The Genius (47 page)

Getting on his feet again financially was not such an easy
thing. He had been out of touch now so long with things
artistic—the magazine world and the art agencies—that he felt as if
he might not readily be able to get in touch again. Besides he was
not at all sure of himself. He had made sketches of men and things
at Speonk, and of Deegan and his gang on the road, and of Carlotta
and Angela, but he felt that they were weak in their import—lacking
in the force and feeling which had once characterized his work. He
thought of trying his hand at newspaper work if he could make any
sort of a connection—working in some obscure newspaper art
department until he should feel himself able to do better; but he
did not feel at all confident that he could get that. His severe
breakdown had made him afraid of life—made him yearn for the
sympathy of a woman like Carlotta, or of a larger more hopeful,
more tender attitude, and he dreaded looking for anything anywhere.
Besides he hated to spare the time unless he were going to get
somewhere. His work was so pressing. But he knew he must quit it.
He thought about it wearily, wishing he were better placed in this
world; and finally screwed up his courage to leave this work,
though it was not until something else was quite safely in his
hands.

It was only after a considerable lapse of time, when trying to
live on nine dollars a week and seeing Angela struggle almost
hopelessly in her determination to live on what he earned and put a
little aside, that he came to his senses and made a sincere effort
to find something better. During all this time he had been watching
her narrowly, seeing how systematically she did all her own house
work, even under these adverse and trying circumstances, cooking,
cleaning, marketing. She made over her old clothes, reshaping them
so that they would last longer and still look stylish. She made her
own hats, doing everything in short that she could to make the
money in the bank hold out until Eugene should be on his feet. She
was willing that he should take money and buy himself clothes when
she was not willing to spend it on herself. She was living in the
hope that somehow he would reform. Consciousness of what she was
worth to him might some day strike him. Still she did not feel that
things could ever be quite the same again. She could never forget,
and neither could he.

The affair between Eugene and Carlotta, because of the various
forces that were militating against it, was now slowly drawing to a
close. It had not been able to endure all the storm and stress
which followed its discovery. For one thing, Carlotta's mother,
without telling her husband, made him feel that he had good cause
to stay about, which made it difficult for Carlotta to act. Besides
she charged her daughter constantly, much as Angela was charging
Eugene, with the utmost dissoluteness of character and was as
constantly putting her on the defensive. She was too hedged about
to risk a separate apartment, and Eugene would not accept money
from her to pay for expensive indoor entertainment. She wanted to
see him but she kept hoping he would get to the point where he
would have a studio again and she could see him as a star in his
own field. That would be so much nicer.

By degrees their once exciting engagements began to lapse, and
despite his grief Eugene was not altogether sorry. To tell the
truth, great physical discomfort recently had painted his romantic
tendencies in a very sorry light for him. He thought he saw in a
way where they were leading him. That there was no money in them
was obvious. That the affairs of the world were put in the hands of
those who were content to get their life's happiness out of their
management, seemed quite plain. Idlers had nothing as a rule, not
even the respect of their fellow men. The licentious were worn
threadbare and disgraced by their ridiculous and psychologically
diseased propensities. Women and men who indulged in these
unbridled relations were sickly sentimentalists, as a rule, and
were thrown out or ignored by all forceful society. One had to be
strong, eager, determined and abstemious if wealth was to come, and
then it had to be held by the same qualities. One could not relax.
Otherwise one became much what he was now, a brooding
sentimentalist—diseased in mind and body.

So out of love-excitement and poverty and ill health and abuse
he was coming to see or thought he was this one fact
clearly,—namely that he must behave himself if he truly wished to
succeed. Did he want to? He could not say that. But he had to—that
was the sad part of it—and since apparently he had to, he would do
the best he could. It was grim but it was essential.

