"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.
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 companionship; that intense feeling he had
first felt about her when he had called on her at her aunt's house
in Chicago? Something had happened. Was it that he had cheapened
his ideal by too close contact with it? Had he taken a beautiful
flower and trailed it in the dust? Was passion all there was to
marriage? Or was it that true marriage was something higher—a union
of fine thoughts and feelings? Did Angela share his with him?
Angela did have exalted feelings and moods at times. They were not
sensibly intellectual—but she seemed to respond to the better
things in music and to some extent in literature. She knew nothing
about art, but she was emotionally responsive to many fine things.
Why was not this enough to make life durable and comfortable
between them? Was it not really enough? After he had gone over all
these points, there was still the thought that there was something
wrong in this union. Despite his supposedly laudable conduct in
fulfilling an obligation which, in a way, he had helped create or
created, he was not happy. He went to his marriage as a man goes to
fulfil an uncomfortable social obligation. It might turn out that
he would have an enjoyable and happy life and it might turn out
very much otherwise. He could not face the weight and significance
of the social theory that this was for life—that if he married her
today he would have to live with her all the rest of his days. He
knew that was the generally accepted interpretation of marriage,
but it did not appeal to him. Union ought in his estimation to be
based on a keen desire to live together and on nothing else. He did
not feel the obligation which attaches to children, for he had
never had any and did not feel the desire for any. A child was a
kind of a nuisance. Marriage was a trick of Nature's by which you
were compelled to carry out her scheme of race continuance. Love
was a lure; desire a scheme of propagation devised by the way.
Nature, the race spirit, used you as you would use a work-horse to
pull a load. The load in this case was race progress and man was
the victim. He did not think he owed anything to nature, or to this
race spirit. He had not asked to come here. He had not been treated
as generously as he might have been since he arrived. Why should he
do what nature bid?
When he met Angela he kissed her fondly, for of course the sight
of her aroused the feeling of desire which had been running in his
mind so keenly for some time. Since last seeing Angela he had
touched no woman, principally because the right one had not
presented herself and because the memories and the anticipations in
connection with Angela were so close. Now that he was with her
again the old fire came over him and he was eager for the
completion of the ceremony. He had seen to the marriage license in
the morning,—and from the train on which Angela and Marietta
arrived they proceeded in a carriage direct to the Methodist
preacher. The ceremony which meant so much to Angela meant
practically nothing to him. It seemed a silly formula—this piece of
paper from the marriage clerk's office and this instructed
phraseology concerning "love, honor and cherish." Certainly he
would love, honor and cherish if it were possible—if not, then not.
Angela, with the marriage ring on her finger and the words "with
this ring I thee wed" echoing in her ears, felt that all her dreams
had come true. Now she was, really, truly, Mrs. Eugene Witla. She
did not need to worry about drowning herself, or being disgraced,
or enduring a lonely, commiserated old age. She was the wife of an
artist—a rising one, and she was going to live in New York. What a
future stretched before her! Eugene loved her after all. She
imagined she could see that. His slowness in marrying her was due
to the difficulty of establishing himself properly. Otherwise he
would have done it before. They drove to the Iroquois hotel and
registered as man and wife, securing a separate room for Marietta.
The latter pretending an urgent desire to bathe after her railroad
journey, left them, promising to be ready in time for dinner.
Eugene and Angela were finally alone.
He now saw how, in spite of his fine theories, his previous
experiences with Angela had deadened to an extent his joy in this
occasion. He had her again it was true. His desire that he had
thought of so keenly was to be gratified, but there was no mystery
connected with it. His real nuptials had been celebrated at
Blackwood months before. This was the commonplace of any marriage
relation. It was intense and gratifying, but the original,
wonderful mystery of unexplored character was absent. He eagerly
took her in his arms, but there was more of crude desire than of
awed delight in the whole proceeding.
Nevertheless Angela was sweet to him. Hers was a loving
disposition and Eugene was the be all and end all of her love. His
figure was of heroic proportions to her. His talent was divine
fire. No one could know as much as Eugene, of course! No one could
be as artistic. True, he was not as practical as some men—her
brothers and brothers-in-law, for instance—but he was a man of
genius. Why should he be practical? She was beginning to think
already of how thoroughly she would help him shape his life toward
success—what a good wife she would be to him. Her training as a
teacher, her experience as a buyer, her practical judgment, would
help him so much. They spent the two hours before dinner in renewed
transports and then dressed and made their public appearance.
Angela had had designed a number of dresses for this occasion,
representing the saving of years, and tonight at dinner she looked
exceptionally pretty in a dress of black silk with neck piece and
half sleeves of mother-of-pearl silk, set off with a decoration of
seed pearls and black beads in set designs. Marietta, in a pale
pink silk of peachblow softness of hue with short sleeves and a low
cut bodice was, with all her youth and natural plumpness and gaiety
of soul, ravishing. Now that she had Angela safely married, she was
under no obligations to keep out of Eugene's way nor to modify her
charms in order that her sister's might shine. She was particularly
ebullient in her mood and Eugene could not help contrasting, even
in this hour, the qualities of the two sisters. Marietta's smile,
her humor, her unconscious courage, contrasted so markedly with
Angela's quietness.
