The Genius (37 page)

"You don't know me at all. I am a stranger in this section. I am
an artist by profession and I am coming to Speonk on Monday to work
in the railroad shop there for my health. I have been suffering
from a nervous breakdown and am going to try day labor for awhile.
I want to find a convenient, pleasant place to live, and I thought
you might know of someone here, or near here, who might be willing
to take me in for a little while. I can give excellent references.
There doesn't appear to be anything in the immediate neighborhood
of the shop."

"It is rather isolated there," replied the old minister,
studying Eugene carefully. "I have often wondered how all those men
like it, traveling so far. None of them live about here." He looked
at Eugene solemnly, taking in his various characteristics. He was
not badly impressed. He seemed to be a reserved, thoughtful,
dignified young man and decidedly artistic. It struck him as very
interesting that he should be trying so radical a thing as day
labor for his nerves.

"Let me see," he said thoughtfully. He sat down in his chair
near his table and put his hand over his eyes. "I don't think of
anyone just at the moment. There are plenty of families who have
room to take you if they would, but I question very much whether
they would. In fact I'm rather sure they wouldn't. Let me see
now."

He thought again.

Eugene studied his big aquiline nose, his shaggy grey eyebrows,
his thick, crisp, grey hair. Already his mind was sketching him,
the desk, the dim walls, the whole atmosphere of the room.

"No, no," he said slowly. "I don't think of anyone. There is one
family—Mrs. Hibberdell. She lives in the—let me see—first, second,
third, tenth house above here. She has one nephew with her at
present, a young man of about your age, and I don't think anyone
else. I don't know that she would consider taking you in, but she
might. Her house is quite large. She did have her daughter with her
at one time, but I'm not sure that she's there now. I think
not."

He talked as though he were reporting his own thoughts to
himself audibly.

Eugene pricked up his ears at the mention of a daughter. During
all the time he had been out of New York he had not, with the
exception of Frieda, had a single opportunity to talk intimately
with any girl. Angela had been with him all the time. Here in New
York since he had been back he had been living under such
distressing conditions that he had not thought of either youth or
love. He had no business to be thinking of it now, but this summer
air, this tree-shaded village, the fact that he had a position,
small as it was, on which he could depend and which would no doubt
benefit him mentally, and that he was somehow feeling better about
himself because he was going to work, made him feel that he might
look more interestedly on life again. He was not going to die; he
was going to get well. Finding this position proved it. And he
might go to the house now and find some charming girl who would
like him very much. Angela was away. He was alone. He had again the
freedom of his youth. If he were only well and working!

He thanked the old minister very politely and went his way,
recognizing the house by certain details given him by the minister,
a double balconied veranda, some red rockers, two yellow
jardinières at the doorstep, a greyish white picket fence and gate.
He walked up smartly and rang the bell. A very intelligent woman of
perhaps fifty-five or sixty with bright grey hair and clear light
blue eyes was coming out with a book in her hand. Eugene stated his
case. She listened with keen interest, looking him over the while.
His appearance took her fancy, for she was of a strong intellectual
and literary turn of mind.

"I wouldn't ordinarily consider anything of the kind, but I am
alone here with my nephew and the house could easily accommodate a
dozen. I don't want to do anything which will irritate him, but if
you will come back in the morning I will let you know. It would not
disturb me to have you about. Do you happen to know of an artist by
the name of Deesa?"

"I know him well," replied Eugene. "He's an old friend of
mine."

"He is a friend of my daughter's, I think. Have you enquired
anywhere else here in the village?"

"No," said Eugene.

"That is just as well," she replied.

He took the hint.

So there was no daughter here. Well, what matter? The view was
beautiful. Of an evening he could sit out here in one of the
rocking chairs and look at the water. The evening sun, already low
in the west was burnishing it a bright gold. The outline of the
hill on the other side was dignified and peaceful. He could sleep
and work as a day laborer and take life easy for a while. He could
get well now and this was the way to do it. Day laborer! How fine,
how original, how interesting. He felt somewhat like a
knight-errant reconnoitring a new and very strange world.

