Теодор Драйзер
The "Genius"
CHAPTER VII
It would be impossible to describe even in so detailed an account as this the subtleties, vagaries, beauties and terrors of the emotions which seized upon him, and which by degrees began also to possess Suzanne, once he became wholly infatuated with her. Mrs. Dale, was, after a social fashion, one of Eugene's best friends. She had since she had first come to know him spread his fame far and wide as an immensely clever publisher and editor, an artist of the greatest power, and a man of lovely and delightful ideas and personal worth. He knew from various conversations with her that Suzanne was the apple of her eye. He had heard her talk, had, in fact, discussed with her the difficulties of rearing a simple mannered, innocent-minded girl in present day society. She had confided to him that it had been her policy to give Suzanne the widest liberty consistent with good-breeding and current social theories. She did not want to make her bold or unduly self-reliant, and yet she wanted her to be free and natural. Suzanne, she was convinced, from long observation and many frank conversations, was innately honest, truthful and clean-minded. She did not understand her exactly, for what mother can clearly understand any child; but she thought she read her well enough to know that she was in some indeterminate way forceful and able, like her father, and that she would naturally gravitate to what was worth while in life.
Had she any talent? Mrs. Dale really did not know. The girl had vague yearnings toward something which was anything but social in its quality. She did not care anything at all for most of the young men and women she met. She went about a great deal, but it was to ride and drive. Games of chance did not interest her. Drawing-room conversations were amusing to her, but not gripping. She liked interesting characters, able books, striking pictures. She had been particularly impressed with those of Eugene's; she had seen and had told her mother that they were wonderful. She loved poetry of high order, and was possessed of a boundless appetite for the ridiculous and the comic. An unexpected faux pas was apt to throw her into uncontrollable fits of laughter and the funny page selections of the current newspaper artists, when she could obtain them, amused her intensely. She was a student of character, and of her own mother, and was beginning to see clearly what were the motives that were prompting her mother in her attitude toward herself, quite as clearly as that person did herself and better. At bottom she was more talented than her mother, but in a different way. She was not, as yet, as self-controlled, or as understanding of current theories and beliefs as her mother, but she was artistic, emotional, excitable, in an intellectual way, and capable of high flights of fancy and of intense and fine appreciations. Her really sensuous beauty was nothing to her. She did not value it highly. She knew she was beautiful, and that men and boys were apt to go wild about her, but she did not care. They must not be so silly, she thought. She did not attempt to attract them in any way. On the contrary, she avoided every occasion of possible provocation. Her mother had told her plainly how susceptible men were, how little their promises meant, how careful she must be of her looks and actions. In consequence, she went her way as gaily and yet as inoffensively as she could, trying to avoid the sadness of entrancing anyone hopelessly and wondering what her career was to be. Then Eugene appeared.
With his arrival, Suzanne had almost unconsciously entered upon a new phase of her existence. She had seen all sorts of men in society, but those who were exclusively social were exceedingly wearisome to her. She had heard her mother say that it was an important thing to marry money and some man of high social standing, but who this man was to be and what he was to be like she did not know. She did not look upon the typical society men she had encountered as answering suitably to the term high. She had seen some celebrated wealthy men of influential families, but they did not appear to her really human enough to be considered. Most of them were cold, self-opinionated, ultra-artificial to her easy, poetic spirit. In the realms of real distinction were many men whom the papers constantly talked about, financiers, politicians, authors, editors, scientists, some of whom were in society, she understood, but most of whom were not. She had met a few of them as a girl might. Most of those she met, or saw, were old and cold and paid no attention to her whatever. Eugene had appeared trailing an atmosphere of distinction and acknowledged ability and he was young. He was good looking, too – laughing and gay. It seemed almost impossible at first to her that one so young and smiling should be so able, as her mother said. Afterwards, when she came to know him, she began to feel that he was more than able; that he could do anything he pleased. She had visited him once in his office, accompanied by her mother, and she had been vastly impressed by the great building, its artistic finish, Eugene's palatial surroundings. Surely he was the most remarkable young man she had ever known. Then came his incandescent attentions to her, his glowing, radiant presence and then —
Eugene speculated deeply on how he should proceed. All at once, after this night, the whole problem of his life came before him. He was married; he was highly placed socially, better than he had ever been before. He was connected closely with Colfax, so closely that he feared him, for Colfax, in spite of certain emotional vagaries of which Eugene knew, was intensely conventional. Whatever he did was managed in the most offhand way and with no intention of allowing his home life to be affected or disrupted. Winfield, whom also Mrs. Dale knew, was also conventional to outward appearances. He had a mistress, but she was held tightly in check, he understood. Eugene had seen her at the new casino, or a portion of it, the East Wing, recently erected at Blue Sea, and he had been greatly impressed with her beauty. She was smart, daring, dashing. Eugene looked at her then, wondering if the time would ever come when he could dare an intimacy of that character. So many married men did. Would he ever attempt it and succeed?
