Jennie Gerhardt: A Novel

by Theodore Dreiser

  CHAPTER LI

  Lester had thought of his predicament earnestly enough, and hewould have been satisfied to act soon if it had not been that one ofthose disrupting influences which sometimes complicate our affairsentered into his Hyde Park domicile. Gerhardt's health began rapidlyto fail.

  Little by little he had been obliged to give up his various dutiesabout the place; finally he was obliged to take to his bed. He lay inhis room, devotedly attended by Jennie and visited constantly byVesta, and occasionally by Lester. There was a window not far from hisbed, which commanded a charming view of the lawn and one of thesurrounding streets, and through this he would gaze by the hour,wondering how the world was getting on without him. He suspected thatWoods, the coachman, was not looking after the horses and harnesses aswell as he should, that the newspaper carrier was getting negligent inhis delivery of the papers, that the furnace man was wasting coal, orwas not giving them enough heat. A score of little petty worries,which were nevertheless real enough to him. He knew how a house shouldbe kept. He was always rigid in his performance of his self-appointedduties, and he was so afraid that things would not go right. Jenniemade for him a most imposing and sumptuous dressing-gown of bastedwool, covered with dark-blue silk, and bought him a pair of soft,thick, wool slippers to match, but he did not wear them often. Hepreferred to lie in bed, read his Bible and the Lutheran papers, andask Jennie how things were getting along.

  "I want you should go down in the basement and see what that felleris doing. He's not giving us any heat," he would complain. "I bet Iknow what he does. He sits down there and reads, and then he forgetswhat the fire is doing until it is almost out. The beer is right therewhere he can take it. You should lock it up. You don't know what kindof a man he is. He may be no good."

  Jennie would protest that the house was fairly comfortable, thatthe man was a nice, quiet, respectable-looking American--that ifhe did drink a little beer it would not matter. Gerhardt wouldimmediately become incensed.

  "That is always the way," he declared vigorously. "You have nosense of economy. You are always so ready to let things go if I am notthere. He is a nice man! How do you know he is a nice man? Does hekeep the fire up? No! Does he keep the walks clean? If you don't watchhim he will be just like the others, no good. You should go around andsee how things are for yourself."

  "All right, papa," she would reply in a genial effort to soothehim, "I will. Please don't worry. I'll lock up the beer. Don't youwant a cup of coffee now and some toast?"

  "No," Gerhardt would sigh immediately, "my stomach it don't doright. I don't know how I am going to come out of this."

  Dr. Makin, the leading physician of the vicinity, and a man ofconsiderable experience and ability, called at Jennie's request andsuggested a few simple things--hot milk, a wine tonic, rest, buthe told Jennie that she must not expect too much. "You know he isquite well along in years now. He is quite feeble. If he were twentyyears younger we might do a great deal for him. As it is he is quitewell off where he is. He may live for some time. He may get up and bearound again, and then he may not. We must all expect these things. Ihave never any care as to what may happen to me. I am too oldmyself."

  Jennie felt sorry to think that her father might die, but she waspleased to think that if he must it was going to be under suchcomfortable circumstances. Here at least he could have every care.

  It soon became evident that this was Gerhardt's last illness, andJennie thought it her duty to communicate with her brothers andsisters. She wrote Bass that his father was not well, and had a letterfrom him saying that he was very busy and couldn't come on unless thedanger was an immediate one. He went on to say that George was inRochester, working for a wholesale wall-paper house--theSheff-Jefferson Company, he thought. Martha and her husband had goneto Boston. Her address was a little suburb named Belmont, just outsidethe city. William was in Omaha, working for a local electric company.Veronica was married to a man named Albert Sheridan, who was connectedwith a wholesale drug company in Cleveland. "She never comes to seeme," complained Bass, "but I'll let her know." Jennie wrote each onepersonally. From Veronica and Martha she received brief replies. Theywere very sorry, and would she let them know if anything happened.George wrote that he could not think of coming to Chicago unless hisfather was very ill indeed, but that he would like to be informed fromtime to time how he was getting along. William, as he told Jennie sometime afterward, did not get her letter.

  The progress of the old German's malady toward final dissolutionpreyed greatly on Jennie's mind; for, in spite of the fact that theyhad been so far apart in times past, they had now grown very closetogether. Gerhardt had come to realize clearly that his outcastdaughter was goodness itself--at least, so far as he wasconcerned. She never quarreled with him, never crossed him in any way.Now that he was sick, she was in and out of his room a dozen times inan evening or an afternoon, seeing whether he was "all right," askinghow he liked his breakfast, or his lunch, or his dinner. As he grewweaker she would sit by him and read, or do her sewing in his room.One day when she was straightening his pillow he took her hand andkissed it. He was feeling very weak--and despondent. She lookedup in astonishment, a lump in her throat. There were tears in hiseyes.

  "You're a good girl, Jennie," he said brokenly. "You've been goodto me. I've been hard and cross, but I'm an old man. You forgive me,don't you?"

  "Oh, papa, please don't," she pleaded, tears welling from her eyes."You know I have nothing to forgive. I'm the one who has been allwrong."

  "No, no," he said; and she sank down on her knees beside him andcried. He put his thin, yellow hand on her hair. "There, there," hesaid brokenly, "I understand a lot of things I didn't. We get wiser aswe get older."

  She left the room, ostensibly to wash her face and hands, and criedher eyes out. Was he really forgiving her at last? And she had lied tohim so! She tried to be more attentive, but that was impossible. Butafter this reconciliation he seemed happier and more contented, andthey spent a number of happy hours together, just talking. Once hesaid to her, "You know I feel just like I did when I was a boy. If itwasn't for my bones I could get up and dance on the grass."

