Chapter 57
By the time Cowperwood, looking exceedingly tired, arrived in England, Berenice was able to inoculate him with some of her own enthusiasm for Norway, which, strangely enough, he had not previously visited.
And so it was, not long after, that he set Jamieson to the task of finding and chartering a yacht. But before one was found, a certain Lord Tilton, hearing through Stane of Cowperwood’s intention, very generously insisted on loaning him his own yacht, the Pelican, for the purpose. And eventually, toward midsummer, he and Berenice were cruising smoothly along the west coast of Norway toward Stavanger Fjord.
The yacht was a handsome craft, and Eric Hansen, the Norwegian skipper, a man of skill. He was powerfully built, although of not more than medium height, with a florid complexion and sandy-colored hair that fountained out over his forehead. His eyes were a steely blue that seemed to challenge any sea or any experience connected with it. His movements seemed to suggest a natural bracing against rough weather, even when he walked on level ground—a kind of rhythmic oneness with the sea at all times. He had been a seafaring man all of his life, and he truly loved these inland waterways that wound through a maze of mysterious mountains soaring straight up thousands of feet from their depths to thousands of feet below the water line. Some said they were the result of faulting or cracking of the crust of the earth’s surface; others thought volcanic eruptions had caused them. But Eric knew that they had been cut through by mighty prehistoric Vikings who had the power to carve their way through any barrier in order to make highways to the rest of the world.
But as Berenice viewed these steep hillsides, with the cottages perched so far above the water’s edge, she could not imagine how the inhabitants got down to a passing boat or climbed up to their little homes again. Or for what reason they did it. It all seemed so strange. She was not familiar with the art of mountain-climbing, which the Norwegian had probably learned, out of sheer necessity, from watching his goats maneuver themselves from crag to crag.
“What a strange land,” Cowperwood said. “I’m glad you brought me up here, Bevy, but it does seem to me, beautiful as it is, this country is one of Nature’s climatic mistakes. There’s too much daylight in summer and too little in winter. Too many romantic waterways and too many sterile mountains. Although I must confess that it interests me enormously.”
Indeed, Berenice had noticed his interest in the country was intense. He frequently rang for his very respectful skipper in order that he might ask questions.
“What do they live on in these towns, outside of fish?” he inquired of Eric.
“Well, Mr. Dickson”—the name assumed by Cowperwood—“they have a number of other things. They have goats and they sell goat’s milk. They have chickens, and so, eggs. They have cows. In fact, they often judge a man’s wealth by the number of cows he owns. Also they have butter. These are sturdy, hard-working people, and they can make five acres yield more than you would believe. Although I’m not an expert on the subject, and really can’t tell you much about it, they get along better than you would think. Another thing,” he continued, “most of the young men of this region go in for training in navigation. When they get a little older, they get positions as captains, mates, or cooks, on the hundreds of vessels coming in and out of Norway and touching the cities and shipping centers all over the world.”
At this point Berenice spoke up. “It strikes me that what they lack in quantity, they make up in quality,” was her comment.
“You’re right, madam,” said the skipper, “that’s what I mean,” and, becoming more enthusiastic, he continued: “In fact they’ve learned to live comfortably within themselves. But they know the world, not only from the outside of books but inside. We Norwegians are a bookish people, prizing education. Illiterates are almost non-existent here, and you may not believe it, but Norway has more telephones than Spain or Poland. It also has its literary and musical celebrities: Grieg, Hamsun, Ibsen, Bjornson”—names, which caused Cowperwood to pause and think how small a part literature had played in his life, and to suggest to Berenice that she give him some of the books she had been reading.
And Berenice, noting his meditative mood, and suspecting that he might be contrasting this wonder world with his own troublesome one, decided to switch the conversation to something a little more cheerful, and turning to Skipper Hansen, she asked:
“Captain Hansen, are we likely to see any Lapps when we get a little farther north?”
“Oh, yes, madam,” returned the captain. “We might run into them, anywhere north of Trondheim. We’re almost to that point now.”
From Trondheim the yacht steamed northward toward Hammerfest, the land of the midnight sun. Several stops were made on the way, one of these being a little extension of rock from one of the great cliffs, called Grotto. It was a very small place of perhaps a dozen houses, used principally as a whaling station. The houses were the usual stone huts, roofed over with grass and earth.
It was customary for the whalers at Grotto to buy coal or wood from any boat that was going north or south. And now a small group of fishermen approached the yacht. And though its supply of coal was not more than was actually needed, Cowperwood instructed the skipper to give them several tons, because he felt that these people had so little in their lives.
After breakfast Captain Hansen went ashore, and on his return told Cowperwood that a tribe of Lapps from much farther north had arrived and pitched their camp on the mainland, about a half-mile from Grotto. There were about fifteen hundred reindeer, he said, and over a hundred Lapps, with their children and dogs. On hearing this, Berenice expressed a desire to see them. Whereupon Captain Hansen and the mate rowed them over to visit the camp.