Now that he had met Suzanne, however, he had a different notion of all this, and it had come over him all at once. Heretofore in his dreams, he had fancied he might strike up an emotional relationship somewhere which would be something like Winfield's towards Miss De Kalb, as she was known, and so satisfy the weary longing that was in him for something new and delightful in the way of a sympathetic relationship with beauty. Since seeing Suzanne, he wanted nothing of this, but only some readjustment or rearrangement of his life whereby he could have Suzanne and Suzanne only. Suzanne! Suzanne! Oh, that dream of beauty. How was he to obtain her, how free his life of all save a beautiful relationship with her? He could live with her forever and ever. He could, he could! Oh, this vision, this dream!
It was the Sunday following the dance that Suzanne and Eugene managed to devise another day together, which, though, it was one of those semi-accidental, semi-voiceless, but nevertheless not wholly thoughtless coincidences which sometimes come about without being wholly agreed upon or understood in the beginning, was nevertheless seized upon by them, accepted silently and semi-consciously, semi-unconsciously worked out together. Had they not been very strongly drawn to each other by now, this would not have happened at all. But they enjoyed it none the less. To begin with, Mrs. Dale was suffering from a sick headache the morning after. In the next place, Kinroy suggested to his friends to go for a lark to South Beach, which was one of the poorest and scrubbiest of all the beaches on Staten Island. In the next place, Mrs. Dale suggested that Suzanne be allowed to go and that perhaps Eugene would be amused. She rather trusted him as a guide and mentor.
Eugene said calmly that he did not object. He was eager to be anywhere alone with Suzanne, and he fancied that some opportunity would present itself whereby once they were there, they could be together, but he did not want to show it. Once more the car was called and they departed, being let off at one end of a silly panorama which stretched its shabby length for a mile along the shore. The chauffeur took the car back to the house, it being agreed that they could reach him by phone. The party started down the plank walk, but almost immediately, because of different interests, divided. Eugene and Suzanne stopped to shoot at a shooting gallery. Next they stopped at a cane rack to ring canes. Anything was delightful to Eugene which gave him an opportunity to observe his inamorata, to see her pretty face, her smile, and to hear her heavenly voice. She rung a cane for him. Every gesture of hers was perfection; every look a thrill of delight. He was walking in some elysian realm which had nothing to do with the tawdry evidence of life about him.
They followed the boardwalk southward, after a ride in the Devil's Whirlpool, for by now Suzanne was caught in the persuasive subtlety of his emotion and could no more do as her honest judgment would have dictated than she could have flown. It needed some shock, some discovery to show her whither she was drifting and this was absent. They came to a new dance hall, where a few servant girls and their sweethearts were dancing, and for a lark Eugene proposed that they should enter. They danced together again, and though the surroundings were so poor and the music wretched, Eugene was in heaven.
"Let's run away and go to the Terra-Marine," he suggested, thinking of a hotel farther south along the shore. "It is so pleasant there. This is all so cheap."
"Where is it?" asked Suzanne.
"Oh, about three miles south of here. We could almost walk there."
He looked down the long hot beach, but changed his mind.
"I don't mind this," said Suzanne. "It's so very bad that it's good, you know. I like to see how these people enjoy themselves."
"But it is so bad," argued Eugene. "I wish I had your live, healthy attitude toward things. Still we won't go if you don't want to."
Suzanne paused, thinking. Should she run away with him? The others would be looking for them. No doubt they were already wondering where they had gone. Still it didn't make so much difference. Her mother trusted her with Eugene. They could go.
