Theodore Dreiser - The Stoic

Whereupon Dr. James, sensing the fierceness of her rage, managed to interrupt her sufficiently to say, forcefully but calmly:

“Mrs. Cowperwood, I beg to take exception to your accusations. I was called in on this case in a professional capacity, not as a judge of situations which are none of my making. And you have no right to judge the motives of a man about whom you know as little as you do about me. Whether you believe it or not, your husband is a very sick man, very, and if you make the grave error of giving out any story to the press, you will be hurting yourself a thousand times more than you could ever hurt him, or anyone connected with him. For he not only has powerful friends, but admirers, as you know—friends who will deeply resent any such action as you propose, and who will not fail him. If he dies, as he well may . . . well, judge for yourself how any such public attack as you have in mind will be received.”

These cutting words reminded Aileen of some of her own indiscretions in the not too distant past, and her voice suddenly lost some of its vibrato as she said:

“I don’t want to discuss any of the personal angles of this matter with you or anyone else, Dr. James, so please, don’t call me again on any matter connected with Mr. Cowperwood, no matter what happens. You have Miss Fleming there to wait on and comfort my husband. Let her take charge, and please don’t call me. I’m tired of the whole wretched relationship. And that’s final, Dr. James.” Here the telephone clicked, for she had hung up.

As Dr. James turned away from the phone, his face wore a faint smile. From his long years of professional experience with hysterical women, he knew that the force of her rage had spent itself in the hours since she had seen Berenice. For, after all, as he also knew, this was not a new story to Aileen. And he felt reasonably sure that her vanity would not allow her to give free reign to public utterances. She had not done so in the past and would not do so now, he felt. And with this much assurance, he went to call on and report to Berenice, whom he found still nervous and impatiently waiting to hear from him.

He still smiled as he proceeded to explain that he felt sure that Aileen’s bark was worse than her bite. For although she had threatened him and Cowperwood and Berenice with exposure, still, after his talk with her, he had the definite feeling that her rage had spent itself and that nothing more of a violent nature was likely to occur. Now, he added, since Aileen had declared finally that she proposed never to see her husband again, it looked to him as if he should have to ask Berenice to take charge, and they would, both of them, see if they could not pull him through. She might take the evening nursing shift from four to twelve.

“Oh, how wonderful!” exclaimed Berenice. “I’ll be so happy to do all I possibly can to help him—anything within my power! For, oh, Doctor, he must live! He must get well and be free to do the things he has planned. And we must help him.”

“I’m very grateful to you for this. I know that he cares for you deeply,” said James, “and he will no doubt be much better in your care.”

“Oh, Doctor, it is I who am truly grateful to you!” she exclaimed, taking both of his hands in hers.

Cowperwood’s attempt to clarify for Aileen the significance of the wealth that would be hers at his death, and the necessity on her part for a practical understanding of the problems she would be likely to encounter as its custodian, instead of inducing an atmosphere of tender regard, left him with a sense of the probable futility of it all. And this because of his knowledge of her lack of realization of how important these matters were to him, as well as to her. For he knew well she could not read the characters and intentions of men, and were he no longer here, what assurance could he have of the fulfilment of the various ideals which most of his bequests embodied? And this thought, instead of favorably affecting his mood in regard to living, really discouraged him. So much so that he was not only a little weary, but a little bored and spiritually dubious of the import of life itself.

For how strange the almost unbroken irritability of their lives together, covering, as they did, a period of over thirty years! There was, to begin with, his early enthusiasm for her when she was seventeen and he was twenty-seven, and then a little later his discovery that her beauty and physical strength concealed also a lack of understanding that had kept her unaware of his financial and mental stature, at the same time that it caused her to consider that he was an unchanging possession of hers which was not to be modified by so much as a glance in any other direction than that which led to her. And yet, for all the storms that followed his least diversion, here they were, after all these years, with little understanding on her part of the qualities in him which had slowly and yet surely led him to his present wealth.

Even so, he had finally discovered a woman whose temperament made his life supremely worth while. For he had found Berenice, and she had found him. Together they had clarified themselves, each to the other. Her wondrous love shone in her voice, her eyes, her words, her touch. For bending over him from time to time, he could hear her say: “Darling! Beloved! This love of ours is not just for today, it is forever. It will live in you wherever you are, and yours in me. We shall not forget. Darling, rest and be happy.”

It was at this point in his meditations that Berenice, clad in the white uniform of a nurse, entered the room. He stirred at the sound of her familiar voice as she greeted him, and gazed as if not fully comprehending what his eyes beheld. Her costume made such an attractive setting for her unusual beauty. With an effort he raised his head, and although obviously very weak, exclaimed:

“You! Aphrodite! Goddess of the sea! Immaculately white!”

She bent down and kissed him.

“A goddess!” he murmured. “The golden red of your hair! The blue of your eyes!” And then, pressing her hand, he drew her closer to him. “And now I have you with me. I see you as you beckoned to me that day in Thessalonika by the blue Aegean!”

“Frank! Frank! If only I were your goddess, forever and ever!”

She knew that he had become delirious, and tried to pacify him.

“That smile,” went on Cowperwood. “Smile on me again. It is like sunshine. Hold my hands, my Aphrodite of the Sea!”

Berenice sat on the side of the bed and began to cry softly to herself.

“Aphrodite, don’t ever leave me! I need you so!” and he clung to her.

At this point Dr. James walked into the room, and noting Cowperwood’s condition, went directly to him. Turning and surveying Berenice, he said: “Be proud, my dear! A giant of the world salutes you. But leave us along for a minute or two. I need to restore him. He is not going to die.”

She left the room while the doctor administered a restorative. In a few moments, Cowperwood came out of his delirium, for he said: “Where is Berenice?”

“She will be with you in a moment, Frank, only now rest and quiet will be best for you,” said James.

But Berenice heard him call her, and came in and sat on a little chair beside his bed, waiting. In a few moments he opened his eyes, and began talking.

“You know, Berenice,” he said, as if they had been discussing the matter, “it is so important to keep the mansion intact as a home for my art objects.”

“Yes, I know, Frank,” replied Berenice, softly and sympathetically. “You have always loved it so.”

“Yes, I have always loved it. To leave the asphalt of Fifth Avenue and in ten seconds, after crossing the threshold, to be within a palm garden, walk through flowers and growing things, sit down among them, hear the plash of water, the tinkle of a rill dropping into the little pool, so that I heard notes of water music, like a brook in the cool greenness of the woods—”