  Jennie fairly smiled and sobbed in one breath. "You'll getstronger, papa," she said. "You're going to get well. Then I'll takeyou out driving." She was so glad she had been able to make himcomfortable these last few years.

  As for Lester, he was affectionate and considerate.

  "Well, how is it to-night?" he would ask the moment he entered thehouse, and he would always drop in for a few minutes before dinner tosee how the old man was getting along. "He looks pretty well," hewould tell Jennie. "He's apt to live some time yet. I wouldn'tworry."

  Vesta also spent much time with her grandfather, for she had cometo love him dearly. She would bring her books, if it didn't disturbhim too much, and recite some of her lessons, or she would leave hisdoor open, and play for him on the piano. Lester had bought her ahandsome music-box also, which she would sometimes carry to his roomand play for him. At times he wearied of everything and everybody saveJennie; he wanted to be alone with her. She would sit beside him quitestill and sew. She could see plainly that the end was only a littleway off.

  Gerhardt, true to his nature, took into consideration all thevarious arrangements contingent upon his death. He wished to be buriedin the little Lutheran cemetery, which was several miles farther outon the South Side, and he wanted the beloved minister of his church toofficiate.

  "I want everything plain," he said. "Just my black suit and thoseSunday shoes of mine, and that black string tie. I don't want anythingelse. I will be all right."

  Jennie begged him not to talk of it, but he would. One day at fouro'clock he had a sudden sinking spell, and at five he was dead. Jennieheld his hands, watching his labored breathing; once or twice heopened his eyes to smile at her. "I don't mind going," he said, inthis final hour. "I've done what I could."

  "Don't talk of dying, papa," she pleaded.

  "It's the end," he said. "You've been
good to me. You're a goodwoman."

  She heard no other words from his lips.

  The finish which time thus put to this troubled life affectedJennie deeply. Strong in her kindly, emotional relationships, Gerhardthad appealed to her not only as her father, but as a friend andcounselor. She saw him now in his true perspective, a hard-working,honest, sincere old German, who had done his best to raise atroublesome family and lead an honest life. Truly she had been his onegreat burden, and she had never really dealt truthfully with him tothe end. She wondered now if where he was he could see that she hadlied. And would he forgive her? He had called her a good woman.

  Telegrams were sent to all the children. Bass wired that he wascoming, and arrived the next day. The others wired that they could notcome, but asked for details, which Jennie wrote. The Lutheran ministerwas called in to say prayers and fix the time of the burial service. Afat, smug undertaker was commissioned to arrange all the details. Somefew neighborhood friends called--those who had remained mostfaithful--and on the second morning following his death theservices were held. Lester accompanied Jennie and Vesta and Bass tothe little red brick Lutheran church, and sat stolidly through therather dry services. He listened wearily to the long discourse on thebeauties and rewards of a future life and stirred irritably whenreference was made to a hell. Bass was rather bored, but considerate.He looked upon his father now much as he would on any other man. OnlyJennie wept sympathetically. She saw her father in perspective, thelong years of trouble he had had, the days in which he had had to sawwood for a living, the days in which he had lived in a factory loft,the little shabby house they had been compelled to live in inThirteenth Street, the terrible days of suffering they had spent inLorrie Street, in Cleveland, his grief over her, his grief over Mrs.Gerhardt, his love and care of Vesta, and finally these last days.

  "Oh, he was a good man," she thought. "He meant so well." They sanga hymn, "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God," and then she sobbed.

  Lester pulled at her arm. He was moved to the danger-line himselfby her grief. "You'll have to do better than this," he whispered. "MyGod, I can't stand it. I'll have to get up and get out." Jenniequieted a little, but the fact that the last visible ties were beingbroken between her and her father was almost too much.

  At the grave in the Cemetery of the Redeemer, where Lester hadimmediately arranged to purchase a lot, they saw the plain coffinlowered and the earth shoveled in. Lester looked curiously at the baretrees, the brown dead grass, and the brown soil of the prairie turnedup at this simple graveside. There was no distinction to this burialplot. It was commonplace and shabby, a working-man's resting-place,but so long as he wanted it, it was all right. He studied Bass's keen,lean face, wondering what sort of a career he was cutting out forhimself. Bass looked to him like some one who would run a cigar storesuccessfully. He watched Jennie wiping her red eyes, and then he saidto himself again, "Well, there is something to her." The woman'semotion was so deep, so real. "There's no explaining a good woman," hesaid to himself.

  On the way home, through the wind-swept, dusty streets, he talkedof life in general, Bass and Vesta being present. "Jennie takes thingstoo seriously," he said. "She's inclined to be morbid. Life isn't asbad as she makes out with her sensitive feelings. We all have ourtroubles, and we all have to stand them, some more, some less. Wecan't assume that any one is so much better or worse off than any oneelse. We all have our share of troubles."

  "I can't help it," said Jennie. "I feel so sorry for somepeople."

  "Jennie always was a little gloomy," put in Bass.

  He was thinking what a fine figure of a man Lester was, howbeautifully they lived, how Jennie had come up in the world. He wasthinking that there must be a lot more to her than he had originallythought. Life surely did turn out queer. At one time he thought Jenniewas a hopeless failure and no good.

  "You ought to try to steel yourself to take things as they comewithout going to pieces this way," said Lester finally.

  Bass thought so too.

  Jennie stared thoughtfully out of the carriage window. There wasthe old house now, large and silent without Gerhardt. Just think, shewould never see him any more. They finally turned into the drive andentered the library. Jeannette, nervous and sympathetic, served tea.Jennie went to look after various details. She wondered curiouslywhere she would be when she died.