"Well," she said finally, "I don't care. Let's."
"What will the others think?" he said doubtfully.
"Oh, they won't mind," she said. "When they're ready, they'll call the car. They know that I am with you. They know that I can get the car when I want it. Mama won't mind."
Eugene led the way back to a train which ran to Hugenot, their destination. He was beside himself with the idea of a day all alone with Suzanne. He did not stay to consider or give ear to a thought concerning Angela at home or how Mrs. Dale would view it. Nothing would come of it. It was not an outrageous adventure. They took the train south, and in a little while were in another world, on the veranda of a hotel that overlooked the sea. There were numerous autos of idlers like themselves in a court before the hotel. There was a great grassy lawn with swings covered by striped awnings of red and blue and green, and beyond that a pier with many little white launches anchored near. The sea was as smooth as glass and great steamers rode in the distance trailing lovely plumes of smoke. The sun was blazing hot, brilliant, but here on the cool porch waiters were serving pleasure lovers with food and drink. A quartette of negroes were singing. Suzanne and Eugene seated themselves in rockers at first to view the perfect day and later went down and sat in a swing. Unthinkingly, without words, these two were gradually gravitating toward each other under some spell which had no relationship to everyday life. Suzanne looked at him in the double seated swing where they sat facing each other and they smiled or jested aimlessly, voicing nothing of all the upward welling deep that was stirring within.
"Was there ever such a day?" said Eugene finally, and in a voice that was filled with extreme yearning. "See that steamer out there. It looks like a little toy."
"Yes," said Suzanne with a little gasp. She inhaled her breath as she pronounced this word which gave it an airy breathlessness which had a touch of demure pathos in it. "Oh, it is perfect."
"Your hair," he said. "You don't know how nice you look. You fit this scene exactly."
"Don't speak of me," she pleaded. "I look so tousled. The wind in the train blew my hair so I ought to go the ladies' dressing room and hunt up a maid."
"Stay here," said Eugene. "Don't go. It is all so lovely."
"I won't now. I wish we might always sit here. You, just as you are there, and I here."
"Did you ever read the 'Ode on a Grecian Urn'?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember the lines 'Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave'?"
"Yes, yes," she answered ecstatically.
"'Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss
Though winning near the goal – yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love and she be fair.'"
"Don't, don't," she pleaded.
He understood. The pathos of that great thought was too much for her. It hurt her as it did him. What a mind!
They rocked and swung idly, he pushing with his feet at times in which labor she joined him. They strolled up the beach and sat down on a green clump of grass overlooking the sea. Idlers approached and passed. He laid his arm to her waist and held her hand, but something in her mood stayed him from any expression. Through dinner at the hotel it was the same and on the way to the train, for she wanted to walk through the dark. Under some tall trees, though, in the rich moonlight prevailing, he pressed her hand.
"Oh, Suzanne," he said.
"No, no," she breathed, drawing back.
"Oh, Suzanne," he repeated, "may I tell you?"
"No, no," she answered. "Don't speak to me. Please don't. Let's just walk. You and I."
He hushed, for her voice, though sad and fearsome, was imperious. He could not do less than obey this mood.
They went to a little country farmhouse which ranged along the track in lieu of a depot, and sang a quaint air from some old-time comic opera.
"Do you remember the first time when you came to play tennis with me?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Do you know I felt a strange vibration before your coming and all during your playing. Did you?"
"Yes."
"What is that, Suzanne?"
"I don't know."
"Don't you want to know?"
"No, no, Mr. Witla, not now."
"Mr. Witla?"
"It must be so."
"Oh, Suzanne!"
"Let's just think," she pleaded, "it is so beautiful."
They came to a station near Daleview, and walked over. On the way he slipped his arm about her waist, but, oh, so lightly.
"Suzanne," he asked, with a terrible yearning ache in his heart, "do you blame me? Can you?"
"Don't ask me," she pleaded, "not now. No, no."
He tried to press her a little more closely.
"Not now. I don't blame you."
He stopped as they neared the lawn and entered the house with a jesting air. Explanations about mixing in the crowd and getting lost were easy. Mrs. Dale smiled good naturedly. Suzanne went to her room.
