The Genius by Theodore Dreiser

“I told you, mama, that I was not coming down here to discuss this thing, and I’m not!” said Suzanne, turning to her mother and ignoring Dr. Woolley. “I’m not going to stay. I don’t want to offend Dr. Woolley, but I’m not going to stay and have you argue this all over again.”

She turned to go.

“There, there, Mrs. Dale, don’t interrupt,” observed Dr. Woolley, holding Suzanne by the very tone of his voice. “I think myself that very little is to be gained by argument. Suzanne is convinced that what she is planning to do is to her best interest. It may be. We can’t always tell. I think the best thing that could be discussed, if anything at all in this matter can be discussed, is the matter of time. It is my opinion that before doing this thing that Suzanne wants to do, and which may be all right, for all I know, it would be best if she would take a little time. I know nothing of Mr. Witla. He may be a most able and worthy man. Suzanne ought to give herself a little time to think, though. I should say three months, or six months. A great many after effects hang on this decision, as you know,” he said, turning to Suzanne. “It may involve responsibilities you are not quite ready to shoulder. You are only eighteen or nineteen, you know. You might have to give up dancing and society, and travel, and a great many things, and devote yourself to being a mother and ministering to your husband’s needs. You expect to live with him permanently, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to discuss this, Dr. Woolley.”

“But you do expect that, don’t you?”

“Only as long as we love each other.”

“Um, well, you might love him for some little time yet. You rather expect to do that, don’t you?”

“Why, yes, but what is the good of this, anyhow? My mind is made up.”

“Just the matter of thinking,” said Dr. Woolley, very soothingly and in a voice which disarmed Suzanne and held her. “Just a little time in which to be absolutely sure. Your mother is anxious not to have you do it at all. You, as I understand it, want to do this thing right away. Your mother loves you, and at bottom, in spite of this little difference, I know you love her. It just occurred to me that for the sake of good feeling all around, you might like to strike a balance. You might be willing to take, say six months, or a year and think about it. Mr. Witla would probably not object. You won’t be any the less delightful to him at the end of that time, and as for your mother, she would feel a great deal better if she thought that, after all, what you decided to do you had done after mature deliberation.”

“Yes,” exclaimed Mrs. Dale, impulsively, “do take time to think, Suzanne. A year won’t hurt you.”

“No,” said Suzanne unguardedly. “It is all a matter of whether I want to or not. I don’t want to.”

“Precisely. Still this is something you might take into consideration. The situation from all outside points of view is serious. I haven’t said so, but I feel that you would be making a great mistake. Still, that is only my opinion. You are entitled to yours. I know how you feel about it, but the public is not likely to feel quite the same. The public is a wearisome thing, Suzanne, but we have to take it into consideration.”

Suzanne stared stubbornly and wearily at her tormentors. Their logic did not appeal to her at all. She was thinking of Eugene and her plan. It could be worked. What did she care about the world? During all this talk, she drew nearer and nearer the door and finally opened it.

“Well, that is all,” said Dr. Woolley, when he saw she was determined to go. “Good morning, Suzanne. I am glad to have seen you again.”

“Good morning, Dr. Woolley,” she replied.

She went out and Mrs. Dale wrung her hands. “I wish I knew what was to be done,” she exclaimed, gazing at her counselor.

Dr. Woolley brooded over the folly of undesired human counsel.

“There is no need for excitement,” he observed after a time. “It is obvious to me that if she is handled rightly, she will wait. She is in a state of high strung opposition and emotion for some reason at present. You have driven her too hard. Relax. Let her think this thing out for herself. Counsel for delay, but don’t irritate. You cannot control her by driving. She has too stern a will. Tears won’t help. Emotion seems a little silly to her. Ask her to think, or better yet, let her think and plead only for delay. If you could get her away for two or three weeks or months, off by herself undisturbed by your pleadings and uninfluenced by his—if she would ask him of her own accord to let her alone for that time, all will be well. I don’t think she will ever go to him. She thinks she will, but I have the feeling that she won’t. However, be calm. If you can, get her to go away.”

“Would it be possible to lock her up in some sanatorium or asylum, doctor, until she has had time to think?”

“All things are possible, but I should say it would be the most inadvisable thing you could do. Force accomplishes nothing in these cases.”

“I know, but suppose she won’t listen to reason?”

“You really haven’t come to that bridge yet. You haven’t talked calmly to her yet. You are quarreling with her. There is very little in that. You will simply grow further and further apart.”

“How practical you are, doctor,” observed Mrs. Dale, in a mollified and complimentary vein.

“Not practical, but intuitional. If I were practical, I would never have taken up medicine.”

He walked to the door, his old body sinking in somewhat upon itself. His old, gray eyes twinkled slightly as he turned.

“You were in love once, Mrs. Dale,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied.

“You remember how you felt then?”

“Yes.”

“Be reasonable. Remember your own sensations—your own attitude. You probably weren’t crossed in your affair. She is. She has made a mistake. Be patient. Be calm. We want to stop it and no doubt can. Do unto others as you would be done by.”

He ambled shufflingly across the piazza and down the wide steps to his car.

“Mama,” she said, when after Dr. Woolley had gone her mother came to her room to see if she might not be in a mellower mood, and to plead with her further for delay, “it seems to me you are making a ridiculous mess of all this. Why should you go and tell Dr. Woolley about me! I will never forgive you for that. Mama, you have done something I never thought you would do. I thought you had more pride—more individuality.”

One should have seen Suzanne, in her spacious boudoir, her back to her oval mirrored dressing table, her face fronting her mother, to understand her fascination for Eugene. It was a lovely, sunny, many windowed chamber, and Suzanne in a white and blue morning dress was in charming accord with the gay atmosphere of the room.

“Well, Suzanne, you know,” she said, rather despondently, “I just couldn’t help it. I had to go to someone. I am quite alone apart from you and Kinroy and the children”—she referred to Adele and Ninette as the children when talking to either Suzanne or Kinroy—”and I didn’t want to say anything to them. You have been my only confidant up to now, and since you have turned against me——”

“I haven’t turned against you, mama.”

“Oh, yes you have. Let’s not talk about it, Suzanne. You have broken my heart. You are killing me. I just had to go to someone. We have known Dr. Woolley so long. He is so good and kind.”

“Oh, I know, mama, but what good will it do? How can anything he might say help matters? He isn’t going to change me. You’re only telling it to somebody who oughtn’t to know anything about it.”

“But I thought he might influence you,” pleaded Mrs. Dale. “I thought you would listen to him. Oh, dear, oh, dear. I’m so tired of it all. I wish I were dead. I wish I had never lived to see this.”

“Now there you go, mama,” said Suzanne confidently. “I can’t see why you are so distressed about what I am going to do. It is my life that I am planning to arrange, not yours. I have to live my life, mama, not you.”

“Oh, yes, but it is just that that distresses me. What will it be after you do this—after you throw it away? Oh, if you could only see what you are contemplating doing—what a wretched thing it will be when it is all over with. You will never live with him—he is too old for you, too fickle, too insincere. He will not care for you after a little while, and then there you will be, unmarried, possibly with a child on your hands, a social outcast! Where will you go?”