Jennie Gerhardt, by Theodore Dreiser 26 страница

After one of the severe attacks he called Watson to his side, told him to send the nurse away, and then said: “Watson, I’d like to have you do me a favour. Ask Mrs. Stover if she won’t come here to see me. You’d better go and get her. Just send the nurse and Kozo (the valet) away for the afternoon, or while she’s here. If she comes at any other time I’d like to have her admitted.”

Watson understood. He liked this expression of sentiment. He was sorry for Jennie. He was sorry for Lester. He wondered what the world would think if it could know of this bit of romance in connection with so prominent a man. Lester was decent. He had made Watson prosperous. The latter was only too glad to serve him in any way.

He called a carriage and rode out to Jennie’s residence. He found her watering some plants; her face expressed her surprise at his unusual presence.

“I come on a rather troublesome errand, Mrs. Stover,” he said, using her assumed name. “Your — that is, Mr. Kane is quite sick at the Auditorium. His wife is in Europe, and he wanted to know if I wouldn’t come out here and ask you to come and see him. He wanted me to bring you, if possible. Could you come with me now?”

“Why yes,” said Jennie, her face a study. The children were in school. An old Swedish housekeeper was in the kitchen. She could go as well as not. But there was coming back to her in detail a dream she had had several nights before. It had seemed to her that she was out on a dark, mystic body of water over which was hanging something like a fog, or a pall of smoke. She heard the water ripple, or stir faintly, and then out of the surrounding darkness a boat appeared. It was a little boat, oarless, or not visibly propelled, and in it were her mother, and Vesta, and some one whom she could not make out. Her mother’s face was pale and sad, very much as she had often seen it in life. She looked at Jennie solemnly, sympathetically, and then suddenly Jennie realised that the third occupant of the boat was Lester. He looked at her gloomily — an expression she had never seen on his face before — and then her mother remarked, “Well, we must go now.” The boat began to move, a great sense of loss came over her, and she cried, “Oh, don’t leave me, mamma!”

But her mother only looked at her out of deep, sad, still eyes, and the boat was gone.

She woke with a start, half fancying that Lester was beside her. She stretched out her hand to touch his arm; then she drew herself up in the dark and rubbed her eyes, realising that she was alone. A great sense of depression remained with her, and for two days it haunted her. Then, when it seemed as if it were nothing, Mr. Watson appeared with his ominous message.

She went to dress, and reappeared, looking as troubled as were her thoughts. She was very pleasing in her appearance yet, a sweet, kindly woman, well dressed and shapely. She had never been separated mentally from Lester, just as he had never grown entirely away from her. She was always with him in thought, just as in the years when they were together. Her fondest memories were of the days when he first courted her in Cleveland — the days when he had carried her off, much as the cave-man seized his mate — by force. Now she longed to do what she could for him. For this call was as much a testimony as a shock. He loved her — he loved her, after all. The carriage rolled briskly through the long streets into the smoky downtown district. It arrived at the Auditorium, and Jennie was escorted to Lester’s room. Watson had been considerate. He had talked little, leaving her to her thoughts. In this great hotel she felt diffident after so long a period of complete retirement. As she entered the room she looked at Lester with large, grey, sympathetic eyes. He was lying propped up on two pillows, his solid head with its growth of once dark brown hair slightly greyed. He looked at her curiously out of his wise old eyes, a light of sympathy and affection shining in them — weary as they were. Jennie was greatly distressed. His pale face, slightly drawn from suffering, cut her like a knife. She took his hand, which was outside the coverlet, and pressed it. She leaned over and kissed his lips.

“I’m so sorry, Lester,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry. You’re not very sick though, are you? You must get well, Lester — and soon!” She patted his hand gently.

“Yes, Jennie, but I’m pretty bad,” he said. “I don’t feel right about this business. I don’t seem able to shake it off. But tell me, how have you been?”

“Oh, just the same, dear,” she replied. “I’m all right. You mustn’t talk like that, though. You’re going to be all right very soon now.”