The matter of securing admission to this house was quickly
settled. The nephew, a genial, intelligent man of thirty-four, as
Eugene discovered later, had no objection. It appeared to Eugene
that in some way he contributed to the support of this house,
though Mrs. Hibberdell obviously had some money of her own. A
charmingly furnished room on the second floor adjoining one of the
several baths was assigned him, and he was at once admitted to the
freedom of the house. There were books, a piano (but no one to play
it), a hammock, a maid-of-all-work, and an atmosphere of content
and peace. Mrs. Hibberdell, a widow, presumably of some years of
widowhood, was of that experience and judgment in life which gave
her intellectual poise. She was not particularly inquisitive about
anything in connection with him, and so far as he could see from
surface indications was refined, silent, conservative. She could
jest, and did, in a subtle understanding way. He told her quite
frankly at the time he applied that he was married, that his wife
was in the West and that he expected her to return after his health
was somewhat improved. She talked with him about art and books and
life in general. Music appeared to be to her a thing apart. She did
not care much for it. The nephew, Davis Simpson, was neither
literary nor artistic, and apparently cared little for music. He
was a buyer for one of the larger department stores, a slight,
dapper, rather dandified type of man, with a lean, not thin but
tight-muscled face, and a short black mustache, and he appeared to
be interested only in the humors of character, trade, baseball and
methods of entertaining himself. The things that pleased Eugene
about him were that he was clean, simple, direct, good-natured and
courteous. He had apparently no desire to infringe on anybody's
privacy, but was fond of stirring up light discussions and
interpolating witty remarks. He liked also to grow flowers and to
fish. The care of a border of flowers which glorified a short
gravel path in the back yard received his especial attention
evenings and mornings.

It was a great pleasure for Eugene to come into this atmosphere
after the storm which had been assailing him for the past three
years, and particularly for the past ninety days. He was only asked
to pay eight dollars a week by Mrs. Hibberdell, though he realized
that what he was obtaining in home atmosphere here was not
ordinarily purchasable at any price in the public market. The maid
saw to it that a little bouquet of flowers was put on his dressing
table daily. He was given fresh towels and linen in ample
quantities. The bath was his own. He could sit out on the porch of
an evening and look at the water uninterrupted or he could stay in
the library and read. Breakfast and dinner were invariably
delightful occasions, for though he rose at five-forty-five in
order to have his bath, breakfast, and be able to walk to the
factory and reach it by seven, Mrs. Hibberdell was invariably up,
as it was her habit to rise thus early, had been so for years. She
liked it. Eugene in his weary mood could scarcely understand this.
Davis came to the table some few moments before he would be
leaving. He invariably had some cheery remark to offer, for he was
never sullen or gloomy. His affairs, whatever they were, did not
appear to oppress him. Mrs. Hibberdell would talk to Eugene
genially about his work, this small, social centre of which they
were a part and which was called Riverwood, the current movements
in politics, religion, science and so forth. There were references
sometimes to her one daughter, who was married and living in New
York. It appeared that she occasionally visited her mother here.
Eugene was delighted to think he had been so fortunate as to find
this place. He hoped to make himself so agreeable that there would
be no question as to his welcome, and he was not disappointed.

Between themselves Mrs. Hibberdell and Davis discussed him,
agreeing that he was entirely charming, a good fellow, and well
worth having about. At the factory where Eugene worked and where
the conditions were radically different, he made for himself an
atmosphere which was almost entirely agreeable to him, though he
quarreled at times with specific details. On the first morning, for
instance, he was put to work with two men, heavy clods of souls he
thought at first, familiarly known about the yard as John and Bill.
These two, to his artistic eye, appeared machines, more mechanical
than humanly self-directive. They were of medium height, not more
than five feet, nine inches tall and weighed about one hundred and
eighty pounds each. One had a round, poorly modeled face very much
the shape of an egg, to which was attached a heavy yellowish
mustache. He had a glass eye, complicated in addition by a pair of
spectacles which were fastened over his large, protruding red ears
with steel hooks. He wore a battered brown hat, now a limp
shapeless mass. His name was Bill Jeffords and he responded
sometimes to the sobriquet of "One Eye."

