Theodore Dreiser Jennie Gerhardt; a novel

 
 

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CHAPTER LI 
Lester had thought of his predicament earnestly enough, and he would have 
been satisfied to act soon if it had not been that one of those disrupting 
influences which sometimes complicate our affairs entered into his Hyde 
Park domicile. Gerhardt's health began rapidly to fail. 
Little by little he had been obliged to give up his various duties about the 
place; finally he was obliged to take to his bed. He lay in his room, devotedly 
attended by Jennie and visited constantly by Vesta, and occasionally by 
Lester. There was a window not far from his bed, which commanded a 
charming view of the lawn and one of the surrounding streets, and through 
this he would gaze by the hour, wondering how the world was getting on 
without him. He suspected that Woods, the coachman, was not looking after 
the horses and harnesses as well as he should, that the newspaper carrier 
was getting negligent in his delivery of the papers, that the furnace man was 
wasting coal, or was not giving them enough heat. A score of little petty 
worries, which were nevertheless real enough to him. He knew how a house 
should be kept. He was always rigid in his performance of his self-appointed 
duties, and he was so afraid that things would not go right. Jennie made for 
him a most imposing and sumptuous dressing-gown of basted wool, covered 
with dark-blue silk, and bought him a pair of soft, thick, wool slippers to 
match, but he did not wear them often. He preferred to lie in bed, read his 
Bible and the Lutheran papers, and ask Jennie how things were getting 
along. 
"I want you should go down in the basement and see what that feller is 
doing. He's not giving us any heat," he would complain. "I bet I know what 
he does. He sits down there and reads, and then he forgets what the fire is 
doing until it is almost out. The beer is right there where he can take it. You 
should lock it up. You don't know what kind of a man he is. He may be no 
good." 
Jennie would protest that the house was fairly comfortable, that the man 
was a nice, quiet, respectable-looking American—that if he did drink a little 
beer it would not matter. Gerhardt would immediately become incensed. 
"That is always the way," he declared vigorously. "You have no sense of 
economy. You are always so ready to let things go if I am not there. He is a 
nice man! How do you know he is a nice man? Does he keep the fire up? No! 
Does he keep the walks clean? If you don't watch him he will be just like the 
others, no good. You should go around and see how things are for yourself." 
"All right, papa," she would reply in a genial effort to soothe him, "I will. 
Please don't worry. I'll lock up the beer. Don't you want a cup of coffee now 
and some toast?" 

---

"No," Gerhardt would sigh immediately, "my stomach it don't do right. I 
don't know how I am going to come out of this." 
Dr. Makin, the leading physician of the vicinity, and a man of considerable 
experience and ability, called at Jennie's request and suggested a few simple 
things—hot milk, a wine tonic, rest, but he told Jennie that she must not 
expect too much. "You know he is quite well along in years now. He is quite 
feeble. If he were twenty years younger we might do a great deal for him. As 
it is he is quite well off where he is. He may live for some time. He may get 
up and be around again, and then he may not. We must all expect these 
things. I have never any care as to what may happen to me. I am too old 
myself." 
Jennie felt sorry to think that her father might die, but she was pleased to 
think that if he must it was going to be under such comfortable 
circumstances. Here at least he could have every care. 
It soon became evident that this was Gerhardt's last illness, and Jennie 
thought it her duty to communicate with her brothers and sisters. She wrote 
Bass that his father was not well, and had a letter from him saying that he 
was very busy and couldn't come on unless the danger was an immediate 
one. He went on to say that George was in Rochester, working for a 
wholesale wall-paper house—the Sheff-Jefferson Company, he thought. 
Martha and her husband had gone to Boston. Her address was a little 
suburb named Belmont, just outside the city. William was in Omaha, 
working for a local electric company. Veronica was married to a man named 
Albert Sheridan, who was connected with a wholesale drug company in 
Cleveland. "She never comes to see me," complained Bass, "but I'll let her 
know." Jennie wrote each one personally. From Veronica and Martha she 
received brief replies. They were very sorry, and would she let them know if 
anything happened. George wrote that he could not think of coming to 
Chicago unless his father was very ill indeed, but that he would like to be 
informed from time to time how he was getting along. William, as he told 
Jennie some time afterward, did not get her letter. 
The progress of the old German's malady toward final dissolution preyed 
greatly on Jennie's mind; for, in spite of the fact that they had been so far 
apart in times past, they had now grown very close together. Gerhardt had 
come to realize clearly that his outcast daughter was goodness itself—at 
least, so far as he was concerned. 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 in an evening or an afternoon, seeing whether he was 
"all right," asking how he liked his breakfast, or his lunch, or his dinner. As 
he grew weaker 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 and 

