressed it, was only a short distance from Chicago, an hour and fifteen minutes by the local train. It had a population of some three hundred families, dwelling in small cottages, which were scattered over a pleasant area of lake-shore property. They were not rich people. The houses were not worth more than from three to five thousand dollars each, but, in most cases, they were harmoniously constructed, and the surrounding trees, green for the entire year, gave them a pleasing summery appearance. Jennie, at the time they had passed by there—it was an outing taken behind a pair of fast horses—had admired the look of a little white church steeple, set down among the green trees, and the gentle rocking of the boats upon the summer water.

“I should like to live in a place like this some time,” she had said to Lester, and he had made the comment that it was a little too peaceful for him. “I can imagine getting to the place where I might like this, but not now. It’s too withdrawn.”

Jennie thought of that expression afterward. It came to her when she thought that the world was trying. If she had to be alone ever and could afford it she would like to live in a place like Sandwood. There she would have a little garden, some chickens, perhaps, a tall pole with a pretty bird-house on it, and flowers and trees and green grass everywhere about. If she could have a little cottage in a place like this which commanded a view of the lake she could sit of a summer evening and sew. Vesta could play about or come home from school. She might have a few friends, or not any. She was beginning to think that she could do very well living alone if it were not for Vesta’s social needs. Books were pleasant things—she was finding that out—books like Irving’s Sketch Book, Lamb’s Elia, and Hawthorne’s Twice Told Tales. Vesta was coming to be quite a musician in her way, having a keen sense of the delicate and refined in musical composition. She had a natural sense of harmony and a love for those songs and instrumental compositions which reflect sentimental and passionate moods, and she could sing and play quite well. Her voice was, of course, quite untrained—she was only fourteen—but it was pleasant to listen to. She was beginning to show the combined traits of her mother and father—Jennie’s gentle, speculative turn of mind, combined with Brander’s vivacity of spirit and innate executive capacity. She could talk to her mother in a sensible way about things, nature, books, dress, love, and from her developing tendencies Jennie caught keen glimpses of the new worlds which Vesta was to explore. The nature of modern school life, its consideration of various divisions of knowledge, music, science, all came to Jennie watching her daughter take up new themes. Vesta was evidently going to be a woman of considerable ability—not irritably aggressive, but self-constructive. She would be able to take care of herself. All this pleased Jennie and gave her great hopes for Vesta’s future.

The cottage which was finally secured at Sandwood was only a storey and a half in height, but it was raised upon red brick piers between which were set green lattices and about which ran a veranda. The house was long and narrow, its full length—some five rooms in a row—facing the lake. There was a dining-room with windows opening even with the floor, a large library with built-in shelves for books, and a parlour whose three large windows afforded air and sunshine at all times. The plot of ground in which this cottage stood was one hundred feet square and ornamented with a few trees. The former owner had laid out flower-beds, and arranged green hardwood tubs for the reception of various hardy plants and vines. The house was painted white, with green shutters and green shingles.

It had been Lester’s idea, since this thing must be, that Jennie might keep the house in Hyde Park just as it was, but she did not want to do that. She could not think of living there alone. The place was too full of memories. At first, she did not think she would take anything much with her, but she finally saw that it was advisable to do as Lester suggested—to fit out the new place with a selection of silverware, hangings, and furniture from the Hyde Park house.

“You have no idea what you will or may want,” he said. “Take everything. I certainly don’t want any of it.”

A lease of the cottage was taken for two years, together with an option for an additional five years, including the privilege of purchase. So long as he was letting her go, Lester wanted to be generous. He could not think of her as wanting for anything, and he did not propose that she should. His one troublesome thought was, what explanation was to be made to Vesta. He liked her very much and wanted her life kept free of complications.

“Why not send her off to a boarding-school until spring?” he suggested once; but owing to the lateness of the season this was abandoned as inadvisable. Later they agreed that business affairs made it necessary for him to travel and for Jennie to move. Later Vesta could be told that Jennie had left him for any reason she chose to give. It was a trying situation, all the more bitter to Jennie because she realised that in spite of the wisdom of it indifference to her was involved. He really did not care ENOUGH, as much as he cared.