He smiled grimly. “Do you think so?” He shook his head, for he thought differently. “Sit down, dear,” he went on, “I’m not worrying about that. I want to talk to you again. I want you near me.” He sighed and shut his eyes for a minute.

She drew up a chair close beside the bed, her face toward his, and took his hand. It seemed such a beautiful thing that he should send for her. Her eyes showed the mingled sympathy, affection, and gratitude of her heart. At the same time fear gripped her; how ill he looked!

“I can’t tell what may happen,” he went on. “Letty is in Europe. I’ve wanted to see you again for some time. I was coming out this trip. We are living in New York, you know. You’re a little stouter, Jennie.”

“Yes, I’m getting old, Lester,” she smiled.

“Oh, that doesn’t make any difference,” he replied, looking at her fixedly. “Age doesn’t count. We are all in that boat. It’s how we feel about life.”

He stopped and stared at the ceiling. A slight twinge of pain reminded him of the vigorous seizures he had been through. He couldn’t stand many more paroxysms like the last one.

“I couldn’t go, Jennie, without seeing you again,” he observed, when the slight twinge ceased and he was free to think again; “I’ve always wanted to say to you, Jennie,” he went on, “that I haven’t been satisfied with the way we parted. It wasn’t the right thing, after all. I haven’t been any happier. I’m sorry. I wish now, for my own peace of mind, that I hadn’t done it.”

“Don’t say that, Lester,” she demurred, going over in her mind all that had been between them. This was such a testimony to their real union — their real spiritual compatibility. “It’s all right. It doesn’t make any difference. You’ve been very good to me. I wouldn’t have been satisfied to have you lose your fortune. It couldn’t be that way. I’ve been a lot better satisfied as it is. It’s been hard, but, dear, everything is hard at times.” She paused.

“No,” he said. “It wasn’t right. The thing wasn’t worked out right from the start; but that wasn’t your fault. I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you that. I’m glad I’m here to do it.”

“Don’t talk that way, Lester — please don’t,” she pleaded. “It’s all right. You needn’t be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for. You have always been so good to me. Why, when I think —” she stopped, for it was hard for her to speak. She was choking with affection and sympathy. She pressed his hands. She was recalling the house he took for her family in Cleveland, his generous treatment of Gerhardt, all the long ago tokens of love and kindness.

“Well, I’ve told you now, and I feel better. You’re a good woman, Jennie, and you’re kind to come to me this way. I loved you. I love you now. I want to tell you that. It seems strange, but you’re the only woman I ever did love truly. We should never have parted.”

Jennie caught her breath. It was the one thing she had waited for all these years — this testimony. It was the one thing that could make everything right — this confession of spiritual if not material union. Now she could live happily. Now die so. “Oh, Lester,” she exclaimed with a sob, and pressed his hand. He returned the pressure. There was a little silence. Then he spoke again.

“How are the two orphans?” he asked.

“Oh, they’re lovely,” she answered, entering upon a detailed description of her diminutive personalities. He listened comfortably, for her voice was soothing to him. Her whole personality was grateful to him. When it came time for her to go he seemed desirous of keeping her.

“Going, Jennie?”

“I can stay just as well as not, Lester,” she volunteered. “I’ll take a room. I can send a note out to Mrs. Swenson. It will be all right.”

“You needn’t do that,” he said, but she could see that he wanted her, that he did not want to be alone.

From that time on until the hour of his death she was not out of the hotel.

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Chapter LXII

The end came after four days during which Jennie was by his bedside almost constantly. The nurse in charge welcomed her at first as a relief and company, but the physician was inclined to object. Lester, however, was stubborn. “This is my death,” he said, with a touch of grim humour. “If I’m dying I ought to be allowed to die in my own way.”

Watson smiled at the man’s unfaltering courage. He had never seen anything like it before.