After disembarking on the shore of the mainland, they walked over toward the reindeer, which were scattered about the tents which spread in all directions. The captain, who knew a few words of their language, talked with the Lapps, and some of them came toward the visitors, making them welcome by shaking hands and inviting them to their tents. In one tent, there was a large pot hanging over a fire, which the mate proceeded to investigate and pronounced to be “dog stew,” but which turned out to be a nice, fat, juicy bear, of which all had a serving.
Another tent was packed with fisherfolk and farmers from the surrounding country, for this gathering was in the nature of an annual fair, at which the Lapps disposed of their reindeer products and bought supplies for the winter. At this point a Lapp woman elbowed her way through the crowd. She greeted Captain Larsen as an old acquaintance, and he informed Cowperwood that she was one of the wealthiest members of the tribe. There followed group singing and dancing, in which all attempted to join. And after liquor and food, and much laughter all around, Cowperwood and his party said good-by and returned to the Pelican.
By the light of the never-setting sun, the yacht was turned about, heading its way back to the south. By this time a dozen large bowhead whales came along within sight of the yacht, and the skipper ordered all sails set in such a fashion as to cause the boat to maneuver among them with the utmost grace. There was intense excitement among passengers and crew as they stood watching the whales. But Cowperwood was more interested in the skill of the captain than he was in the spectacle before his eyes.
“There you have it!” he said to Berenice. “Every profession, every trade, every form of labor, requires alertness and skill. The skipper, as you see, has complete control of his yacht, and that, in itself, is an achievement.”
She smiled at his remark, but made no comment, while he gave himself up to thinking and philosophizing about this arresting world of which, for the time being, he was a part. The thing that impressed him most about this entire northern scene was the fact that it represented such a sharp and socially insignificant phase of a world that really had no need for any such temperament as his. The immense oceans, in a large sense, supported its inhabitants by the process of supplying them with fish, and there was enough of employment to enable them to build a
nd make habitable sufficient spaces of soil when they returned, and thus round out their lives in comparative comfort. And yet he felt that these people had more from life in sheer beauty, simple comfort, and charming social customs than he and thousands of others like him who were so strenuously engaged in accumulating money. As for himself, he was getting old, and the best part of his life was already gone. What, really, lay ahead for him? More subways? More art galleries? More irritations due to public opinion?
True enough, this trip had been restful. But now hourly he was moving into many things that were far from peaceful, and if continued by him could only result in more arguments, more lawyers, more newspaper criticism, more domestic ills. He smiled to himself ironically. He must not think too much. Take things as they come and make the best of them. After all, the world had done more for him than for most, and the least he could do was to be grateful, and he was.
Several days later as they neared Oslo on the return trip, he suggested that in order to avoid danger of publicity, Berenice would better leave the yacht there and return by steamer to Liverpool, which would bring her within a short distance of Pryor’s Cove. He was happy to see how practically she accepted this decision, and yet he could sense from her expression how much she resented the forces which invariably controlled and interrupted their relationship.
Chapter 58
Cowperwood’s vacation in Norway having put him in such excellent physical condition, he was anxious to proceed with his business affairs, in a concentrated effort to reach the goal he had set for himself of $185,000,000 capital and one hundred and forty miles of track and electrification of the entire underground mileage by January of 1905. He was so driven by his renewed ambition and desire to complete this work and prove its import that he could scarcely permit himself to rest, at Pryor’s Cove or anywhere else.
And so, for the next few months, there were directors’ meetings, discussions with interested and important investors, engineering problems, and private sessions, sometimes in the evenings, with Lord Stane and Elverson Johnson. Finally, there arose the necessity of making a trip to Vienna, in order to examine an electric motor device invented by a man named Ganz, which promised to reduce the cost of underground operation by a very considerable sum. After seeing the motor and observing its operation, he was convinced of its value, and at once wired several of his engineers to come to Vienna to confirm his opinion.
On his way back to London, he stopped off at the Ritz Hotel, in Paris. On his first evening there he met an old colleague in the lobby of the hotel, one Michael Shanley, a one-time employee of his in Chicago, who suggested that they go to hear a concert at the Paris Opera House. There was much talk of the compositions of a Pole by the name of Chopin that were to be played there. The name was only vaguely familiar to Cowperwood, and even less so to Shanley, but they went; and Cowperwood was so entranced by the music that on reading in the program notes that Chopin was buried at Pere-Lachaise, he suggested they visit that world-famous burial ground next day.
Accordingly, the following morning he and Shanley went to Père-Lachaise, where they engaged a guide, who, in English, furnished them with much information as they walked along the cypress-bordered avenues of the cemetery. Thus they learned that here, under this shaft, lay Sarah Bernhardt, who, in past days in Chicago, had so moved him with her golden voice. A little farther on was the tomb of Balzac, of whose works he knew only that they were considered great. As he paused and gazed, he once again became sensible of the fact that his own particular labors had barred him from knowledge of the intellectual and artistic significance of genius in many other fields. They passed the tombs of Bizet, de Musset, Molière, and at last they came to Chopin’s resting place, which they found to be strewn with ribbon-tied bouquets of roses and lilies.
“Think of that now!” exclaimed Shanley. “To be sure, he’s a great musician, but he’s been dead for more than half a century, and here are all these flowers! Be gorra, no one will ever do that for me, I know!”