At this time Eugene still retained that rather ultra artistic
appearance which had characterized his earlier years, but he began
to suspect that on this score he was a little bizarre and out of
keeping with the spirit of the times. Certain artists whom he met
in times past and recently, were quite commercial in their
appearance—the very successful ones—and he decided that it was
because they put the emphasis upon the hard facts of life and not
upon the romance connected with their work. It impressed him and he
decided to do likewise, abandoning the flowing tie and the rather
indiscriminate manner he had of combing his hair, and thereafter
affected severe simplicity. He still wore a soft hat because he
thought it became him best, but otherwise he toned himself down
greatly. His work with Deegan had given him a sharp impression of
what hard, earnest labor meant. Deegan was nothing but a worker.
There was no romance in him. He knew nothing about romance. Picks
and shovels and mortar boards and concrete forms—such was his life,
and he never complained. Eugene remembered commiserating him once
on having to get up at four A. M. in order to take a train which
would get to work by seven. Darkness and cold made no difference to
him, however.

"Shewer, I have to be theyre," he had replied with his quizzical
Irish grin. "They're not payin' me me wages fer lyin' in bed. If ye
were to get up that way every day fer a year it would make a man of
ye!"

"Oh, no," said Eugene teasingly.

"Oh, yes," said Deegan, "it would. An' yere the wan that's
needin' it. I can tell that by the cut av ye."

Eugene resented this but it stayed by him. Deegan had the habit
of driving home salutary lessons in regard to work and
abstemiousness without really meaning to. The two were wholly
representative of him—just those two things and nothing more.

One day he went down into Printing House Square to see if he
could not make up his mind to apply at one of the newspaper art
departments, when he ran into Hudson Dula whom he had not seen for
a long while. The latter was delighted to see him.

"Why, hello, Witla!" he exclaimed, shocked to see that he was
exceptionally thin and pale. "Where have you been all these years?
I'm delighted to see you. What have you been doing? Let's go over
here to Hahn's and you tell me all about yourself."

"I've been sick, Dula," said Eugene frankly. "I had a severe
case of nervous breakdown and I've been working on the railroad for
a change. I tried all sorts of specialists, but they couldn't help
me. So I decided to go to work by the day and see what that would
do. I got all out of sorts with myself and I've been pretty near
four years getting back. I think I am getting better, though. I'm
going to knock off on the road one of these days and try my hand at
painting again. I think I can do it."

"Isn't that curious," replied Dula reminiscently, "I was just
thinking of you the other day and wondering where you were. You
know I've quit the art director game.
Truth
failed and I
went into the lithographic business. I have a small interest in a
plant that I'm managing down in Bond Street. I wish you'd come in
and see me some day."

"I certainly will," said Eugene.

"Now this nervousness of yours," said Dula, as they strolled
into the restaurant where they were dining. "I have a
brother-in-law that was hit that way. He's still doctoring around.
I'm going to tell him about your case. You don't look so bad."

"I'm feeling much better," said Eugene. "I really am but I've
had a bad spell of it. I'm going to come back in the game, though,
I feel sure of it. When I do I'll know better how to take care of
myself. I over-worked on that first burst of pictures."

"I must say that was the best stuff of that kind I ever saw done
in this country," said Dula. "I saw both your shows, as you
remember. They were splendid. What became of all those
pictures?"

"Oh, some were sold and the rest are in storage," replied
Eugene.

"Curious, isn't it," said Dula. "I should have thought all those
things would have been purchased. They were so new and forceful in
treatment. You want to pull yourself together and stay pulled.
You're going to have a great future in that field."

"Oh, I don't know," replied Eugene pessimistically. "It's all
right to obtain a big reputation, but you can't live on that, you
know. Pictures don't sell very well over here. I have most of mine
left. A grocer with one delivery wagon has the best artist that
ever lived backed right off the board for financial results."

"Not quite as bad as that," said Dula smilingly. "An artist has
something which a tradesman can never have—you want to remember
that. His point of view is worth something. He lives in a different
world spiritually. And then financially you can do well enough—you
can live, and what more do you want? You're received everywhere.
You have what the tradesman cannot possibly attain—distinction; and
you give the world a standard of merit—you will, at least. If I had
your ability I would never sit about envying any butcher or baker.
Why, all the artists know you now—the good ones, anyhow. It only
remains for you to do more, to obtain more. There are lots of
things you can do."

"What, for instance?" asked Eugene.

"Why, ceilings, mural decorations. I was saying to someone the
other day what a mistake it was the Boston Library did not assign
some of their panels to you. You would make splendid things of
them."

"You certainly have a world of faith in me," replied Eugene,
tingling warmly. It was like a glowing fire to hear this after all
the dreary days. Then the world still remembered him. He was worth
while.

