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- Теодор Драйзер
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- Стр. 298/332
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Obviously
she
had
abandoned
her
dream
of
a
social
victory
of
some
kind
,
and
was
entering
on
a
career
of
what
--
debauchery
?
Since
coming
to
New
York
she
had
failed
utterly
,
he
thought
,
to
make
any
single
intelligent
move
toward
her
social
rehabilitation
.
The
banal
realms
of
art
and
the
stage
,
with
which
in
his
absence
or
neglect
she
had
trifled
with
here
,
as
she
had
done
in
Chicago
,
were
worse
than
useless
;
they
were
destructive
.
He
must
have
a
long
talk
with
her
one
of
these
days
,
must
confess
frankly
to
his
passion
for
Berenice
,
and
appeal
to
her
sympathy
and
good
sense
.
What
scenes
would
follow
!
Yet
she
might
succumb
,
at
that
.
Despair
,
pride
,
disgust
might
move
her
.
Besides
,
he
could
now
bestow
upon
her
a
very
large
fortune
.
She
could
go
to
Europe
or
remain
here
and
live
in
luxury
.
He
would
always
remain
friendly
with
her
--
helpful
,
advisory
--
if
she
would
permit
it
.
The
conversation
which
eventually
followed
on
this
topic
was
of
such
stuff
as
dreams
are
made
of
.
It
sounded
hollow
and
unnatural
within
the
walls
where
it
took
place
.
Consider
the
great
house
in
upper
Fifth
Avenue
,
its
magnificent
chambers
aglow
,
of
a
stormy
Sunday
night
.
Cowperwood
was
lingering
in
the
city
at
this
time
,
busy
with
a
group
of
Eastern
financiers
who
were
influencing
his
contest
in
the
state
legislature
of
Illinois
.
Aileen
was
momentarily
consoled
by
the
thought
that
for
him
perhaps
love
might
,
after
all
,
be
a
thing
apart
--
a
thing
no
longer
vital
and
soul-controlling
.
To-night
he
was
sitting
in
the
court
of
orchids
,
reading
a
book
--
the
diary
of
Cellini
,
which
some
one
had
recommended
to
him
--
stopping
to
think
now
and
then
of
things
in
Chicago
or
Springfield
,
or
to
make
a
note
.
Outside
the
rain
was
splashing
in
torrents
on
the
electric-lighted
asphalt
of
Fifth
Avenue
--
the
Park
opposite
a
Corot-like
shadow
.
Aileen
was
in
the
music-room
strumming
indifferently
.
She
was
thinking
of
times
past
--
Lynde
,
from
whom
she
had
not
heard
in
half
a
year
;
Watson
Skeet
,
the
sculptor
,
who
was
also
out
of
her
ken
at
present
.
When
Cowperwood
was
in
the
city
and
in
the
house
she
was
accustomed
from
habit
to
remain
indoors
or
near
.
So
great
is
the
influence
of
past
customs
of
devotion
that
they
linger
long
past
the
hour
when
the
act
ceases
to
become
valid
.
"
What
an
awful
night
!
"
she
observed
once
,
strolling
to
a
window
to
peer
out
from
behind
a
brocaded
valance
.
"
It
is
bad
,
is
n't
it
?
"
replied
Cowperwood
,
as
she
returned
.
"
Had
n't
you
thought
of
going
anywhere
this
evening
?
"
"
No
--
oh
no
,
"
replied
Aileen
,
indifferently
.
She
rose
restlessly
from
the
piano
,
and
strolled
on
into
the
great
picture-gallery
.
Stopping
before
one
of
Raphael
Sanzio
's
Holy
Families
,
only
recently
hung
,
she
paused
to
contemplate
the
serene
face
--
medieval
,
Madonnaesque
,
Italian
.
The
lady
seemed
fragile
,
colorless
,
spineless
--
without
life
.
Were
there
such
women
?
Why
did
artists
paint
them
?
Yet
the
little
Christ
was
sweet
.
Art
bored
Aileen
unless
others
were
enthusiastic
.
She
craved
only
the
fanfare
of
the
living
--
not
painted
resemblances
.
She
returned
to
the
music-room
,
to
the
court
of
orchids
,
and
was
just
about
to
go
up-stairs
to
prepare
herself
a
drink
and
read
a
novel
when
Cowperwood
observed
:
"
You
're
bored
,
are
n't
you
?
"
"
Oh
no
;
I
'm
used
to
lonely
evenings
,
"
she
replied
,
quietly
and
without
any
attempt
at
sarcasm
.