The relationship of man and woman which we study so passionately in the hope of finding heaven knows what key to the mystery of existence holds no more difficult or trying situation than this of mutual compatibility broken or disrupted by untoward conditions which in themselves have so little to do with the real force and beauty of the relationship itself. These days of final dissolution in which this household, so charmingly arranged, the scene of so many pleasant activities, was literally going to pieces was a period of great trial to both Jennie and Lester. On her part it was one of intense suffering, for she was of that stable nature that rejoices to fix itself in a serviceable and harmonious relationship, and then stay so. For her life was made up of those mystic chords of sympathy and memory which bind up the transient elements of nature into a harmonious and enduring scene. One of those chords—this home was her home, united and made beautiful by her affection and consideration for each person and every object. Now the time had come when it must cease.

If she had ever had anything before in her life which had been like this it might have been easier to part with it now, though, as she had proved, Jennie’s affections were not based in any way upon material considerations. Her love of life and of personality were free from the taint of selfishness. She went about among these various rooms selecting this rug, that set of furniture, this and that ornament, wishing all the time with all her heart and soul that it need not be. Just to think, in a little while Lester would not come any more of an evening! She would not need to get up first of a morning and see that coffee was made for her lord, that the table in the dining-room looked just so. It had been a habit of hers to arrange a bouquet for the table out of the richest blooming flowers of the conservatory, and she had always felt in doing it that it was particularly for him. Now it would not be necessary any more—not for him. When one is accustomed to wait for the sound of a certain carriage-wheel of an evening grating upon your carriage drive, when one is used to listen at eleven, twelve, and one, waking naturally and joyfully to the echo of a certain step on the stair, the separation, the ending of these things, is keen with pain. These were the thoughts that were running through Jennie’s brain hour after hour and day after day.

Lester on his part was suffering in another fashion. His was not the sorrow of lacerated affection, of discarded and despised love, but of that painful sense of unfairness which comes to one who knows that he is making a sacrifice of the virtues—kindness, loyalty, affection—to policy. Policy was dictating a very splendid course of action from one point of view. Free of Jennie, providing for her admirably, he was free to go his way, taking to himself the mass of affairs which come naturally with great wealth. He could not help thinking of the thousand and one little things which Jennie had been accustomed to do for him, the hundred and one comfortable and pleasant and delightful things she meant to him. The virtues which she possessed were quite dear to his mind. He had gone over them time and again. Now he was compelled to go over them finally, to see that she was suffering without making a sign. Her manner and attitude toward him in these last days were quite the same as they had always been—no more, no less. She was not indulging in private hysterics, as another woman might have done; she was not pretending a fortitude in suffering she did not feel, showing him one face while wishing him to see another behind it. She was calm, gentle, considerate—thoughtful of him—where he would go and what he would do, without irritating him by her inquiries. He was struck quite favourably by her ability to take a large situation largely, and he admired her. There was something to this woman, let the world think what it might. It was a shame that her life was passed under such a troubled star. Still a great world was calling him. The sound of its voice was in his ears. It had on occasion shown him its bared teeth. Did he really dare to hesitate?

The last hour came, when having made excuses to this and that neighbour, when having spread the information that they were going abroad, when Lester had engaged rooms at the Auditorium, and the mass of furniture which could not be used had gone to storage, that it was necessary to say farewell to this Hyde Park domicile. Jennie had visited Sandwood in company with Lester several times. He had carefully examined the character of the place. He was satisfied that it was nice but lonely. Spring was at hand, the flowers would be something. She was going to keep a gardener and man of all work. Vesta would be with her.

“Very well,” he said, “only I want you to be comfortable.”

In the meantime Lester had been arranging his personal affairs. He had notified Messrs. Knight, Keatley & O’Brien through his own attorney, Mr. Watson, that he would expect them to deliver his share of his father’s securities on a given date. He had made up his mind that as long as he was compelled by circumstances to do this thing he would do a number of other things equally ruthless. He would probably marry Mrs. Gerald. He would sit as a director in the United Carriage Company—with his share of the stock it would be impossible to keep him out. If he had Mrs. Gerald’s money he would become a controlling factor in the United Traction of Cincinnati, in which his brother was heavily interested, and in the Western Steel Works, of which his brother was now the leading adviser. What a different figure he would be now from that which he had been during the past few years!