CHAPTER VIII
Having involved himself thus far, seized upon and made his own this perfect flower of life, Eugene had but one thought, and that was to retain it. Now, of a sudden, had fallen from him all the weariness of years. To be in love again. To be involved in such a love, so wonderful, so perfect, so exquisite, it did not seem that life could really be so gracious as to have yielded him so much. What did it all mean, his upward rise during all these years? There had been seemingly but one triumph after another since the bitter days in Riverwood and after. The World, Summerfield's, The Kalvin Company, The United Magazine Corporation, Winfield, his beautiful apartment on the drive. Surely the gods were good. What did they mean? To give him fame, fortune and Suzanne into the bargain? Could such a thing really be? How could it be worked out? Would fate conspire and assist him so that he could be free of Angela – or —
The thought of Angela to him in these days was a great pain. At bottom Eugene really did not dislike her, he never had. Years of living with her had produced an understanding and a relationship as strong and as keen as it might well be in some respects. Angela had always fancied since the Riverwood days that she really did not love Eugene truly any more – could not, that he was too self-centered and selfish; but this on her part was more of an illusion than a reality. She did care for him in an unselfish way from one point of view, in that she would sacrifice everything to his interests. From another point of view it was wholly selfish, for she wanted him to sacrifice everything for her in return. This he was not willing to do and had never been. He considered that his life was a larger thing than could be encompassed by any single matrimonial relationship. He wanted freedom of action and companionship, but he was afraid of Angela, afraid of society, in a way afraid of himself and what positive liberty might do to him. He felt sorry for Angela – for the intense suffering she would endure if he forced her in some way to release him – and at the same time he felt sorry for himself. The lure of beauty had never for one moment during all these years of upward mounting effort been stilled.
It is curious how things seem to conspire at times to produce a climax. One would think that tragedies like plants and flowers are planted as seeds and grow by various means and aids to a terrible maturity. Roses of hell are some lives, and they shine with all the lustre of infernal fires.
In the first place Eugene now began to neglect his office work thoroughly, for he could not fix his mind upon it any more than he could upon the affairs of the Sea Island Company, or upon his own home and Angela's illness. The morning after his South Beach experience with Suzanne and her curious reticence, he saw her for a little while upon the veranda of Daleview. She was not seemingly depressed, or at least, not noticeably so, and yet there was a gravity about her which indicated that a marked impression of some kind had been made upon her soul. She looked at him with wide frank eyes as she came out to him purposely to tell him that she was going with her mother and some friends to Tarrytown for the day.
"I have to go," she said. "Mamma has arranged it by phone."
"Then I won't see you any more here?"
"No."
"Do you love me, Suzanne?"
"Oh, yes, yes," she declared, and walked wearily to an angle of the wall where they could not be seen.
He followed her quickly, cautiously.
"Kiss me," he said, and she put her lips to his in a distraught frightened way. Then she turned and walked briskly off and he admired the robust swinging of her body. She was not tall, like himself, or small like Angela, but middle sized, full bodied, vigorous. He imagined now that she had a powerful soul in her, capable of great things, full of courage and strength. Once she was a little older, she would be very forceful and full of strong, direct thought.
He did not see her again for nearly ten days, and by that time he was nearly desperate. He was wondering all the time how he was to arrange this. He could not go on in this haphazard way, seeing her occasionally. Why she might leave town for the fall a little later and then what would he do? If her mother heard she would take her off to Europe and then would Suzanne forget? What a tragedy that would be! No, before that should happen, he would run away with her. He would realize all his investments and get away. He could not live without her. He must have her at any cost. What did the United Magazine Corporation amount to, anyway? He was tired of that work. Angela might have the Sea Island Realty Company's stock, if he could not dispose of it advantageously, or if he could, he would make provision for her out of what he should receive. He had some ready money – a few thousand dollars. This and his art – he could still paint – would sustain them. He would go to England with Suzanne, or to France. They would be happy if she really loved him and he thought she did. All this old life could go its way. It was a dreary thing, anyhow, without love. These were his first thoughts.