There were cards of sympathy, calls of inquiry, notices in the newspaper. Robert saw an item in the Inquirer, and decided to go to Chicago. Imogene called with her husband and they were admitted to Lester’s room for a few minutes after Jennie had gone to hers. Lester had little to say. The nurse cautioned them that he was not to be talked to much. When they were gone Lester said to Jennie, “Imogene has changed a good deal.” He made no other comment.

Mrs. Kane was on the Atlantic three days out from New York the afternoon Lester died. He had been meditating whether anything more could be done for Jennie, but he could not make up his mind about it. Certainly it was useless to leave her more money. She did not want it. He had been wondering where Letty was and how near her actual arrival might be when he was seized with a tremendous paroxysm of pain. Before relief could be administered in the shape of an anaesthetic he was dead. It developed afterward that it was not the intestinal trouble which killed him, but a lesion of a major blood-vessel in the brain.

Jennie, who had been strongly wrought up by watching and worrying, was beside herself with grief. He had been a part of her thought and feeling so long that it seemed now as though a part of herself had died. She had loved him as she had fancied she could never love any one, and he had always shown that he cared for her — at least in some degree. She could not feel the emotion that expresses itself in tears — only a dull ache, a numbness which seemed to make her insensible to pain. He looked so strong — her Lester — lying there still in death. His expression was unchanged — defiant, determined, albeit peaceful. Word had come from Mrs. Kane that she would arrive on the Wednesday following. It was decided to hold the body. Jennie learned from Mr. Watson that it was to be transferred to Cincinnati, where the Paces had a vault. Because of the arrival of various members of the family, Jennie withdrew to her own home; she could do nothing more.

The final ceremonies presented a peculiar commentary on the anomalies of existence. It was arranged with Mrs. Kane by wire that the body should be transferred to Imogene’s residence, and the funeral held from there. Robert, who arrived the night Lester died; Berry Dodge, Imogene’s husband; Mr. Midgely, and three other citizens of prominence were selected as pall-bearers. Louise and her husband came from Buffalo; Amy and her husband from Cincinnati. The house was full to overflowing with citizens who either sincerely wished or felt it expedient to call. Because of the fact that Lester and his family were tentatively Catholic, a Catholic priest was called in and the ritual of that Church was carried out. It was curious to see him lying in the parlour of this alien residence, candles at his head and feet, burning sepulchrally, a silver cross upon his breast, caressed by his waxen fingers. He would have smiled if he could have seen himself, but the Kane family was too conventional, too set in its convictions, to find anything strange in this. The Church made no objection, of course. The family was distinguished. What more could be desired?

On Wednesday Mrs. Kane arrived. She was greatly distraught, for her love, like Jennie’s, was sincere. She left her room that night when all was silent and leaned over the coffin, studying by the light of the burning candles Lester’s beloved features. Tears trickled down her cheeks, for she had been happy with him. She caressed his cold cheeks and hands. “Poor, dear Lester!” she whispered. “Poor, brave soul!” No one told her that he had sent for Jennie. The Kane family did not know.

Meanwhile in the house on South Park Avenue sat a woman who was enduring alone the pain, the anguish of an irreparable loss. Through all these years the subtle hope had persisted, in spite of every circumstance, that somehow life might bring him back to her. He had come, it is true — he really had in death — but he had gone again. Where? Whither her mother, whither Gerhardt, whither Vesta had gone? She could not hope to see him again, for the papers had informed her of his removal to Mrs. Midgely’s residence, and of the fact that he was to be taken from Chicago to Cincinnati for burial. The last ceremonies in Chicago were to be held in one of the wealthy Roman Catholic churches of the South Side, St. Michael’s, of which the Midgely’s were members.

Jennie felt deeply about this. She would have liked so much to have had him buried in Chicago, where she could go to the grave occasionally, but this was not to be. She was never a master of her fate. Others invariable controlled. She thought of him as being taken from her finally by the removal of the body to Cincinnati, as though distance made any difference. She decided at last to veil herself heavily and attend the funeral at the church. The paper had explained that the services would be at two in the afternoon. Then at four the body would be taken to the depot, and transferred to the train; the members of the family would accompany it to Cincinnati. She thought of this as another opportunity. She might go to the depot.