Jennie was depressed to the point of despair. She was tremendously lonely. This home had meant so much to her. When she first came here and neighbours had begun to drop in she had imagined herself on the threshold of a great career, that some day, possibly, Lester would marry her. Now, blow after blow had been delivered, and the home and dream were a ruin. Gerhardt was gone. Jeannette, Harry Ward, and Mrs. Frissell had been discharged, the furniture for a good part was in storage, and for her, practically, Lester was no more. She realised clearly that he would not come back. If he could do this thing now, even considerately, he could do much more when he was free and away later. Immersed in his great affairs, he would forget, of course. And why not? She did not fit in. Had not everything—everything illustrated that to her? Love was not enough in this world—that was so plain. One needed education, wealth, training, the ability to fight and scheme. She did not want to do that. She could not.

The day came when the house was finally closed and the old life was at an end. Lester travelled with Jennie to Sandwood. He spent some little while in the house trying to get her used to the idea of change—it was not so bad. He intimated that he would come again soon, but he went away, and all his words were as nothing against the fact of the actual and spiritual separation. When Jennie saw him going down the brick walk that afternoon, his solid, conservative figure clad in a new tweed suit, his overcoat on his arm, self-reliance and prosperity written all over him, she thought that she would die. She had kissed Lester good-bye and had wished him joy, prosperity, peace; then she made an excuse to go to her bedroom. Vesta came after a time to seek her, but now her eyes were quite dry; everything had subsided to a dull ache. The new life was actually begun for her—a life without Lester, without Gerhardt, without any one save Vesta.

“What curious things have happened to me!” she thought, as she went into the kitchen, for she had determined to do at least some of her own work. She needed the distraction. She did not want to think. If it were not for Vesta she would have sought some regular outside employment. Anything to keep from brooding, for in that direction lay madness.

CHAPTER LV

The social and business worlds of Chicago, Cincinnati, Cleveland, and other cities saw, during the year or two which followed the breaking of his relationship with Jennie, a curious rejuvenation in the social and business spirit of Lester Kane. He had become rather distant and indifferent to certain personages and affairs while he was living with her, but now he suddenly appeared again, armed with authority from a number of sources, looking into this and that matter with the air of one who has the privilege of power, and showing himself to be quite a personage from the point of view of finance and commerce. He was older of course. It must be admitted that he was in some respects a mentally altered Lester. Up to the time he had met Jennie he was full of the assurance of the man who has never known defeat. To have been reared in luxury as he had been, to have seen only the pleasant side of society, which is so persistent and so deluding where money is concerned, to have been in the run of big affairs not because one has created them, but because one is a part of them and because they are one’s birthright, like the air one breathes, could not help but create one of those illusions of solidarity which is apt to befog the clearest brain. It is so hard for us to know what we have not seen. It is so difficult for us to feel what we have not experienced. Like this world of ours, which seems so solid and persistent solely because we have no knowledge of the power which creates it, Lester’s world seemed solid and persistent and real enough to him. It was only when the storms set in and the winds of adversity blew and he found himself facing the armed forces of convention that he realised he might be mistaken as to the value of his personality, that his private desires and opinions were as nothing in the face of a public conviction; that he was wrong. The race spirit, or social avatar, the “Zeitgeist” as the Germans term it, manifested itself as something having a system in charge, and the organisation of society began to show itself to him as something based on possibly a spiritual, or, at least, superhuman counterpart. He could not fly in the face of it. He could not deliberately ignore its mandates. The people of his time believed that some particular form of social arrangement was necessary, and unless he complied with that he could, as he saw, readily become a social outcast. His own father and mother had turned on him—his brother and sisters, society, his friends. Dear heaven, what a to-do this action of his had created! Why, even the fates seemed adverse. His real estate venture was one of the most fortuitously unlucky things he had ever heard of. Why? Were the gods battling on the side of a to him unimportant social arrangement? Apparently. Anyhow, he had been compelled to quit, and here he was, vigorous, determined, somewhat battered by the experience, but still forceful and worth while.

And it was a part of the penalty that he had become measurably soured by what had occurred. He was feeling that he had been compelled to do the first ugly, brutal thing of his life. Jennie deserved better of him. It was a shame to forsake her after all the devotion she had manifested. Truly she had played a finer part than he. Worst of all, his deed could not be excused on the grounds of necessity. He could have lived on ten thousand a year; he could have done without the million and more which was now his. He could have done without the society, the pleasures of which had always been a lure. He could have, but he had not, and he had complicated it all with the thought of another woman.

Was she as good as Jennie? That was the question which always rose before him. Was she as kindly? Wasn’t she deliberately scheming under his very eyes to win him away from the woman who was as good as his wife? Was that admirable? Was it the thing a truly big woman would do? Was she good enough for him after all? Ought he to marry her? Ought he to marry any one seeing that he really owed a spiritual if not a legal allegiance to Jennie? Was it worth while for any woman to marry him? These things turned in his brain. They haunted him. He could not shut out the fact that he was doing a cruel and unlovely thing.