The other man was John alias "Jack" Duncan, an individual of the
same height and build with but slightly more modeling to his face
and with little if any greater intelligence. He looked somewhat the
shrewder—Eugene fancied there might be lurking in him somewhere a
spark of humor, but he was mistaken. Unquestionably in Jeffords
there was none. Jack Stix, the foreman-carpenter, a tall, angular,
ambling man with red hair, a red mustache, shifty, uncertain blue
eyes and noticeably big hands and feet, had suggested to Eugene
that he work with these men for a little while. It was his idea to
"try him out," as he told one of the associate foremen who was in
charge of a gang of Italians working in the yard for the morning,
and he was quite equal to doing it. He thought Eugene had no
business here and might possibly be scared off by a little rough
work.

"He's up here for his health," he told him. "I don't know where
he comes from. Mr. Brooks sent him up here with orders to put him
on. I want to see how he takes to real work for awhile."

"Look out you don't hurt him," suggested the other. "He don't
look very strong to me."

"He's strong enough to carry a few spiles, I guess. If Jimmy can
carry 'em, he can. I don't intend to keep him at it long."

Eugene knew nothing of this, but when he was told to "come
along, new man" and shown a pile of round, rough ash trunk cutting
six inches in diameter and eight feet long, his courage failed him.
He was suffered to carry some of these to the second floor, how
many he did not know.

"Take 'em to Thompson up there in the corner," said Jeffords
dully.

Eugene grasped one uncertainly in the middle with his thin,
artistic hands. He did not know that there were ways of handling
lumber just as there were ways of handling a brush. He tried to
lift it but could not. The rough bark scratched his fingers
cruelly.

"Yah gotta learn somepin about that before yuh begin, I guess,"
said Jack Duncan, who had been standing by eyeing him narrowly.

Jeffords had gone about some other work.

"I suppose I don't know very much about it," replied Eugene
shamefacedly stopping and waiting for further instructions.

"Lemme show you a trick," said his associate. "There's tricks in
all these here trades. Take it by the end this-a-way, and push it
along until you can stand it up. Stoop down now and put your
shoulder right next the middle. Gotta pad under your shirt? You
oughtta have one. Now put your right arm out ahead o'yuh, on the
spile. Now you're all right."

Eugene straightened up and the rough post balanced itself evenly
but crushingly on his shoulder. It appeared to grind his muscles
and his back and legs ached instantly. He started bravely forward
straining to appear at ease but within fifty feet he was suffering
agony. He walked the length of the shop, however, up the stairs and
back again to the window where Thompson was, his forehead bursting
with perspiration and his ears red with blood. He fairly staggered
as he neared the machine and dropped the post heavily.

"Look what you're doin'," said a voice behind him. It was
Thompson, the lathe worker. "Can't you put that down easy?"

"No, I can't," replied Eugene angrily, his face tinged with a
faint blush from his extreme exertion. He was astonished and
enraged to think they should put him to doing work like this,
especially since Mr. Haverford had told him it would be easy. He
suspected at once a plot to drive him away. He would have added
"these are too damn heavy for me," but he restrained himself. He
went down stairs wondering how he was to get up the others. He
fingered about the pole gingerly hoping that the time taken this
way would ease his pain and give him strength for the next one.
Finally he picked up another and staggered painfully to the loft
again. The foreman had his eye on him but said nothing. It amused
him a little to think Eugene was having such a hard time. It
wouldn't hurt him for a change, would do him good. "When he gets
four carried up let him go," he said to Thompson, however, feeling
that he had best lighten the situation a little. The latter watched
Eugene out of the tail of his eye noting the grimaces he made and
the strain he was undergoing, but he merely smiled. When four had
been dropped on the floor he said: "That'll do for the present,"
and Eugene, heaving a groan of relief, went angrily away. In his
nervous, fantastic, imaginative and apprehensive frame of mind, he
imagined he had been injured for life. He feared he had strained a
muscle or broken a blood vessel somewhere.

"Good heavens, I can't stand anything like this," he thought.
"If the work is going to be this hard I'll have to quit. I wonder
what they mean by treating me this way. I didn't come here to do
this."