"Do you remember Oren Benedict—you used to know him out in
Chicago, didn't you?"

"I certainly did," replied Eugene. "I worked with him."

"He's down on the
World
now, in charge of the art
department there. He's just gone there." Then as Eugene exclaimed
over the curious shifts of time, he suddenly added, "Why wouldn't
that be a good idea for you? You say you're just about to knock
off. Why don't you go down and do some pen work to get your hand
in? It would be a good experience for you. Benedict would be glad
to put you on, I'm sure."

Dula suspected that Eugene might be out of funds, and this would
be an easy way for him to slip into something which would lead back
to studio work. He liked Eugene. He was anxious to see him get
along. It flattered him to think he had been the first to publish
his work in color.

"That isn't a bad idea," said Eugene. "I was really thinking of
doing something like that if I could. I'll go up and see him maybe
today. It would be just the thing I need now,—a little preliminary
practise. I feel rather rusty and uncertain."

"I'll call him up, if you want," said Dula generously. "I know
him well. He was asking me the other day if I knew one or two
exceptional men. You wait here a minute."

Eugene leaned back in his chair as Dula left. Could it be that
he was going to be restored thus easily to something better? He had
thought it would be so hard. Now this chance was coming to lift him
out of his sufferings at the right time.

Dula came back. "He says 'Sure,'" he exclaimed. "'Come right
down!' You'd better go down there this afternoon. That'll be just
the thing for you. And when you are placed again, come around and
see me. Where are you living?"

Eugene gave him his address.

"That's right, you're married," he added, when Eugene spoke of
himself and Angela having a small place. "How is Mrs. Witla? I
remember her as a very charming woman. Mrs. Dula and I have an
apartment in Gramercy Place. You didn't know I had tied up, did
you? Well, I have. Bring your wife and come to see us. We'll be
delighted. I'll make a dinner date for you two."

Eugene was greatly pleased and elated. He knew Angela would be.
They had seen nothing of artistic life lately. He hurried down to
see Benedict and was greeted as an old acquaintance. They had never
been very chummy but always friendly. Benedict had heard of
Eugene's nervous breakdown.

"Well, I'll tell you," he said, after greeting and reminiscences
were over, "I can't pay very much—fifty dollars is high here just
at present, and I have just one vacancy now at twenty-five which
you can have if you want to try your hand. There's a good deal of
hurry up about at times, but you don't mind that. When I get things
straightened out here I may have something better."

"Oh, that's all right," replied Eugene cheerfully. "I'm glad to
get that." (He was very glad indeed.) "And I don't mind the hurry.
It will be good for a change."

Benedict gave him a friendly handshake in farewell. He was glad
to have him, for he knew what he could do.

"I don't think I can come before Monday. I have to give a few
days' notice. Is that all right?"

"I could use you earlier, but Monday will do," said Benedict,
and they parted genially.

Eugene hurried back home. He was delighted to tell Angela, for
this would rob their condition of part of its gloom. It was no
great comfort to him to be starting in as a newspaper artist again
at twenty-five dollars a week, but it couldn't be helped, and it
was better than nothing. At least it was putting him back on the
track again. He was sure to do still better after this. He could
hold this newspaper job, he felt, and outside that he didn't care
very much for the time being; his pride had received some severe
jolts. It was vastly better than day labor, anyway. He hurried up
the four flights of stairs to the cheap little quarters they
occupied, saying when he saw Angela at the gas range: "Well, I
guess our railroad days are over."

"What's the trouble?" asked Angela apprehensively.

"No trouble," he replied. "I have a better job."

"What is it?"

"I'm going to be a newspaper artist for a while on the
World
."

"When did you find that out?" she asked, brightening, for she
had been terribly depressed over their state.

"This afternoon. I'm going to work Monday. Twenty-five dollars
will be some better than nine, won't it?"

Angela smiled. "It certainly will," she said, and tears of
thanksgiving filled her eyes.

Eugene knew what those tears stood for. He was anxious to avoid
painful reminiscences.

"Don't cry," he said. "Things are going to be much better from
now on."

"Oh, I hope so, I hope so," she murmured, and he patted her head
affectionately as it rested on his shoulder.