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kissed it. He was feeling very weak—and despondent. She looked up in 
astonishment, a lump in her throat. There were tears in his eyes. 
"You're a good girl, Jennie," he said brokenly. "You've been good to 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 all wrong." 
"No, no," he said; and she sank down on her knees beside him and cried. He 
put his thin, yellow hand on her hair. "There, there," he said brokenly, "I 
understand a lot of things I didn't. We get wiser as we get older." 
She left the room, ostensibly to wash her face and hands, and cried her eyes 
out. Was he really forgiving her at last? And she had lied to him so! She 
tried to be more attentive, but that was impossible. But after this 
reconciliation he seemed happier and more contented, and they spent a 
number of happy hours together, just talking. Once he said to her, "You 
know I feel just like I did when I was a boy. If it wasn't for my bones I could 
get up and dance on the grass." 
Jennie fairly smiled and sobbed in one breath. "You'll get stronger, papa," 
she said. "You're going to get well. Then I'll take you out driving." She was so 
glad she had been able to make him comfortable 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 the house, 
and he would always drop in for a few minutes before dinner to see how the 
old man was getting along. "He looks pretty well," he would tell Jennie. "He's 
apt to live some time yet. I wouldn't worry." 
Vesta also spent much time with her grandfather, for she had come to love 
him dearly. She would bring her books, if it didn't disturb him too much, 
and recite some of her lessons, or she would leave his door open, and play 
for him on the piano. Lester had bought her a handsome music-box also, 
which she would sometimes carry to his room and play for him. At times he 
wearied of everything and everybody save Jennie; he wanted to be alone with 
her. She would sit beside him quite still and sew. She could see plainly that 
the end was only a little way off. 
Gerhardt, true to his nature, took into consideration all the various 
arrangements contingent upon his death. He wished to be buried in the little 
Lutheran cemetery, which was several miles farther out on the South Side, 
and he wanted the beloved minister of his church to officiate. 
"I want everything plain," he said. "Just my black suit and those Sunday 
shoes of mine, and that black string tie. I don't want anything else. I will be 
all right." 

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Jennie begged him not to talk of it, but he would. One day at four o'clock he 
had a sudden sinking spell, and at five he was dead. Jennie held his hands, 
watching his labored breathing; once or twice he opened his eyes to smile at 
her. "I don't mind going," he said, in this 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 good woman." 
She heard no other words from his lips. 
The finish which time thus put to this troubled life affected Jennie deeply. 
Strong in her kindly, emotional relationships, Gerhardt had appealed to her 
not only as her father, but as a friend and counselor. She saw him now in 
his true perspective, a hard-working, honest, sincere old German, who had 
done his best to raise a troublesome family and lead an honest life. Truly 
she had been his one great burden, and she had never really dealt truthfully 
with him to the end. She wondered now if where he was he could see that 
she had lied. And would he forgive her? He had called her a good woman. 
Telegrams were sent to all the children. Bass wired that he was coming, and 
arrived the next day. The others wired that they could not come, but asked 
for details, which Jennie wrote. The Lutheran minister was called in to say 
prayers and fix the time of the burial service. A fat, smug undertaker was 
commissioned to arrange all the details. Some few neighborhood friends 
called—those who had remained most faithful—and on the second morning 
following his death the services were held. Lester accompanied Jennie and 
Vesta and Bass to the little red brick Lutheran church, and sat stolidly 
through the rather dry services. He listened wearily to the long discourse on 
the beauties and rewards of a future life and stirred irritably when reference 
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. Only Jennie wept 
sympathetically. She saw her father in perspective, the long years of trouble 
he had had, the days in which he had had to saw wood 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 in Thirteenth Street, the terrible days of suffering they 
had spent in Lorrie 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 sang a 
hymn, "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God," and then she sobbed. 
Lester pulled at her arm. He was moved to the danger-line himself by her 
grief. "You'll have to do better than this," he whispered. "My God, I can't 
stand it. I'll have to get up and get out." Jennie quieted a little, but the fact 
that the last visible ties were being broken between her and her father was 
almost too much. 

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At the grave in the Cemetery of the Redeemer, where Lester had immediately 
arranged to purchase a lot, they saw the plain coffin lowered and the earth 
shoveled in. Lester looked curiously at the bare trees, the brown dead grass, 
and the brown soil of the prairie turned up at this simple graveside. There 
was no distinction to this burial plot. 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 for himself. Bass looked to him like some one who would run a 
cigar store successfully. He watched Jennie wiping her red eyes, and then 
he said to himself again, "Well, there is something to her." The woman's 
emotion was so deep, so real. "There's no explaining a good woman," he said 
to himself. 
On the way home, through the wind-swept, dusty streets, he talked of life in 
general, Bass and Vesta being present. "Jennie takes things too seriously," 
he said. "She's inclined to be morbid. Life isn't as bad as she makes out with 
her sensitive feelings. We all have our troubles, and we all have to stand 
them, some more, some less. We can't assume that any one is so much 
better or worse off than any one else. We all have our share of troubles." 
"I can't help it," said Jennie. "I feel so sorry for some people." 
"Jennie always was a little gloomy," put in Bass. 
He was thinking what a fine figure of a man Lester was, how beautifully they 
lived, how Jennie had come up in the world. He was thinking that there 
must be a lot more to her than he had originally thought. Life surely did 
turn out queer. At one time he thought Jennie was a hopeless failure and no 
good. 
"You ought to try to steel yourself to take things as they come without going 
to pieces this way," said Lester finally. 
Bass thought so too. 
Jennie stared thoughtfully out of the carriage window. There was the old 
house now, large and silent without Gerhardt. Just think, she would never 
see him any more. They finally turned into the drive and entered the library. 
Jeannette, nervous and sympathetic, served tea. Jennie went to look after 
various details. She wondered curiously where she would be when she died.