The ''Genius'', Theodore Dreiser [classic reads txt] 📗

he would marry in October. Angela could come to New York or Buffalo—she had never seen Niagara Falls—and they could be married there. She had spoken recently of visiting her brother at West Point. Then they could come here and settle down. He decided that this must be so, wrote to her to that effect, and vaguely hinted to Smite and MacHugh that he might get married shortly.

This was a great blow to his partners in art, for Eugene was very popular with them. He had the habit, with those he liked, of jesting constantly. "Look at the look of noble determination on Smite's brow this morning," he would comment cheerfully on getting up; or "MacHugh, you lazy lout, crawl out and earn your living."

MacHugh's nose, eyes and ears would be comfortably buried in the folds of a blanket.

"These hack artists," Eugene would sigh disconsolately. "There's not much to be made out of them. A pile of straw and a couple of boiled potatoes a day is all they need."

"Aw, cut it out," MacHugh would grunt.

"To hell, to hell, I yell, I yell," would come from somewhere in the voice of Smite.

"If it weren't for me," Eugene would go on, "God knows what would become of this place. A lot of farmers and fishermen trying to be artists."

"And laundry wagon drivers, don't forget that," MacHugh would add, sitting up and rubbing his tousled head, for Eugene had related some of his experiences. "Don't forget the contribution made by the American Steam Laundry Company to the world of true art."

"Collars and cuffs I would have you know is artistic," Eugene at once declared with mock dignity, "whereas plows and fish is trash."

Sometimes this "kidding" would continue for a quarter of an hour at a stretch, when some one remark really brighter than any other would dissolve the whole in laughter. Work began after breakfast, to which they usually sallied forth together, and would continue unbroken save for necessary engagements or periods of entertainment, lunch and so on, until five in the afternoon.

They had worked together now for a couple of years. They had, by experience, learned of each other's reliability, courtesy, kindness and liberality. Criticism was free, generous, and sincerely intended to be helpful. Pleasure trips, such as walks on grey, lowery days, or in rain or brilliant sunshine, or trips to Coney Island, Far Rockaway, the theatres, the art exhibitions, the odd and peculiar restaurants of different nationalities, were always undertaken in a spirit of joyous camaraderie. Jesting as to morality, their respective abilities, their tendencies and characteristics were all taken and given in good part. At one time it would be Joseph Smite who would come in for a united drubbing and excoriation on the part of Eugene and MacHugh. At another time Eugene or MacHugh would be the victim, the other two joining forces vigorously. Art, literature, personalities, phases of life, philosophy, were discussed by turn. As with Jerry Mathews, Eugene had learned of new things from these men—the life of fisher-folk, and the characteristics of the ocean from Joseph Smite; the nature and spirit of the great West from MacHugh. Each appeared to have an inexhaustible fund of experiences and reminiscences which refreshed and entertained the trio day by day year in and year out. They were at their best strolling through some exhibit or preliminary view of an art collection offered for sale, when all their inmost convictions of what was valuable and enduring in art would come to the surface. All three were intolerant of reputations as such, but were strong for individual merit whether it carried a great name or not. They were constantly becoming acquainted with the work of some genius little known here, and celebrating his talents, each to the others. Thus Monet, Degas, Manet, Ribera, Monticelli, by turns came up for examination and praise.

When Eugene then, toward the end of September, announced that he might be leaving them shortly, there was a united wail of opposition. Joseph Smite was working on a sea scene at the time, doing his best to get the proper colour harmony between the worm-eaten deck of a Gold Coast trading ship, a half naked West Coast negro handling a broken wheel, and a mass of blue black undulations in the distance which represented the boundless sea.

"G'wan!" said Smite, incredulously, for he assumed that Eugene was jesting. There had been a steady stream of letters issuing from somewhere in the West and delivered here week after week, as there had been for MacHugh, but this by now was a commonplace, and apparently meant nothing. "You marry? What the hell do you want to get married for? A fine specimen you will make! I'll come around and tell your wife."

"Sure," returned Eugene. "It's true, I may get married." He was amused at Smite's natural assumption that it was a jest.

"Stow that," called MacHugh, from his easel. He was working on a country corner picture, a group of farmers before a country post office. "You don't want to break up this shack, do you?" Both of these men were fond of Eugene. They found him inspiring, helpful, always intensely vigorous and apparently optimistic.

"I don't want to break up any shack. But haven't I a right to get married?"

"I vote no, by God!" said Smite emphatically. "You'll never go out of here with my consent. Peter, are we going to stand for anything like that?"

"We are not," replied MacHugh. "We'll call out the reserves if he tries any game like that on us. I'll prefer charges against him. Who's the lady, Eugene?"

"I bet I know," suggested Smite. "He's been running up to Twenty-sixth Street pretty regularly." Joseph was thinking of Miriam Finch, to whom Eugene had introduced both him and MacHugh.

"Nothing like that, surely," inquired MacHugh, looking over at Eugene to see if it possibly could be so.

