Theodore Dreiser - The Stoic

Which thought caused Cowperwood to question the likelihood of flowers being strewn over his own grave, even a year after his death—an idea which amused more than it irritated him, for he well knew there were few graves anywhere, earnest labors or no earnest labors, strewn with flowers after so many years.

However, before leaving Père-Lachaise, he was destined for one more surprise. For as they turned south toward an exit, they suddenly came upon the lovely double tomb of Abélard and Héloïse, concerning which their guide proceeded to recite the well-known tragic romance of the ill-starred pair. Héloïse and Abélard! The love of a young girl for the spiritually brilliant monk, and the savage brutality of her father, the cruel member of a bishop’s council of a cathedral of the eleventh century! Cowperwood, up to this hour, had never heard of these lovers. But now, as he stood listening to the guide, an obviously refined and very attractive woman, carrying a basket filled with flowers, approached the tomb and began to strew the multicolored blossoms upon and around it. Both Cowperwood and Shanley were so moved by this that they removed their hats, and, catching her eye, respectfully bowed. She acknowledged their interest by saying: “ Merci beaucoup, messieurs ,” and walked away.

But this colorful and moving incident set up a train of thought in Cowperwood’s mind which related to himself and the Aileen of his earlier days. For, after all, when he, at one point of his career, had been imprisoned in Philadelphia, it was she who, in face of all his enemies, including her father, had visited him faithfully to declare her unchanging love and ease his lot in any way she could. Like Héloïse with Abélard, she had wanted him and no one else, and still did so, as he knew.

Suddenly there flashed into his mind the idea of a tomb for the two of them, a beautiful and enduring resting place. Yes, he would employ an architect, secure designs, he would build a beautiful tomb which would commemorate the fact that at least at one time he had cared for her as much as she cared for him.

On Cowperwood’s return to London, Berenice was startled by the change in his appearance. He seemed utterly weary, and had obviously lost weight. She complained to him about his lack of consideration of his own physical welfare and the fact that she saw so little of him.

“Frank, dear,” she began, in an affectionate tone, “why do you let these things take so much of your time and energy? You seem so strained and nervous. Don’t you think you should see a doctor and have a thorough examination before you go any further?”

“Bevy, dear,” he said putting his arm around her waist, “there’s no need for you to be so concerned. I know I’m working too hard, but this will soon be over and I won’t have to bother with so many business angles any more, for the present, anyhow.”

“But do you really feel all right?”

“Yes, dear, I think I’m all right. Anyhow, this particular phase of development is so important that I feel I must give it my personal attention.”

But even as he said this, he stooped forward as if stricken by a sudden pain. She ran to his side, exclaiming: “Frank, what is it? What’s the matter? Have you ever had anything like this before?”

“No, dear, I certainly haven’t,” he said. “But it can’t be anything serious, I’m sure.” And he partially recovered himself. “Of course,” he continued, “there must be something to cause such a sharp pain. Maybe you’d better call Dr. Wayne and ask him to come over and take a look at me . . .” a suggestion that sent Berenice at once to the telephone.

When the doctor arrived, he was surprised to find Cowperwood looking so drawn, and after partially examining him and writing a prescription to be filled at once, he asked him to come to his office next morning for a thorough check-up, which Cowperwood agreed to do. However, within a week, after two of the best specialists in London had been called in by Dr. Wayne and reported to him their conclusions, he was shocked to learn that severe kidney condition had developed that might end fatally within a comparatively short time. He ordered Cowperwood to rest and take the prescribed drugs that were meant to induce less activity.

However, when Cowperwood came into Dr. Wayne’s office a few days later for his physical report, he told the doctor that he was feeling better and his appetite appeared to be normal.

“The trouble with these cases, Mr. Cowperwood,” said Dr. Wayne, very quietly, at this point, “is that they are eccentric in their effects, and the pain they produce sometimes stops for a time. However, that doesn’t mean that the patient is cured, or even better. The pains may return, and this often causes definite and disturbing predictions on the part of our specialists, who are not always correct by any means. Rather, the patient may grow better and live for years. On the other hand, he may grow worse, and that is one of the conditions which makes this disease so difficult to deal with. So you see, Mr. Cowperwood, that is why I cannot speak to you as definitely as I would like to.”

Here Cowperwood interrupted him.

“I feel there’s something you’d like to tell me, Dr. Wayne. And I would most certainly like to know exactly what the report of the specialists is. It doesn’t matter what it is, I want to know. Are my kidneys so bad? Is there any organic trouble which is fatal?”

Dr. Wayne looked at him with a steady gaze.

“Well, the specialists report that with rest and no hard work, you may live a year or a little more. With extreme care, you may even live longer. Yours is a case of chronic nephritis, or Bright’s disease, Mr. Cowperwood. However, as I have explained to you, they are not always right.”

This studied reply was received by Cowperwood calmly and thoughtfully, even though now, for the first time in his almost uniformly healthy life, he was faced with news of a probably fatal disease. Death! Probably no more than a year to live! An end to all of his creative labors! And yet, if it was to be, it was to be, and he must brace himself and take it.

After leaving the doctor’s office, he felt himself not so much concerned with his own condition as with the effect of his final passing on the several personalities so closely connected with him throughout his life: Aileen, Berenice, Sippens; his son, Frank Cowperwood, Jr.; his first wife, Anna (now Mrs. Wheeler); and their daughter Anna, whom he had not seen for years, still for whom he had made ample provision over a long period. And there were others to whom he felt obligated.

On his way to Pryor’s Cove later on in the day, he kept turning over in his mind the necessity of putting all his affairs in order. The first thing to do now was to make his will, even though these specialists might be wrong. He must provide financially for all those who were closest to him. And then there was his treasured art gallery, which he intended to leave to the public. There was also the hospital which he had always desired so keenly to establish in New York. He must do something about that. After paying the various heirs and such beneficiaries as he proposed to favor, there should still be ample means for a hospital that offered the best services to all who chanced to be without funds and had no place else to turn.

Besides, there was the matter of the tomb which he wished to erect for himself and Aileen. He must consult an architect and have him carry out a design that would be beautiful and appropriate. It might compensate in some way for his seeming neglect of her.

But what about Berenice? As he now saw it, he could not provide for her openly in his will. He did not wish to expose her to the prying inquiries of the press and the inescapable envy of the public in general. But he would arrange the matter now in a different way. Though he had already established an independent trust fund for her, he would now cash an additional block of bonds and shares which he held in various corporations, and transfer the cash to her. This would insure her against danger of lack of funds in the years to come.