Theodore Dreiser - The Stoic

“But, Berenice, those things are true. I did leave her. I have returned to you. I am willing to explain or not, just as you please. But one thing I do want to do, and that is to make up with you, get your forgiveness, go on and on with you alone. You won’t believe it, but I promise you there won’t be any more of this. Can’t you sense that? Won’t you help me get back to some fair and equitable relation with you? Think what we mean to each other! I can help you, want to, will, whether you choose to break with me or not! Won’t you believe that, Bevy?”

They were standing on a small green lawn bordering the Thames, under old trees, with the low thatches of a distant hamlet in view and curls of blue smoke rising from cottage chimneys. All was peaceful about them. But he was thinking that for all this sufficiency and the plain intention to make as little as possible of the provocation that had been given her, Berenice’s mood was not forgiving. At the same time, he could not help contrasting her with other women under related circumstances, Aileen in particular. Here was no brooding, weeping, quarreling woman. Although, as he now also thought, and for the first time in his life, real love, true love, however destructive to the lover, might truly brood, weep, quarrel, and be forgiven for it, into the bargain.

On the other hand, here was certainly a type of affection which carried with it values which could not be denied or belittled. Plainly, he had dulled them, and on the instant he became the shrewd, watchful, resourceful, and dynamic Cowperwood of the financial meeting room and parley.

“Listen to me, Bevy!” he said, firmly. “About June twentieth I went down to Baltimore on a business matter . . .” And from there on he related exactly what had happened. The midnight return to his room. Lorna’s knock. All. He told exactly how fascinated he had been; how and where he had entertained Lorna; the comments of the critics. He persisted in the excuse that, like Berenice, Lorna had cast a spell. He had intended no unfaithfulness. It was something that had come over him, and, to make himself perfectly plain, he advanced the theory which had come to him because of this and other related affairs in the past: that there was something in sensual desire which superseded and therefore must be superior to reason and will. For, in his case, it undermined and washed away any predetermined course.

“If I want to be honest,” he added at this point, “I must say that perhaps the only way to avoid lapses of this kind is to avoid any close contact with attractive women. And that is not always possible, of course.”

“Of course not,” said Berenice.

“As you know,” he went on, determined to continue, “once you are close to a person like Lorna Maris, you have to be pretty tame to escape her. And that’s a mighty strong admission from me.”

“Quite,” said Berenice. “But I agree with you. She is very attractive. But how about me in connection with other men? Are you ready to grant me the same privilege?” She gazed at him inquiringly, while he stared at her in return.

“Theoretically, yes,” he replied. “Because I care for you, I would have to stand for it emotionally as long as I could, as long as it was necessary for me to do so. After that, I would probably let you go, just as you will let me go if you don’t care enough to keep me. But what I want to know now is, knowing what you do, do you care, my dear? And that is very important, because I still care a great deal.”

“Well, Frank, you are asking me something which just at the moment I cannot really answer, because I don’t know.”

“But, as you see,” he persisted, “in this case her influence has not lasted, or I wouldn’t be here now. And I am not offering this as an excuse, but as a fact.”

“In other words,” said Berenice, “she did not come on the same boat.”

“She is dancing in New York the whole winter. And any American paper will tell you that. I maintain, Bevy, that the attraction you have for me is not only stronger but superior, I need you, Bevy. We are two minds and temperaments that think and work alike. That’s why I’m back here now, and want to stay here. This other affair was less valuable. I felt it all the time. When you stopped writing, I realized how much less I cared for Lorna. There, that’s the sum of it. Now what, Bevy?”

In the growing dusk he had drawn nearer and nearer. Now he seized her, pressed his lips to hers, and held her tightly. As he did so, she felt herself yielding, mentally and emotionally. But at the same time she felt impelled to make plain her position.

“I do care for you, Frank, yes. But this is only a sensual pull in your case. When it is over . . . when it is over . . .”

Both subsided in each other’s arms, letting desire, emotion, blot out for the time being that frail little lamp, the human mind, and submerge for the moment that wholly unreasoning force, the human will.

Later in her bedroom, on that first night, Cowperwood continued his argument as to the wisdom of going on together in their roles of ward and guardian.

“You see, Bevy,” he said, “the relationship is already established in the minds of Stane and others.”

“Are you trying to discover whether I am planning to leave you?” she queried.

“Well, naturally, I thought you might be considering it. This fellow Stane certainly has everything to offer you.”

He was sitting on the edge of her bed. The room was only slightly illumined by a moon that was shining against the drawn blinds. Berenice was sitting up in bed, leaning against the pillows, smoking a cigarette.

“Not so much as you have,” she said, “if you were ever really interested enough. But if you must know, I am not considering anything except the problem which you yourself have forced on me. We entered into an arrangement and you disarranged it. What do you expect me to do under the circumstances? Give you every liberty and ask nothing for myself?”

“I don’t expect anything which is going to prove distasteful or harmful to you.” His tone was aggressive. “I’m merely suggesting that if you’re going to become interested in Stane, we’ll have to figure out some way to continue this guardian-ward relationship until you are settled in your new state. From one point of view,” he added, honestly enough, “I’d be glad to see you established as the wife of a man like Stane. On the other hand, there’s the program we planned, and without you as a part of it, Bevy, I can tell you frankly that I’m not going to be very much interested. I might go on, and I might not. It will all depend on how I feel. I know you think that because I went with Lorna Maris I could easily make worthwhile conditions for myself. But I don’t see it that way. She was a mere incident, something involved with the passions and not the mind, as I’ve told you. If you had gone to New York with me, it never would have happened. Since it has, the one thing I see to do is to make the best working arrangement I can with you. And you will have to say what that is to be.” He got up and went to look for a cigar.

Thus directly approached, Berenice found herself intensely troubled by all he had said. For she cared for him intensely; his problems, his career, were almost more important to her than her own. And yet opposed to them was her own life, her own future. For once she reached the age of thirty-five or forty, the chances of his being present were slight. She lay there silently thinking, while Cowperwood waited. And in due course she answered, although not without extreme misgivings. Yes, she would continue; of course she would continue, for the present, anyway. For what could either he or she say in regard to his future movements or decisions?