Later, he came to have different ones, but this was after he had talked to Suzanne again. It was a difficult matter to arrange. In a fit of desperation he called up Daleview one day, and asked if Miss Suzanne Dale was there. A servant answered, and in answer to the "who shall I say" he gave the name of a young man that he knew Suzanne knew. When she answered he said: "Listen, Suzanne! Can you hear very well?"
"Yes."
"Do you recognize my voice?"
"Yes."
"Please don't pronounce my name, will you?"
"No."
"Suzanne, I am crazy to see you. It has been ten days now. Are you going to be in town long?"
"I don't know. I think so."
"If anyone comes near you, Suzanne, simply hang up the receiver, and I will understand."
"Yes."
"If I came anywhere near your house in a car, could you come out and see me?"
"I don't know."
"Oh, Suzanne!"
"I'm not sure. I'll try. What time?"
"Do you know where the old fort road is, at Crystal Lake, just below you?"
"Yes."
"Do you know where the ice house is near the road there?"
"Yes."
"Could you come there?"
"What time?"
"At eleven tomorrow morning or two this afternoon or three."
"I might at two today."
"Oh, thank you for that. I'll wait for you, anyhow."
"All right. Good-bye."
And she hung up the receiver.
Eugene rejoiced at the fortunate outcome of this effort without thinking at first of the capable manner in which she had handled the situation. Truly he said afterwards she must be very courageous to think so directly and act so quickly, for it must have been very trying to her. This love of his was so new. Her position was so very difficult. And yet, on this first call when she had been suddenly put in touch with him, she had shown no signs of trepidation. Her voice had been firm and even, much more so than his, for he was nervously excited. She had taken in the situation at once and fallen into the ruse quite readily. Was she as simple as she seemed? Yes and no. She was simply capable, he thought and her capability had acted through her simplicity instantly.
At two the same day Eugene was there. He gave as an excuse to his secretary that he was going out for a business conference with a well-known author whose book he wished to obtain, and, calling a closed auto, but one not his own, journeyed to the rendezvous. He asked the man to drive down the road, making runs of half a mile to and fro while he sat in the shade of a clump of trees out of view of the road. Presently Suzanne came, bright and fresh as the morning, beautiful in a light purple walking costume of masterly design. She had on a large soft brimmed hat with long feathers of the same shade which became her exquisitely. She walked with an air of grace and freedom, and yet when he looked into her eyes, he saw a touch of trouble there.
"At last?" he said signaling her and smiling. "Come in here. My car is just up the road. Don't you think we had better get in? It's closed. We might be seen. How long can you stay?"
He took her in his arms and kissed her eagerly while she explained that she could not stay long. She had said she was going to the library, which her mother had endowed, for a book. She must be there by half past three or four at the least.
"Oh, we can talk a great deal by then," he said gaily. "Here comes the car. Let's get in."
He looked cautiously about, hailed it, and they stepped in quickly as it drew up.
"Perth Amboy," said Eugene, and they were off at high speed.
Once in the car all was perfect, for they could not be seen. He drew the shades partially and took her in his arms.
"Oh, Suzanne," he said, "how long it has seemed. How very long. Do you love me?"
"Yes, you know I do."
"Suzanne, how shall we arrange this? Are you going away soon? I must see you oftener."
"I don't know," she said. "I don't know what mama is thinking of doing. I know she wants to go up to Lenox in the fall."
"Oh, Pshaw!" commented Eugene wearily.
"Listen, Mr. Witla," said Suzanne thoughtfully. "You know we are running a terrible risk. What if Mrs. Witla should find out, or mama? It would be terrible."
"I know it," said Eugene. "I suppose I ought not to be acting in this way. But, oh, Suzanne, I am wild about you. I am not myself any longer. I don't know what I am. I only know that I love you, love you, love you!"
He gathered her in his arms and kissed her ecstatically. "How sweet you look. How beautiful you are. Oh, flower face! Myrtle Bloom! Angel Eyes! Divine Fire!" He hugged her in a long silent embrace, the while the car sped on.
"But what about us?" she asked, wide-eyed. "You know we are running a terrible risk. I was just thinking this morning when you called me up. It's dangerous, you know."
"Are you becoming sorry, Suzanne?"
"No."
"Do you love me?"
"You know I do."
"Then you will help me figure this out?"
"I want to. But listen, Mr. Witla, now listen to me. I want to tell you something." She was very solemn and quaint and sweet in this mood.