A little before the time for the funeral cortege to arrive at the church there appeared at one of its subsidiary entrances a woman in black, heavily veiled, who took a seat in an inconspicuous corner. She was a little nervous at first, for, seeing that the church was dark and empty, she feared lest she had mistaken the time and place; but after ten minutes of painful suspense a bell in the church tower began to toll solemnly. Shortly thereafter an acolyte in black gown and white surplice appeared and lighted groups of candles on either side of the altar. A hushed stirring of feet in the choir-loft indicated that the service was to be accompanied by music. Some loiterers, attracted by the bell, some idle strangers, a few acquaintances and citizens not directly invited appeared and took seats.

Jennie watched all this with wondering eyes. Never in her life had she been inside a Catholic church. The gloom, the beauty of the windows, the whiteness of the altar, the golden flames of the candles impressed her. She was suffused with a sense of sorrow, loss, beauty, and mystery. Life in all its vagueness and uncertainty seemed typified by this scene.

As the bell tolled there came from the sacristy a procession of altar-boys. The smallest, an angelic youth of eleven, came first, bearing aloft a magnificent silver cross. In the hands of each subsequent pair of servitors was held a tall, lighted candle. The priest, in black cloth and lace, attended by an acolyte on either hand, followed. The procession passed out the entrance into the vestibule of the church, and was not seen again until the choir began a mournful, responsive chant, the Latin supplication for mercy and peace.

Then, at this sound the solemn procession made its reappearance. There came the silver cross, the candles, the dark-faced priest, reading dramatically to himself as he walked, and the body of Lester in a great black coffin, with silver handles, carried by the pall-bearers, who kept an even pace. Jennie stiffened perceptibly, her nerves responding as though to a shock from an electric current. She did not know any of these men. She did not know Robert. She had never seen Mr. Midgely. Of the long company of notables who followed two by two she recognised only three, whom Lester had pointed out to her in times past. Mrs. Kane she saw, of course, for she was directly behind the coffin, leaning on the arm of a stranger; behind her walked Mr. Watson, solemn, gracious. He gave a quick glance to either side, evidently expecting to see her somewhere; but not finding her, he turned his eyes gravely forward and walked on. Jennie looked with all her eyes, her heart gripped by pain. She seemed so much a part of this solemn ritual, and yet infinitely removed from it all.

The procession reached the altar rail, and the coffin was put down. A white shroud bearing the insignia of suffering, a black cross, was put over it, and the great candles were set beside it. There were the chanted invocations and responses, the sprinkling of the coffin with holy water, the lighting and swinging of the censer and then the mumbled responses of the auditors to the Lord’s Prayer and to its Catholic addition, the invocation to the Blessed Virgin. Jennie was overawed and amazed, but no show of form colorful, impression imperial, could take away the sting of death, the sense of infinite loss. To Jennie the candles, the incense, the holy song were beautiful. They touched the deep chord of melancholy in her, and made it vibrate through the depths of her being. She was as a house filled with mournful melody and the presence of death. She cried and cried. She could see, curiously, that Mrs. Kane was sobbing convulsively also.

When it was all over the carriages were entered and the body was borne to the station. All the guests and strangers departed, and finally, when all was silent, she arose. Now she would go to the depot also, for she was hopeful of seeing his body put on the train. They would have to bring it out on the platform, just as they did in Vesta’s case. She took a car, and a little later she entered the waiting-room of the depot. She lingered about, first in the concourse, where the great iron fence separated the passengers from the tracks, and then in the waiting-room, hoping to discover the order of proceedings. She finally observed the group of immediate relatives waiting — Mrs. Kane, Robert, Mrs. Midgely, Louise, Amy, Imogene, and the others. She actually succeeded in identifying most of them, though it was not knowledge in this case, but pure instinct and intuition.