Visions of days and weeks of back-breaking toil stretched before
him. It would never do. He couldn't stand it. He saw his old search
for work coming back, and this frightened him in another direction.
"I mustn't give up so easily," he counseled himself in spite of his
distress. "I have to stick this out a little while anyhow." It
seemed in this first trying hour as though he were between the
devil and the deep sea. He went slowly down into the yard to find
Jeffords and Duncan. They were working at a car, one inside
receiving lumber to be piled, the other bringing it to him.

"Get down, Bill," said John, who was on the ground looking up at
his partner indifferently. "You get up there, new man. What's your
name?"

"Witla," said Eugene.

"Well, my name's Duncan. We'll bring this stuff to you and you
pile it."

It was more heavy lumber, as Eugene apprehensively observed,
quarter cut joists for some building—"four by fours" they called
them—but after he was shown the art of handling them they were not
unmanageable. There were methods of sliding and balancing them
which relieved him of a great quantity of labor. Eugene had not
thought to provide himself with gloves though, and his hands were
being cruelly torn. He stopped once to pick a splinter out of his
thumb and Jeffords, who was coming up, asked, "Ain't cha got no
gloves?"

"No," said Eugene, "I didn't think to get any."

"Your hands'll get pretty well bunged up, I'm afraid. Maybe
Joseph'll let you have his for to-day, you might go in and ask
him."

"Where's Joseph?" asked Eugene.

"He's inside there. He's taking from the plane."

Eugene did not understand this quite. He knew what a plane was,
had been listening to it sing mightily all the morning, the
shavings flying as it smoothed the boards, but
taking
?

"Where's Joseph?" he asked of the plane driver.

He nodded his head to a tall hump-shouldered boy of perhaps
twenty-two. He was a big, simple, innocent looking fellow. His face
was long and narrow, his mouth wide, his eyes a watery blue, his
hair a shock of brown, loose and wavy, with a good sprinkling of
sawdust in it. About his waist was a big piece of hemp bagging tied
by a grass rope. He wore an old faded wool cap with a long visor in
order to shield his eyes from the flying chips and dust, and when
Eugene came in one hand was lifted protectingly to shield his eyes.
Eugene approached him deprecatingly.

"One of the men out in the yard said that you might have a pair
of gloves you would lend me for to-day. I'm piling lumber and it's
tearing my hands. I forgot to get a pair."

"Sure," said Joseph genially waving his hand to the driver to
stop. "They're over here in my locker. I know what that is. I been
there. When I come here they rubbed it into me jist as they're
doin' to you. Doncher mind. You'll come out all right. Up here for
your health, are you? It ain't always like that. Somedays there
ain't most nothin' to do here. Then somedays ag'in there's a whole
lot. Well, it's good healthy work, I can say that. I ain't most
never sick. Nice fresh air we git here and all that."

He rambled on, fumbling under his bagging apron for his keys,
unlocking his locker and producing a great pair of old yellow
lumber gloves. He gave them to Eugene cheerfully and the latter
thanked him. He liked Eugene at once and Eugene liked him. "A nice
fellow that," he said, as he went back to his car. "Think of how
genially he gave me these. Lovely! If only all men were as genial
and kindly disposed as this boy, how nice the world would be." He
put on the gloves and found his work instantly easier for he could
grasp the joists firmly and without pain. He worked on until noon
when the whistle blew and he ate a dreary lunch sitting by himself
on one side, pondering. After one he was called to carry shavings,
one basket after another back through the blacksmith shop to the
engine room in the rear where was a big shaving bin. By four
o'clock he had seen almost all the characters he was going to
associate with for the time that he stayed there. Harry Fornes, the
blacksmith or "the village smith," as Eugene came to call him later
on, Jimmy Sudds, the blacksmith's helper or "maid-of-all-work" as
he promptly named him; John Peters, the engineer, Malachi Dempsey,
the driver of the great plane, Joseph Mews and, in addition,
carpenters, tin-smiths, plumbers, painters, and those few
exceptional cabinet makers who passed through the lower floor now
and then, men who were about the place from time to time and away
from it at others all of whom took note of Eugene at first as a
curiosity.