"I will listen to anything, baby mine, but don't call me Mr. Witla. Call me Eugene, will you?"
"Well, now, listen to me, Mr. – Mr. – Eugene."
"Not Mr. Eugene, just Eugene. Now say it. Eugene," he quoted his own name to her.
"Now listen to me, Mr. – now, listen to me, Eugene," she at last forced herself to say, and Eugene stopped her lips with his mouth.
"There," he said.
"Now listen to me," she went on urgently, "you know I am afraid mama will be terribly angry if she finds this out."
"Oh, will she?" interrupted Eugene jocosely.
Suzanne paid no attention to him.
"We have to be very careful. She likes you so much now that if she doesn't come across anything direct, she will never think of anything. She was talking about you only this morning."
"What was she saying?"
"Oh, what a nice man you are, and how able you are."
"Oh, nothing like that," replied Eugene jestingly.
"Yes, she did. And I think Mrs. Witla likes me. I can meet you sometimes when I'm there, but we must be so careful. I mustn't stay out long today. I want to think things out, too. You know I'm having a real hard time thinking about this."
Eugene smiled. Her innocence was so delightful to him, so naïve.
"What do you mean by thinking things out, Suzanne?" asked Eugene curiously. He was interested in the workings of her young mind, which seemed so fresh and wonderful to him. It was so delightful to find this paragon of beauty so responsive, so affectionate and helpful and withal so thoughtful. She was somewhat like a delightful toy to him, and he held her as reverently in awe as though she were a priceless vase.
"You know I want to think what I'm doing. I have to. It seems so terrible to me at times and yet you know, you know – "
"I know what?" he asked, when she paused.
"I don't know why I shouldn't if I want to – if I love you."
Eugene looked at her curiously. This attempt at analysis of life, particularly in relation to so trying and daring a situation as this, astonished him. He had fancied Suzanne more or less thoughtless and harmless as yet, big potentially, but uncertain and vague. Here she was thinking about this most difficult problem almost more directly than he was and apparently with more courage. He was astounded, but more than that, intensely interested. What had become of her terrific fright of ten days before? What was it she was thinking about exactly?
"What a curious girl you are," he said.
"Why am I?" she asked.
"Because you are. I didn't think you could think so keenly yet. I thought you would some day. But, how have you reasoned this out?"
"Did you ever read 'Anna Karénina'?" she asked him meditatively.
"Yes," he said, wondering that she should have read it at her age.
"What did you think of that?"
"Oh, it shows what happens, as a rule, when you fly in the face of convention," he said easily, wondering at the ability of her brain.
"Do you think things must happen that way?"
"No, I don't think they must happen that way. There are lots of cases where people do go against the conventions and succeed. I don't know. It appears to be all a matter of time and chance. Some do and some don't. If you are strong enough or clever enough to 'get away with it,' as they say, you will. If you aren't, you won't. What makes you ask?"
"Well," she said, pausing, her lips parted, her eyes fixed on the floor, "I was thinking that it needn't necessarily be like that, do you think? It could be different?"
"Yes, it could be," he said thoughtfully, wondering if it really could.
"Because if it couldn't," she went on, "the price would be too high. It isn't worth while."
"You mean, you mean," he said, looking at her, "that you would." He was thinking that she was deliberately contemplating making a sacrifice of herself for him. Something in her thoughtful, self-debating, meditative manner made him think so.
Suzanne looked out of the window and slowly nodded her head. "Yes," she said, solemnly, "if it could be arranged. Why not? I don't see why."
Her face was a perfect blossom of beauty, as she spoke. Eugene wondered whether he was waking or sleeping. Suzanne reasoning so! Suzanne reading "Anna Karénina" and philosophizing so! Basing a course of action on theorizing in connection with books and life, and in the face of such terrible evidence as "Anna Karénina" presented to the contrary of this proposition. Would wonders ever cease?
"You know," she said after a time, "I think mama wouldn't mind, Eugene. She likes you. I've heard her say so lots of times. Besides I've heard her talk this way about other people. She thinks people oughtn't to marry unless they love each other very much. I don't think she thinks it's necessary for people to marry at all unless they want to. We might live together if we wished, you know."