The luxuries of the modern hotel have become the commonplaces of
ordinary existence, but to the girls they were still strange enough
to be impressive. To Angela they were a foretaste of what was to be
an enduring higher life. These carpets, hangings, elevators,
waiters, seemed in their shabby materialism to speak of superior
things.
One day in Buffalo, with a view of the magnificent falls at
Niagara, and then came West Point with a dress parade accidentally
provided for a visiting general and a ball for the cadets.
Marietta, because of her charm and her brother's popularity, found
herself so much in demand at West Point that she extended her stay
to a week, leaving Eugene and Angela free to come to New York
together and have a little time to themselves. They only stayed
long enough to see Marietta safely housed and then came to the city
and the apartment in Washington Square.
It was dark when they arrived and Angela was impressed with the
glittering galaxy of lights the city presented across the North
River from Forty-second Street. She had no idea of the nature of
the city, but as the cab at Eugene's request turned into Broadway
at Forty-second Street and clattered with interrupted progress
south to Fifth Avenue she had her first glimpse of that tawdry
world which subsequently became known as the "Great White Way."
Already its make-believe and inherent cheapness had come to seem to
Eugene largely characteristic of the city and of life, but it still
retained enough of the lure of the flesh and of clothes and of
rush-light reputations to hold his attention. Here were dramatic
critics and noted actors and actresses and chorus girls, the gods
and toys of avid, inexperienced, unsatisfied wealth. He showed
Angela the different theatres, called her attention to
distinguished names; made much of restaurants and hotels and shops
and stores that sell trifles and trash, and finally turned into
lower Fifth Avenue, where the dignity of great houses and great
conservative wealth still lingered. At Fourteenth Street Angela
could already see Washington Arch glowing cream white in the glare
of electric lights.
"What is that?" she asked interestedly.
"It's Washington Arch," he replied. "We live in sight of that on
the south side of the Square."
"Oh! but it is beautiful!" she exclaimed.
It seemed very wonderful to her, and as they passed under it,
and the whole Square spread out before her, it seemed a perfect
world in which to live.
"Is this where it is?" she asked, as they stopped in front of
the studio building.
"Yes, this is it. How do you like it?"
"I think it's beautiful," she said.
They went up the white stone steps of the old Bride house in
which was Eugene's leased studio, up two flights of red-carpeted
stairs and finally into the dark studio where he struck a match and
lit, for the art of it, candles. A soft waxen glow irradiated the
place as he proceeded and then Angela saw old Chippendale chairs, a
Heppelwhite writing-table, a Flemish strong box containing used and
unused drawings, the green stained fish-net studded with bits of
looking glass in imitation of scales, a square, gold-framed mirror
over the mantel, and one of Eugene's drawings—the three engines in
the gray, lowering weather, standing large and impressive upon an
easel. It seemed to Angela the perfection of beauty. She saw the
difference now between the tawdry gorgeousness of a commonplace
hotel and this selection and arrangement of individual taste. The
glowing candelabrum of seven candles on either side of the square
mirror surprised her deeply. The black walnut piano in the alcove
behind the half draped net drew forth an exclamation of delight.
"Oh, how lovely it all is!" she exclaimed and ran to Eugene to be
kissed. He fondled her for a few minutes and then she left again to
examine in detail pictures, pieces of furniture, ornaments of brass
and copper.
"When did you get all this?" she asked, for Eugene had not told
her of his luck in finding the departing Dexter and leasing it for
the rent of the studio and its care. He was lighting the fire in
the grate which had been prepared by the house attendant.
"Oh, it isn't mine," he replied easily. "I leased this from
Russell Dexter. He's going to be in Europe until next winter. I
thought that would be easier than waiting around to fix up a place
after you came. We can get our things together next fall."
He was thinking he would be able to have his exhibition in the
spring, and perhaps that would bring some notable sales. Anyhow it
might bring a few, increase his repute and give him a greater
earning power.
Angela's heart sank just a little but she recovered in a moment,
for after all it was very exceptional even to be able to lease a
place of this character. She went to the window and looked out.
There was the great square with its four walls of houses, the
spread of trees, still decorated with a few dusty leaves, and the
dozens of arc lights sputtering their white radiance in between,
the graceful arch, cream white over at the entrance of Fifth
Avenue.
"It's so beautiful," she exclaimed again, coming back to Eugene
and putting her arms about him. "I didn't think it would be
anything as fine as this. You're so good to me." She put up her
lips and he kissed her, pinching her cheeks. Together they walked
to the kitchen, the bedroom, the bathroom. Then after a time they
blew out the candles and retired for the night.