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THE TITAN
begin early to take thought of one’s life. She suffered a disturbing sense of duty. Kilmer Duelma arrived at noon Friday with
six types of bags, a special valet, and a preposterous enthusiasm
for polo and hunting (diseases lately acquired from a hunting
set in the Berkshires). A cleverly contrived compliment supposed
to have emanated from Miss Fleming and conveyed to him with
tact by Mrs. Batjer brought him ambling into Berenice’s presence
suggesting a Sunday drive to Saddle Rock.
«Haw! haw! You know, I’m delighted to see you again. Haw! haw!
It’s been an age since I’ve seen the Haggertys. We missed you after
you left. Haw! haw! I did, you know. Since I saw you I have taken up
polo — three ponies with me all the time now — haw! haw! — a
regular stable nearly».
Berenice strove valiantly to retain a serene interest. Duty was in
her mind, the Chateau Brieul, the winter court of Clarissa Garrison,
some fi rst premonitions of the fl ight of time. Yet the drive was a bore,
conversation a burden, the struggle to respond titanic, impossible.
When Monday came she fl ed, leaving three days between that and
a week-end at Morristown. Mrs. Batjer — who read straws most capably — sighed. Her own Corscaden was not much beyond his money, but life must be lived and the ambitious must inherit wealth or
gather it wisely. Some impossible scheming silly would soon collect
Duelma, and then — She considered Berenice a little diffi cult.
Berenice could not help piecing together the memory of this
incident with her mother’s recent appeal in behalf of Lieutenant
Braxmar. A great, cloying, disturbing, disintegrating factor in her
life was revealed by the dawning discovery that she and her mother
were without much money, that aside from her lineage she was in
a certain sense an interloper in society. There were never rumors of
great wealth in connection with her — no fl attering whispers or
public notices regarding her station as an heiress. All the smug
minor manikins of the social world were on the qui vive for some
cotton-headed doll of a girl with an endless bank-account. By nature sybaritic, an intense lover of art fabrics, of stately functions, of
461
THEODORE DREISER
power and success in every form, she had been dreaming all this
while of a great soul-freedom and art-freedom under some such circumstances as the greatest individual wealth of the day, and only
that, could provide. Simultaneously she had vaguely cherished
the idea that if she ever found some one who was truly fond of her,
and whom she could love or even admire intensely — some one who
needed her in a deep, sincere way — she would give herself freely
and gladly. Yet who could it be? She had been charmed by Braxmar,
but her keen, analytic intelligence required some one harder, more
vivid, more ruthless, some one who would appeal to her as an immense force. Yet she must be conservative, she must play what cards
she had to win.
During his summer visit at Narragansett Cowperwood had
not been long disturbed by the presence of Braxmar, for, having
received special orders, the latter was compelled to hurry away to
Hampton Roads. But the following November, forsaking temporarily his diffi cult affairs in Chicago for New York and the Carter
apartment in Central Park South, Cowperwood again encountered
the Lieutenant, who arrived one evening brilliantly arrayed in full
offi cial regalia in order to escort Berenice to a ball. A high military
cap surmounting his handsome face, his epaulets gleaming in gold,
the lapels of his cape thrown back to reveal a handsome red silken
lining, his sword clanking by his side, he seemed a veritable singing
fl ame of youth. Cowperwood, caught in the drift of circumstance —
age, unsuitableness, the fl aring counter-attractions of romance and
vigor — fairly writhed in pain.
Berenice was so beautiful in a storm of diaphanous clinging
garments. He stared at them from an adjacent room, where he pretended to be reading, and sighed. Alas, how was his cunning and
foresight — even his — to overcome the drift of life itself? How
was he to make himself appealing to youth? Braxmar had the years,
the color, the bearing. Berenice seemed to-night, as she prepared
to leave, to be fairly seething with youth, hope, gaiety. He arose after a few moments and, giving business as an excuse, hurried away.