Material error in the first place was now being complicated with spiritual error. He was attempting to right the first by committing the second. Could it be done TO HIS OWN SATISFACTION? Would it pay mentally and spiritually? Would it bring him peace of mind? He was thinking, thinking, all the while he was readjusting his life to the old (or perhaps better yet, new) conditions, and he was not feeling any happier. As a matter of fact he was feeling worse—grim, revengeful. If he married Letty he thought at times it would be to use her fortune as a club to knock other enemies over the head, and he hated to think he was marrying her for that. He took up his abode at the Auditorium, visited Cincinnati in a distant and aggressive spirit, sat in council with the board of directors, wishing that he was more at peace with himself, more interested in life. But he did not change his policy in regard to Jennie.

Of course Mrs. Gerald had been vitally interested in Lester’s rehabilitation. She waited tactfully some little time before sending him any word; finally she ventured to write to him at the Hyde Park address (as if she did not know where he was), asking, “Where are you?” By this time Lester had become slightly accustomed to the change in his life. He was saying to himself that he needed sympathetic companionship, the companionship of a woman, of course. Social invitations had begun to come to him now that he was alone and that his financial connections were so obviously restored. He had made his appearance, accompanied only by a Japanese valet, at several country houses, the best sign that he was once more a single man. No reference was made by any one to the past.

On receiving Mrs. Gerald’s note he decided that he ought to go and see her. He had treated her rather shabbily. For months preceding his separation from Jennie he had not gone near her. Even now he waited until time brought a ‘phoned invitation to dinner. This he accepted.

Mrs. Gerald was at her best as a hostess at her perfectly appointed dinner-table. Alboni, the pianist, was there on this occasion, together with Adam Rascavage, the sculptor, a visiting scientist from England, Sir Nelson Keyes, and, curiously enough, Mr. and Mrs. Berry Dodge, whom Lester had not met socially in several years. Mrs. Gerald and Lester exchanged the joyful greetings of those who understand each other thoroughly and are happy in each other’s company. “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself, sir,” she said to him when he made his appearance, “to treat me so indifferently? You are going to be punished for this.”

“What’s the damage?” he smiled. “I’ve been extremely rushed. I suppose something like ninety stripes will serve me about right.”

“Ninety stripes, indeed!” she retorted. “You’re letting yourself off easy. What is it they do to evildoers in Siam?”

“Boil them in oil, I suppose.”

“Well, anyhow, that’s more like. I’m thinking of something terrible.”

“Be sure and tell me when you decide,” he laughed, and passed on to be presented to distinguished strangers by Mrs. De Lincum who aided Mrs. Gerald in receiving. The talk was stimulating. Lester was always at his ease intellectually, and this mental atmosphere revived him. Presently he turned to greet Berry Dodge, who was standing at his elbow.

Dodge was all cordiality. “Where are you now?” he asked. “We haven’t seen you in—oh, when? Mrs. Dodge is waiting to have a word with you.” Lester noticed the change in Dodge’s attitude.

“Some time, that’s sure,” he replied easily. “I’m living at the Auditorium.”

“I was asking after you the other day. You know Jackson Du Bois? Of course you do. We were thinking of running up into Canada for some hunting. Why don’t you join us?”

“I can’t,” replied Lester. “Too many things on hand just now. Later, surely.”

Dodge was anxious to continue. He had seen Lester’s election as a director of the C. H. & D. Obviously he was coming back into the world. But dinner was announced and Lester sat at Mrs. Gerald’s right hand.

“Aren’t you coming to pay me a dinner call some afternoon after this?” asked Mrs. Gerald confidentially when the conversation was brisk at the other end of the table.

“I am, indeed,” he replied, “and shortly. Seriously, I’ve been wanting to look you up. You understand though how things are now?”

“I do. I’ve heard a great deal. That’s why I want you to come. We need to talk together.”

Ten days later he did call. He felt as if he must talk with her; he was feeling bored and lonely; his long home life with Jennie had made hotel life objectionable. He felt as though he must find a sympathetic, intelligent ear, and where better than here? Letty was all ears for his troubles. She would have pillowed his solid head upon her breast in a moment if that had been possible.

