The Genius by Theodore Dreiser

“What shall we do, sweet?” he asked, as the cool morning air brushed their faces. It was a glorious day.

“I don’t care,” replied Suzanne. “I promised to be at the Almerdings some time today, but I didn’t say when. They won’t think anything of it if I don’t get there till after dinner. Will Mrs. Witla call up mama?”

“I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure she won’t.” He was thinking of his last conversation with Angela, when she said she would do nothing. “Is your mother likely to call you up?”

“I think not. Mama doesn’t usually bother when she knows where I am going. If she does, they’ll simply say I haven’t come yet. Will Mrs. Witla tell her, if she calls up there?”

“I think not,” he said. “No, I’m sure she won’t. Angela wants time to think. She isn’t going to do anything. She told me that this morning. She’s going to wait until she sees what I am going to do. It all depends now on how we play our cards.”

He strolled on, looking at the river and holding Suzanne’s hand. It was only a quarter to seven and the drive was comparatively empty.

“If she tells mama, it will make things very bad,” said Suzanne thoughtfully. “Do you really think she won’t?”

“I’m sure she won’t. I’m positive. She doesn’t want to do anything yet. It’s too dangerous. I think she thinks that maybe I will come round. Oh, what a life I’ve led! It seems like a dream, now that I have your love. You are so different, so generous! Your attitude is so unselfish! To have been ruled all these years in every little thing. This last trick of hers!”

He shook his head woefully. Suzanne looked at his weary face, her own as fresh as the morning.

“Oh, if I might only have had you to begin with!” he added.

“Listen, Eugene,” said Suzanne. “You know I feel sorry for Mrs. Witla. We shouldn’t have done what we did last night, but you made me. You know you will never listen to me, until it’s too late. You’re so headstrong! I don’t want you to leave Mrs. Witla unless you want to. You needn’t for me. I don’t want to marry you; not now, anyhow. I’d rather just give myself to you, if you want me to. I want time though, to think and plan. If mama should hear today, there would be a terrible time. If we have time to think, we may bring her round. I don’t care anything about what Mrs. Witla told you last night. I don’t want you to leave her. If we could just arrange some way. It’s mama, you know.”

She swung his hand softly in hers, pressing his fingers. She was deep in thought, for her mother presented a real problem.

“You know,” she went on, “mama isn’t narrow. She doesn’t believe much in marriage unless it’s ideal. Mrs. Witla’s condition wouldn’t make so much difference if only the child were here. I’ve been thinking about that. Mama might sanction some arrangement if she thought it would make me happy and there was no scandal. But I’ll have to have time to talk to her. It can’t be done right away.”

Eugene listened to this with considerable surprise, as he did to everything Suzanne volunteered. She seemed to have been thinking about these questions a long time. She was not free with her opinions. She hesitated and halted between words and in her cogitations, but when they were out this was what they came to. He wondered how sound they were.

“Suzanne,” he said, “you take my breath away! How you think! Do you know what you’re talking about? Do you know your mother at all well?”

“Mama? Oh, yes, I think I understand mama. You know she’s very peculiar. Mama is literary and romantic. She talks a great deal about liberty, but I don’t take in everything she says. I think mama is different from most women—she’s exceptional. She likes me, not so much as a daughter as a person. She’s anxious about me. You know, I think I’m stronger than mama. I think I could dominate her if I tried. She leans on me now a lot, and she can’t make me do anything unless I want to. I can make her come to my way of thinking, I believe. I have, lots of times. That’s what makes me think I might now, if I have time. It will take time to get her to do what I want.”

“How much time?” asked Eugene thoughtfully.

“Oh, I don’t know. Three months. Six months. I can’t tell. I would like to try, though.”

“And if you can’t, then what?”

“Why, then—why, then I’ll defy her, that’s all. I’m not sure, you know. But I think I can.”

“And if you can’t?”

“But I can. I’m sure I can.” She tossed her head gaily.

“And come to me?”

“And come to you.”

They were near One Hundredth Street, under the trees. There was a lone man some distance away, walking from them. Eugene caught Suzanne in his arms and implanted a kiss upon her mouth. “Oh, you divinity!” he exclaimed. “Helen! Circe!”

“No,” she replied, with smiling eyes. “No, not here. Wait till we get a car.”

“Shall we go to Claremont?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Then we might as well call a car and ride.”

They hunted a garage and sped northward, the wonderful wind of the morning cooling and refreshing their fevered senses. Both he and Suzanne were naturally depressed at moments, at other moments preternaturally gay, for he was varying between joy and fear, and she was buoying him up. Her attitude was calmer, surer, braver, than his. She was like a strong mother to him.

“You know,” he said, “I don’t know what to think at times. I haven’t any particular charge against Mrs. Witla except that I don’t love her. I have been so unhappy. What do you think of cases of this kind, Suzanne? You heard what she said about me.”

“Yes, I heard.”

“It all comes from that. I don’t love her. I never have really from the beginning. What do you think where there is no love? It is true, part of what she said. I have been in love with other women, but it has always been because I have been longing for some sort of temperament that was congenial to me. I have, Suzanne, too, since I have been married. I can’t say that I was really in love with Carlotta Wilson, but I did like her. She was very much like myself. The other was a girl somewhat like you. Not so wise. That was years ago. Oh, I could tell you why! I love youth. I love beauty. I want someone who is my companion mentally. You are that, Suzanne, and yet see what a hell it is creating. Do you think it is so bad where I am so very unhappy? Tell me, what do you think?”

“Why, why,” said Suzanne, “I don’t think anyone ought to stick by a bad bargain, Eugene.”

“Just what do you mean by that, Suzanne?”

“Well, you say you don’t love her. You’re not happy with her. I shouldn’t think it would be good for her or you to have you stay with her. She can live. I wouldn’t want you to stay with me if you didn’t love me. I wouldn’t want you at all if you didn’t. I wouldn’t want to stay with you if I didn’t love you, and I wouldn’t. I think marriage ought to be a happy bargain, and if it isn’t you oughtn’t to try to stay together just because you thought you could stay together once.”

“What if there were children?”

“Well, that might be different. Even then, one or the other could take them, wouldn’t you think? The children needn’t be made very unhappy in such a case.”

Eugene looked at Suzanne’s lovely face. It seemed so strange to hear her reasoning so solemnly—this girl!

“But you heard what she said about me, Suzanne, and about her condition?”

“I know,” she said. “I’ve thought about it. I don’t see that it makes so very much difference. You can take care of her.”

“You love me just as much?”

“Yes.”

“Even if all she says is true?”

“Yes.”

“Why, Suzanne?”

“Well, all her charges concerned years gone by, and that isn’t now. And I know you love me now. I don’t care about the past. You know, Eugene, I don’t care anything about the future, either. I want you to love me only so long as you want to love me. When you are tired of me, I want you to leave me. I wouldn’t want you to live with me if you didn’t love me. I wouldn’t want to live with you if I didn’t love you.”