No one had noticed it in the stress of excitement, but it was Thanksgiving Eve. Throughout the great railroad station there was a hum of anticipation, that curious ebullition of fancy which springs from the thought of pleasures to come. People were going away for the holiday. Carriages were at the station entries. Announcers were calling in stentorian voices the destination of each new train as the time of its departure drew near. Jennie heard with a desperate ache the description of a route which she and Lester had taken more than once, slowly and melodiously emphasised. “Detroit, Toledo, Cleveland, Buffalo, and New York.” There were cries of trains for “Fort Wayne, Columbus, Pittsburg, Philadelphia, and points East,” and then finally for “Indianapolis, Louisville, Columbus, Cincinnati, and points South.” The hour had struck.

Several times Jennie had gone to the concourse between the waiting-room and the tracks to see if through the iron grating which separated her from her beloved she could get one last look at the coffin, or the great wooden box which held it, before it was put on the train. Now she saw it coming. There was a baggage porter pushing a truck into position near the place where the baggage car would stop. On it was Lester, that last shadow of his substance, incased in the honours of wood, and cloth, and silver. There was no thought on the part of the porter of the agony of loss which was represented here. He could not see how wealth and position in this hour were typified to her mind as a great fence, a wall, which divided her eternally from her beloved. Had it not always been so? Was not her life a patchwork of conditions made and affected by these things which she saw — wealth and force — which had found her unfit? She had evidently been born to yield, not seek. This panoply of power had been paraded before her since childhood. What could she do now but stare vaguely after it as it marched triumphantly by? Lester had been of it. Him it respected. Of her it knew nothing. She looked through the grating, and once more there came the cry of “Indianapolis, Louisville, Columbus, Cincinnati, and points South.” A long red train, brilliantly lighted, composed of baggage cars, day coaches, a dining-car, set with white linen and silver, and a half dozen comfortable Pullmans, rolled in and stopped. A great black engine, puffing and glowing, had it all safely in tow.

As the baggage car drew near the waiting truck a train-hand in blue, looking out of the car, called to some one within.

“Hey, Jack! Give us a hand here. There’s a stiff outside!”

Jennie could not hear.

All she could see was the great box that was so soon to disappear. All she could feel was that this train would start presently, and then it would all be over. The gates opened, the passengers poured out. There were Robert, and Amy, and Louise, and Midgely — all making for the Pullman cars in the rear. They had said their farewells to their friends. No need to repeat them. A trio of assistants “gave a hand” at getting the great wooden case into the car. Jennie saw it disappear with an acute physical wrench at her heart.

There were many trunks to be put aboard, and then the door of the baggage car half closed, but not before the warning bell of the engine sounded. There was the insistent calling of “all aboard” from this quarter and that; then slowly the great locomotive began to move. Its bell was ringing, its steam hissing, its smoke-stack throwing aloft a great black plume of smoke that fell back over the cars like a pall. The fireman, conscious of the heavy load behind, flung open a flaming furnace door to throw in coal. Its light glowed like a golden eye.

Jennie stood rigid, staring into the wonder of this picture, her face white, her eyes wide, her hands unconsciously clasped, but one thought in her mind — they were taking his body away. A leaden November sky was ahead, almost dark. She looked, and looked until the last glimmer of the red lamp on the receding sleeper disappeared in the maze of smoke and haze overhanging the tracks of the far-stretching yard.

“Yes,” said the voice of a passing stranger, gay with the anticipation of coming pleasures. “We’re going to have a great time down there. Remember Annie? Uncle Jim is coming and Aunt Ella.”

Jennie did not hear that or anything else of the chatter and bustle around her. Before her was stretching a vista of lonely years down which she was steadily gazing. Now what? She was not so old yet. There were those two orphan children to raise. They would marry and leave after a while, and then what? Days and days in endless reiteration, and then —?

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Дата добавления: 2015-11-04