462
THE TITAN
But it was only to sit in his own rooms in a neighboring hotel and
meditate. The logic of the ordinary man under such circumstances,
compounded of the age-old notions of chivalry, self-sacrifi ce, duty
to higher impulses, and the like, would have been to step aside in
favor of youth, to give convention its day, and retire in favor of morality and virtue. Cowperwood saw things in no such moralistic
or altruistic light. «I satisfy myself», had ever been his motto, and
under that, however much he might sympathize with Berenice in
love or with love itself, he was not content to withdraw until he
was sure that the end of hope for him had really come. There had
been moments between him and Berenice — little approximations
toward intimacy — which had led him to believe that by no means
was she seriously opposed to him. At the same time this business of
the Lieutenant, so Mrs. Carter confi ded to him a little later, was
not to be regarded lightly. While Berenice might not care so much,
obviously Braxmar did.
«Ever since he has been away he has been storming her with letters», she remarked to Cowperwood, one afternoon. «I don’t think
he is the kind that can be made to take no for an answer».
«A very successful kind», commented Cowperwood, dryly. Mrs.
Carter was eager for advice in the matter. Braxmar was a man of
parts. She knew his connections. He would inherit at least six hundred thousand dollars at his father’s death, if not more. What about
her Louisville record? Supposing that should come out later? Would
it not be wise for Berenice to marry, and have the danger over with?
«It is a problem, isn’t it?» observed Cowperwood, calmly. «Are
you sure she’s in love?»
«Oh, I wouldn’t say that, but such things so easily turn into love.
I have never believed that Berenice could be swept off her feet by
any one — she is so thoughtful — but she knows she has her own
way to make in the world, and Mr. Braxmar is certainly eligible.
I know his cousins, the Clifford Porters, very well».
Cowperwood knitted his brows. He was sick to his soul with
this worry over Berenice. He felt that he must have her, even at
463
THEODORE DREISER
the cost of infl icting upon her a serious social injury. Better that she
should surmount it with him than escape it with another. It so happened, however, that the fi nal grim necessity of acting on any such
idea was spared him.
Imagine a dining-room in one of the principal hotels of New
York, the hour midnight, after an evening at the opera, to which
Cowperwood, as host, had invited Berenice, Lieutenant Braxmar,
and Mrs. Carter. He was now playing the role of disinterested host
and avuncular mentor.
His attitude toward Berenice, meditating, as he was, a course
which should be destructive to Braxmar, was gentle, courteous, serenely thoughtful. Like a true Mephistopheles he was waiting, surveying Mrs. Carter and Berenice, who were seated in front chairs
clad in such exotic draperies as opera-goers affect — Mrs. Carter in
pale-lemon silk and diamonds; Berenice in purple and old-rose,
with a jeweled comb in her hair. The Lieutenant in his dazzling uniform smiled and talked blandly, complimented the singers, whispered pleasant nothings to Berenice, descanted at odd moments
to Cowperwood on naval personages who happened to be present.
Coming out of the opera and driving through blowy, windy streets
to the Waldorf, they took the table reserved for them, and Cowperwood, after consulting with regard to the dishes and ordering
the wine, went back reminiscently to the music, which had been «La
Boheme». The death of Mimi and the grief of Rodolph, as voiced by
the splendid melodies of Puccini, interested him.
«That makeshift studio world may have no connection with
the genuine professional artist, but it’s very representative of life»,
he remarked.
«I don’t know, I’m sure», said Braxmar, seriously.
«All I know of Bohemia is what I have read in books — Trilby, for instance, and —» He could think of no other, and stopped.
«I suppose it is that way in Paris».
He looked at Berenice for confi rmation and to win a smile.
Owing to her mobile and sympathetic disposition, she had during
464
THE TITAN
the opera been swept from period to period by surges of beauty too
gay or pathetic for words, but clearly comprehended of the spirit.
Once when she had been lost in dreamy contemplation, her hands
folded on her knees, her eyes fi xed on the stage, both Braxmar and
Cowperwood had studied her parted lips and fi ne profi le with common impulses of emotion and enthusiasm. Realizing after the mood
was gone that they had been watching her, Berenice had continued
the pose for a moment, then had waked as from a dream with a sigh.
This incident now came back to her as well as her feeling in regard
to the opera generally.
«It is very beautiful», she said; «I do not know what to say. People
are like that, of course. It is so much better than just dull comfort.
Life is really fi nest when it’s tragic, anyhow».
She looked at Cowperwood, who was studying her; then at Braxmar, who saw himself for the moment on the captain’s bridge of
a battle-ship commanding in time of action. To Cowperwood came
back many of his principal moments of diffi culty. Surely his life had
been suffi ciently dramatic to satisfy her.
