THE STOIC. Theodore Dreiser
darling. And I made him so real. He was so big and cold, and needed me so much out here. And now I’ll have to destroy him, my poor snowman, so that no one will have ever truly known him but me.” And all of a sudden she dashed the figure apart with Cowperwood’s cane. “See, I made you, and now I’m unmaking you!” And as she talked she powdered the snow through her gloved fingers, while he gazed at her wonderingly.
“Come, come, Bevy, sweet. What are you saying? And as for making and unmaking, do both, but don’t leave me. You are taking me into strange places, new and strange moods, a wonder world of your own, and I am happy to go. Do you believe that?”
“Of course, dear, of course,” she now replied as brightly and as differently as though no such scene as this had ever been. “It’s meant to be so. It must be.” And she slipped her arm under his. She appeared to have come out of some trance or illusion of her own, concerning which he would have liked to question her, but he felt that he should not. Yet, and more at this moment than ever before, there was that about her which thrilled him, as he realized that he could come and see and touch her, without let or hindrance, and that now, as never before, he was allowed to walk and talk and be with her. This was the substance quite, of all real earthly good and delight. Truly, he would never wish to part from her, for never before had he encountered anyone so varied, so different, so reasoning and practical and yet at the same time so unreal and whimsical as this. Histrionic, yes, and yet the most resourceful and colorful of all the women he had known!
And on the purely sensual side, there was something about her which from the beginning not only surprised but enticed him. She refused to permit herself either to be lost in or wholly ravished by the male. No mere commonplace fleshly instrument for the satisfaction of the lust of himself or any other was she. On the contrary, and always, however amorous or fevered she might be, still she was quite definitely conscious of her charms: the swirl of her red-gold hair about her face, the magnetism and implication of her inciting and compelling blue eyes, the sweetness of her mouth, with its enchanting and enigmatic smile.
Indeed, as he thought after the most shaking and reducing transports with her, hers was never a mere gross and savage lust, but a glorified and intense awareness and evaluation of her own beauty, enforcing its claims by the art of suggestion and thereby producing an effect that was different from any he had ever known. For it was not Berenice but himself who was most ravished mentally and sensually, indeed all but submerged in her own exotic consciousness of what this relationship implied.
Chapter 16
Realizing that it would be necessary for him to cooperate with Tollifer, at least in some small way, in order to bring about effective results in regard to Aileen, Cowperwood decided that he would inform her of his planned trip to London in a few weeks’ time, suggesting that if she chose to she might accompany him. And he would notify Tollifer to this effect, making plain to him that he would be expected to entertain her so that she would not be torturing herself with her husband’s neglect as she had in the past. His mood at the time was one of the best. After the long period of tragic emotional cleavage between them, he felt that at last he was about to adjust matters in such a way as would ease her sufferings and bring about at least a semblance of peace.
At sight of him—ruddy, assured, genial, a gardenia in his lapel, grey hat, grey gloves, and swinging a cane—Aileen was compelled to restrain herself in order not to smile more pleasantly than she felt he deserved. At once he began to talk of his affairs. Had she noticed from the papers that one of his bitterest enemies in Chicago had recently died? Well, that was the end of that worry! What were they going to have for dinner? He would like Adrian to prepare some sole Margu'ery, if it wasn’t too late. By the way, he had been very busy; he had been to Boston and to Baltimore, and shortly he must go to Chicago. But this London matter . . . he had been looking into that, and probably, very shortly, he would be going over there. How would she like to go along? Of course, he would be very busy while there, but she could run over to Paris, or Biarritz, and he might meet her week ends.
Whereupon Aileen, taken aback by this new development, leaned forward in her chair, her eyes alight with pleasure. Then catching herself, remembering her true relationship to this husband of hers, she sank back again. There had been too many subterfuges on his part for her to be sure of anything. Nevertheless, she decided it was best to assume that this invitation meant a genuine desire for her company.
“Fine! Do you really want me?” she asked.
“Would I be asking you, dear, if I didn’t? Of course, I want you. This is a serious move for me. It may prove a success, and it may not. Anyway,” and here he lied with his usual bland utilitarianism—a stab in the very vitals of love—“you were with me at the beginning of my other two adventures, and I think you should come in on this one, don’t you?”
“Yes, Frank, I would like to be in on it, if you feel that way. It would be wonderful. I’ll be ready whenever you decide to go. When do we sail—what boat?”
“I’ll have Jamieson find out, and let you know,” he said, referring to his personal secretary.
She walked to the door and rang for Carr to give him the order for dinner, her whole being suddenly revivified. A touch of the old life, this seemed, wherein she had been a part of both power and efficiency. She also ordered Carr to get out the luggage and report on its condition.
And then Cowperwood, expressing concern for the health of the tropical birds he had imported for his conservatory, suggested that they go and look at them. Aileen, now in a most cheerful mood, walked briskly beside him, watching him as he studied the two alert troupials from the Orinoco, and attempted by whistling to induce the male to utter his pellucid cry. Suddenly he turned to Aileen, and said:
“As you know, Aileen, I’ve always planned to make this house into a really fine museum. I keep buying these things, and eventually it should be one of the finest private collections. And I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how to arrange with you so that when I pass on, as I will, sooner or later, it will be kept, not so much as a memorial to me, but as a pleasure for people who care for things like this. I’m going to draw up a new will, and that’s one of the things I want to consider.”
Aileen was a little puzzled by all this. What did it mean?
“I’ll soon be sixty,” he went on, quietly, “and while I’m not thinking of dying just yet, I certainly feel that I ought to clear matters up. As three of my five executors, I’ve been intending to name Mr. Dolan, of Philadelphia, and Mr. Cole, as well as the Central Trust Company here. Both Dolan and Cole are men who understand the financial and executive side of things, and I’m sure they would carry out my wishes. But since I intend leaving you the use of this house for your lifetime, I’ve been thinking of joining you up with Dolan and Cole, so that you can either open the house to the public yourself or see that arrangements are made to do so. I want the house to be beautiful, and remain beautiful after I die.”
Aileen was now even more thrilled. She could not imagine what had brought about this serious consideration of herself in connection with her husband’s affairs, but she was flattered and gratified. It must be that he was beginning to take a more sobered view of life.
“You know, Frank,” she said, trying not to be too emotional, “how I’ve always felt about everything in connection with you. I’ve never had any other real life, and never want to have any, apart from you, although you don’t seem to feel that way any more. But as far as this house is concerned, if you leave it to me or make me one of your executors, you can rest assured that nothing will ever be changed by me. I never pretended to have the taste and knowledge that you have, but you know that your wishes will always be sacred to me.”
While she talked, Cowperwood was poking his finger at a green and orange macaw, whose harsh voice, harmonizing with his brazen colors, seemed to mock at the solemnity of his mood. Yet he was touched by Aileen’s words, and reached over and patted her on the shoulder.
“I know that, Aileen.