“Well,” he said, when the usual fencing preliminaries were over, “what will you have me say in explanation?”

“Have you burned your bridges behind you?” she asked.

“I’m not so sure,” he replied gravely. “And I can’t say that I’m feeling any too joyous about the matter as a whole.”

“I thought as much,” she replied. “I knew how it would be with you. I can see you wading through this mentally, Lester. I have been watching you, every step of the way, wishing you peace of mind. These things are always so difficult, but don’t you know I am still sure it’s for the best. It never was right the other way. It never could be. You couldn’t afford to sink back into a mere shell-fish life. You are not organised temperamentally for that any more than I am. You may regret what you are doing now, but you would have regretted the other thing quite as much and more. You couldn’t work your life out that way—now, could you?”

“I don’t know about that, Letty. Really, I don’t. I’ve wanted to come and see you for a long time, but I didn’t think that I ought to. The fight was outside—you know what I mean.”

“Yes, indeed, I do,” she said soothingly.

“It’s still inside. I haven’t gotten over it. I don’t know whether this financial business binds me sufficiently or not. I’ll be frank and tell you that I can’t say I love her entirely; but I’m sorry, and that’s something.”

“She’s comfortably provided for, of course,” she commented rather than inquired.

“Everything she wants. Jennie is of a peculiar disposition. She doesn’t want much. She’s retiring by nature and doesn’t care for show. I’ve taken a cottage for her at Sandwood, a little place north of here on the lake; and there’s plenty of money in trust, but, of course, she knows she can live anywhere she pleases.”

“I understand exactly how she feels, Lester. I know how you feel. She is going to suffer very keenly for a while—we all do when we have to give up the thing we love. But we can get over it, and we do. At least, we can live. She will. It will go hard at first, but after a while she will see how it is, and she won’t feel any the worse toward you.”

“Jennie will never reproach me, I know that,” he replied. “I’m the one who will do the reproaching. I’ll be abusing myself for some time. The trouble is with my particular turn of mind. I can’t tell, for the life of me, how much of this disturbing feeling of mine is habit—the condition that I’m accustomed to—and how much is sympathy. I sometimes think I’m the most pointless individual in the world. I think too much.”

“Poor Lester!” she said tenderly. “Well, I understand for one. You’re lonely living where you are, aren’t you?”

“I am that,” he replied.

“Why not come and spend a few days down at West Baden? I’m going there.”

“When?” he inquired.

“Next Tuesday.”

“Let me see,” he replied. “I’m not sure that I can.” He consulted his notebook. “I could come Thursday, for a few days.”

“Why not do that? You need company. We can walk and talk things out down there. Will you?”

“Yes, I will,” he replied.

She came toward him, trailing a lavender lounging robe. “You’re such a solemn philosopher, sir,” she observed comfortably, “working through all the ramifications of things. Why do you? You were always like that.”

“I can’t help it,” he replied. “It’s my nature to think.”

“Well, one thing I know—” and she tweaked his ear gently. “You’re not going to make another mistake through sympathy if I can help it,” she said daringly. “You’re going to stay disentangled long enough to give yourself a chance to think out what you want to do. You must. And I wish for one thing you’d take over the management of my affairs. You could advise me so much better than my lawyer.”

He arose and walked to the window, turning to look back at her solemnly. “I know what you want,” he said doggedly.

“And why shouldn’t I?” she demanded, again approaching him. She looked at him pleadingly, defiantly. “Yes, why shouldn’t I?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he grumbled; but he kept on looking at her; she stood there, attractive as a woman of her age could be, wise, considerate, full of friendship and affection.

“Letty,” he said. “You ought not to want to marry me. I’m not worth it. Really I’m not. I’m too cynical. Too indifferent. It won’t be worth anything in the long run.”

“It will be worth something to me,” she insisted. “I know what you are. Anyhow, I don’t care. I want you!”

He took her hands, then her arms. Finally he drew her to him, and put his arms about her waist. “Poor Letty!” he said; “I’m not worth it. You’ll be sorry.”

“No, I’ll not,” she replied. “I know what I’m doing. I don’t care what you think you are worth.” She laid her cheek on his shoulder. “I want you.”

“If you keep on I venture to say you’ll have me,” he returned. He bent and kissed her.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, and hid her hot face against his breast.

“This is bad business,” he thought, even as he held her within the circle of his arms. “It isn’t what I ought to be doing.”

Still he held her, and now when she offered her lips coaxingly he kissed her again and again.