«I don’t think I care so much for it», interposed Mrs. Carter. «One
gets tired of sad happenings. We have enough drama in real life».
Cowperwood and Braxmar smiled faintly. Berenice looked
contemplatively away. The crush of diners, the clink of china and
glass, the bustling to and fro of waiters, and the strumming of
the orchestra diverted her somewhat, as did the nods and smiles of
some entering guests who recognized Braxmar and herself, but
not Cowperwood.
Suddenly from a neighboring door, opening from the men’s cafe
and grill, there appeared the semi-intoxicated fi gure of an ostensibly swagger society man, his clothing somewhat awry, an opera-coat
hanging loosely from one shoulder, a crush-opera-hat dangling in
one hand, his eyes a little bloodshot, his under lip protruding slightly and defi antly, and his whole visage proclaiming that devil-maycare, superior, and malicious aspect which the drunken rake does
not so much assume as achieve. He looked sullenly, uncertainly
465
THEODORE DREISER
about; then, perceiving Cowperwood and his party, made his way
thither in the half-determined, half-inconsequential fashion of one
not quite sound after his cups. When he was directly opposite Cowperwood’s table — the cynosure of a number of eyes — he suddenly
paused as if in recognition, and, coming over, laid a genial and yet
condescending hand on Mrs. Carter’s bare shoulder.
«Why, hello, Hattie!» he called, leeringly and jeeringly. «What
are you doing down here in New York? You haven’t given up your
business in Louisville, have you, eh, old sport? Say, lemme tell you
something. I haven’t had a single decent girl since you left — not
one. If you open a house down here, let me know, will you?»
He bent over her smirkingly and patronizingly the while he
made as if to rummage in his white waistcoat pocket for a card.
At the same moment Cowperwood and Braxmar, realizing quite
clearly the import of his words, were on their feet. While Mrs. Carter
was pulling and struggling back from the stranger, Braxmar’s hand
(he being the nearest) was on him, and the head waiter and two assistants had appeared.
«What is the trouble here? What has he done?» they demanded.
Meanwhile the intruder, leering contentiously at them all, was
exclaiming in very audible tones: «Take your hands off. Who are
you? What the devil have you got to do with this? Don’t you think
I know what I’m about? She knows me — don’t you, Hattie? That’s
Hattie Starr, of Louisville — ask her! She kept one of the swellest
ever run in Louisville. What do you people want to be so upset
about? I know what I’m doing. She knows me».
He not only protested, but contested, and with some vehemence.
Cowperwood, Braxmar, and the waiters forming a cordon, he was
shoved and hustled out into the lobby and the outer entranceway,
and an offi cer was called.
«This man should be arrested», Cowperwood protested, vigorously, when the latter appeared. «He has grossly insulted lady
guests of mine. He is drunk and disorderly, and I wish to make that
charge. Here is my card. Will you let me know where to come?»
466
THE TITAN
He handed it over, while Braxmar, scrutinizing the stranger with
military care, added: «I should like to thrash you within an inch of
your life. If you weren’t drunk I would. If you are a gentleman and
have a card I want you to give it to me. I want to talk to you later».
He leaned over and presented a cold, hard face to that of Mr. Beales
Chadsey, of Louisville, Kentucky.
«Tha’s all right, Captain», leered Chadsey, mockingly. «I got a card.
No harm done. Here you are. You c’n see me any time you want —
Hotel Buckingham, Fifth Avenue and Fiftieth Street. I got a right to
speak to anybody I please, where I please, when I please. See?»
He fumbled and protested while the offi cer stood by read to take
him in charge. Not fi nding a card, he added: «Tha’s all right. Write it
down. Beales Chadsey, Hotel Buckingham, or Louisville, Kentucky.
See me any time you want to. Tha’s Hattie Starr. She knows me.
I couldn’t make a mistake about her — not once in a million. Many’s
the night I spent in her house».
Braxmar was quite ready to lunge at him had not the offi cer intervened.
Back in the dining-room Berenice and her mother were sitting,
the latter quite fl ustered, pale, distrait, horribly taken aback — by
far too much distressed for any convincing measure of deception.
«Why, the very idea!» she was saying. «That dreadful man! How
terrible! I never saw him before in my life».