"It's all true, fellers," replied Eugene, "—as God is my judge. I'm going to leave you soon."

"You're not really talking seriously, are you, Witla?" inquired Joseph soberly.

"I am, Joe," said Eugene quietly. He was studying the perspective of his sixteenth New York view,—three engines coming abreast into a great yard of cars. The smoke, the haze, the dingy reds and blues and yellows and greens of kicked about box cars were showing with beauty—the vigor and beauty of raw reality.

"Soon?" asked MacHugh, equally quietly. He was feeling that touch of pensiveness which comes with a sense of vanishing pleasures.

"I think some time in October, very likely," replied Eugene.

"Jesus Christ, I'm sorry to hear that," put in Smite.

He laid down his brush and strolled over to the window. MacHugh, less expressive in extremes, worked on medatively.

"When'd you reach that conclusion, Witla?" he asked after a time.

"Oh, I've been thinking it over for a long time, Peter," he returned. "I should really have married before if I could have afforded it. I know how things are here or I wouldn't have sprung this so suddenly. I'll hold up my end on the rent here until you get someone else."

"To hell with the rent," said Smite. "We don't want anyone else, do we, Peter? We didn't have anyone else before."

Smite was rubbing his square chin and contemplating his partner as if they were facing a catastrophe.

"There's no use talking about that," said Peter. "You know we don't care about the rent. Do you mind telling us who you're going to marry? Do we know her?"

"You don't," returned Eugene. "She's out in Wisconsin. It's the one who writes the letters. Angela Blue is her name."

"Well, here's to Angela Blue, by God, say I," said Smite, recovering his spirits and picking up his paint brush from his board to hold aloft. "Here's to Mrs. Eugene Witla, and may she never reef a sail to a storm or foul an anchor, as they say up Nova Scotia way."

"Right oh," added MacHugh, catching the spirit of Smite's generous attitude. "Them's my sentiments. When d'you expect to get married really, Eugene?"

"Oh I haven't fixed the time exactly. About November first, I should say. I hope you won't say anything about it though, either of you. I don't want to go through any explanations."

"We won't, but it's tough, you old walrus. Why the hell didn't you give us time to think it over? You're a fine jellyfish, you are."

He poked him reprimandingly in the ribs.

"There isn't anyone any more sorry than I am," said Eugene. "I hate to leave here, I do. But we won't lose track of each other. I'll still be around here."

"Where do you expect to live? Here in the city?" asked MacHugh, still a little gloomy.

"Sure. Right here in Washington Square. Remember that Dexter studio Weaver was telling about? The one in the third floor at sixty-one? That's it."

"You don't say!" exclaimed Smite. "You're in right. How'd you get that?"

Eugene explained.

"Well, you sure are a lucky man," observed MacHugh. "Your wife ought to like that. I suppose there'll be a cozy corner for an occasional strolling artist?"

"No farmers, no sea-faring men, no artistic hacks—nothing!" declared Eugene dramatically.

"You to Hell," said Smite. "When Mrs. Witla sees us—"

"She'll wish she'd never come to New York," put in Eugene.

"She'll wish she'd seen us first," said MacHugh.

BOOK II THE STRUGGLE

CHAPTER I

The marriage ceremony between Eugene and Angela was solemnized at Buffalo on November second. As planned, Marietta was with them. They would go, the three of them, to the Falls, and to West Point, where the girls would see their brother David, and then Marietta would return to tell the family about it. Naturally, under the circumstances, it was a very simple affair, for there were no congratulations to go through with and no gifts—at least immediately—to consider and acknowledge. Angela had explained to her parents and friends that it was quite impossible for Eugene to come West at this time. She knew that he objected to a public ceremony where he would have to run the gauntlet of all her relatives, and so she was quite willing to meet him in the East and be married there. Eugene had not troubled to take his family into his confidence as yet. He had indicated on his last visit home that he might get married, and that Angela was the girl in question, but since Myrtle was the only one of his family who had seen her and she was now in Ottumwa, Iowa, they could not recall anything about her. Eugene's father was a little disappointed, for he expected to hear some day that Eugene had made a brilliant match. His boy, whose pictures were in the magazines so frequently and whose appearance was so generally distinguished, ought in New York, where opportunities abounded, to marry an heiress at least. It was all right of course if Eugene wanted to marry a girl from the country, but it robbed the family of a possible glory.

The spirit of this marriage celebration, so far as Eugene was concerned, was hardly right. There was the consciousness, always with him, of his possibly making a mistake; the feeling that he was being compelled by circumstances and his own weakness to fulfil an agreement which might better remain unfulfilled. His only urge was his desire, in the gratification of which he might find compensation, for saving Angela from an unhappy spinsterhood. It was a thin reed to lean on; there could be no honest satisfaction in it. Angela was sweet, devoted, painstaking in her attitude toward life, toward him, toward everything with which she came in contact, but she was not what he had always fancied his true mate would be—the be all and the end all of his existence. Where was the divine fire which on this occasion should have animated him; the lofty thoughts of future