Which thought caused Cowperwood to question the likelihood of flowers being strewn over his own grave, even a year after his death—an idea which amused more than it irritated him, for he well knew there were few graves anywhere, earnest labors or no earnest labors, strewn with flowers after so many years.
However, before leaving Père-Lachaise, he was destined for one more surprise. For as they turned south toward an exit, they suddenly came upon the lovely double tomb of Abélard and Héloïse, concerning which their guide proceeded to recite the well-known tragic romance of the ill-starred pair. Héloïse and Abélard! The love of a young girl for the spiritually brilliant monk, and the savage brutality of her father, the cruel member of a bishop’s council of a cathedral of the eleventh century! Cowperwood, up to this hour, had never heard of these lovers. But now, as he stood listening to the guide, an obviously refined and very attractive woman, carrying a basket filled with flowers, approached the tomb and began to strew the multicolored blossoms upon and around it. Both Cowperwood and Shanley were so moved by this that they removed their hats, and, catching her eye, respectfully bowed. She acknowledged their interest by saying: “Merci beaucoup, messieurs,” and walked away.
But this colorful and moving incident set up a train of thought in Cowperwood’s mind which related to himself and the Aileen of his earlier days. For, after all, when he, at one point of his career, had been imprisoned in Philadelphia, it was she who, in face of all his enemies, including her father, had visited him faithfully to declare her unchanging love and ease his lot in any way she could. Like Héloïse with Abélard, she had wanted him and no one else, and still did so, as he knew.
Suddenly there flashed into his mind the idea of a tomb for the two of them, a beautiful and enduring resting place. Yes, he would employ an architect, secure designs, he would build a beautiful tomb which would commemorate the fact that at least at one time he had cared for her as much as she cared for him.
Chapter 59
On Cowperwood’s return to London, Berenice was startled by the change in his appearance. He seemed utterly weary, and had obviously lost weight. She complained to him about his lack of consideration of his own physical welfare and the fact that she saw so little of him.
“Frank, dear,” she began, in an affectionate tone, “why do you let these things take so much of your time and energy? You seem so strained and nervous. Don’t you think you should see a doctor and have a thorough examination before you go any further?”
“Bevy, dear,” he said putting his arm around her waist, “there’s no need for you to be so concerned. I know I’m working too hard, but this will soon be over and I won’t have to bother with so many business angles any more, for the present, anyhow.”
“But do you really feel all right?”
“Yes, dear, I think I’m all right. Anyhow, this particular phase of development is so important that I feel I must give it my personal attention.”
But even as he said this, he stooped forward as if stricken by a sudden pain. She ran to his side, exclaiming: “Frank, what is it? What’s the matter? Have you ever had anything like this before?”
“No, dear, I certainly haven’t,” he said. “But it can’t be anything serious, I’m sure.” And he partially recovered himself. “Of course,” he continued, “there must be something to cause such a sharp pain. Maybe you’d better call Dr. Wayne and ask him to come over and take a look at me . . .” a suggestion that sent Berenice at once to the telephone.
When the doctor arrived, he was surprised to find Cowperwood looking so drawn, and after partially examining him and writing a prescription to be filled at once, he asked him to come to his office next morning for a thorough check-up, which Cowperwood agreed to do. However, within a week, after two of the best specialists in London had been called in by Dr. Wayne and reported to him their conclusions, he was shocked to learn that severe kidney condition had developed that might end fatally within a comparatively short time. He ordered Cowperwood to rest and
take the prescribed drugs that were meant to induce less activity.
However, when Cowperwood came into Dr. Wayne’s office a few days later for his physical report, he told the doctor that he was feeling better and his appetite appeared to be normal.
“The trouble with these cases, Mr. Cowperwood,” said Dr. Wayne, very quietly, at this point, “is that they are eccentric in their effects, and the pain they produce sometimes stops for a time. However, that doesn’t mean that the patient is cured, or even better. The pains may return, and this often causes definite and disturbing predictions on the part of our specialists, who are not always correct by any means. Rather, the patient may grow better and live for years. On the other hand, he may grow worse, and that is one of the conditions which makes this disease so difficult to deal with. So you see, Mr. Cowperwood, that is why I cannot speak to you as definitely as I would like to.”
Here Cowperwood interrupted him.
“I feel there’s something you’d like to tell me, Dr. Wayne. And I would most certainly like to know exactly what the report of the specialists is. It doesn’t matter what it is, I want to know. Are my kidneys so bad? Is there any organic trouble which is fatal?”
Dr. Wayne looked at him with a steady gaze.
“Well, the specialists report that with rest and no hard work, you may live a year or a little more. With extreme care, you may even live longer. Yours is a case of chronic nephritis, or Bright’s disease, Mr. Cowperwood. However, as I have explained to you, they are not always right.”
This studied reply was received by Cowperwood calmly and thoughtfully, even though now, for the first time in his almost uniformly healthy life, he was faced with news of a probably fatal disease. Death! Probably no more than a year to live! An end to all of his creative labors! And yet, if it was to be, it was to be, and he must brace himself and take it.
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