Berenice, disturbed and nonplussed, was thinking of the familiar and lecherous leer with which the stranger had addressed her
mother — the horror, the shame of it. Could even a drunken man,
if utterly mistaken, be so defi ant, so persistent, so willing to explain?
What shameful things had she been hearing?
«Come, mother», she said, gently, and with dignity; «never mind,
it is all right. We can go home at once. You will feel better when you
are out of here».
She called a waiter and asked him to say to the gentlemen that
they had gone to the women’s dressing-room. She pushed an intervening chair out of the way and gave her mother her arm.
467
THEODORE DREISER
«To think I should be so insulted», Mrs. Carter mumbled on,
«here in a great hotel, in the presence of Lieutenant Braxmar and
Mr. Cowperwood! This is too dreadful. Well, I never».
She half whimpered as she walked; and Berenice, surveying
the room with dignity, a lofty superiority in her face, led solemnly forth, a strange, lacerating pain about her heart. What was at
the bottom of these shameful statements? Why should this drunken
roisterer have selected her mother, of all other women in the dining-room, for the object of these outrageous remarks? Why should
her mother be stricken, so utterly collapsed, if there were not some
truth in what he had said? It was very strange, very sad, very grim,
very horrible. What would that gossiping, scandal-loving world of
which she knew so much say to a scene like this? For the fi rst time in
her life the import and horror of social ostracism fl ashed upon her.
The following morning, owing to a visit paid to the Jefferson
Market Police Court by Lieutenant Braxmar, where he proposed, if
satisfaction were not immediately guaranteed, to empty cold lead
into Mr. Beales Chadsey’s stomach, the following letter on Buckingham stationery was written and sent to Mrs. Ira George Carter — 36
Central Park South:
DEAR MADAM:
Last evening, owing to a drunken debauch, for which I have no
satisfactory or suitable explanation to make, I was the unfortunate
occasion of an outrage upon your feelings and those of your daughter and friends, for which I wish most humbly to apologize. I cannot
tell you how sincerely I regret whatever I said or did, which I cannot now clearly recall. My mental attitude when drinking is both
contentious and malicious, and while in this mood and state I was
the author of statements which I know to be wholly unfounded.
In my drunken stupor I mistook you for a certain notorious woman of Louisville — why, I have not the slightest idea. For this wholly
shameful and outrageous conduct I sincerely ask your pardon —
beg your forgiveness. I do not know what amends I can make, but
468
THE TITAN
anything you may wish to suggest I shall gladly do. In the mean
while I hope you will accept this letter in the spirit in which it is
written and as a slight attempt at recompense which I know can
never fully be made.
Very sincerely,
BEALES CHADSEY.
At the same time Lieutenant Braxmar was fully aware before
this letter was written or sent that the charges implied against Mrs.
Carter were only too well founded. Beales Chadsey had said drunk
what twenty men in all sobriety and even the police at Louisville
would corroborate. Chadsey had insisted on making this clear to
Braxmar before writing the letter.
CHAPTER LII
BEHIND THE ARRAS
Berenice, perusing the apology from Beales Chadsey, which her
mother — very much fagged and weary — handed her the next
morning, thought that it read like the overnight gallantry of some
one who was seeking to make amends without changing his point of
view. Mrs. Carter was too obviously self-conscious. She protested too
much. Berenice knew that she could fi nd out for herself if she chose,
but would she choose? The thought sickened her, and yet who was
she to judge too severely?
Cowperwood came in bright and early to put as good a face on
the matter as he could. He explained how he and Braxmar had gone
to the police station to make a charge; how Chadsey, sobered by arrest, had abandoned his bravado and humbly apologized. When
viewing the letter handed him by Mrs. Carter he exclaimed:
«Oh yes. He was very glad to promise to write that if we would
let him off. Braxmar seemed to think it was necessary that he should.
I wanted the judge to impose a fi ne and let it go at that. He was
drunk, and that’s all there was to it».
He assumed a very unknowing air when in the presence of Berenice and her mother, but when alone with the latter his manner
changed completely.
«Brazen it out», he commanded. «It doesn’t amount to anything.
Braxmar doesn’t believe that this man really knows anything. This
letter is enough to convince Berenice. Put a good face on it; more
470
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