The Genius (23 page)

After the quiet of a small town, the monotony and simplicity of
country life, the dreary, reiterated weariness of teaching a
country school, this new world into which Angela was plunged seemed
to her astonished eyes to be compounded of little save beauties,
curiosities and delights. The human senses, which weary so quickly
of reiterated sensory impressions, exaggerate with equal readiness
the beauty and charm of the unaccustomed. If it is new, therefore
it must be better than that which we have had of old. The material
details with which we are able to surround ourselves seem at times
to remake our point of view. If we have been poor, wealth will seem
temporarily to make us happy; when we have been amid elements and
personages discordant to our thoughts, to be put among harmonious
conditions seems, for the time being, to solve all our woes. So
little do we have that interior peace which no material conditions
can truly affect or disturb.

When Angela awoke the next morning, this studio in which she was
now to live seemed the most perfect habitation which could be
devised by man. The artistry of the arrangement of the rooms, the
charm of the conveniences—a bathroom with hot and cold water next
to the bedroom; a kitchen with an array of necessary utensils. In
the rear portion of the studio used as a dining-room a glimpse of
the main studio gave her the sense of art which dealt with nature,
the beauty of the human form, colors, tones—how different from
teaching school. To her the difference between the long, low
rambling house at Blackwood with its vine ornamented windows, its
somewhat haphazard arrangement of flowers and its great lawn, and
this peculiarly compact and ornate studio apartment looking out
upon Washington Square, was all in favor of the latter. In Angela's
judgment there was no comparison. She could not have understood if
she could have seen into Eugene's mind at this time how her home
town, her father's single farm, the blue waters of the little lake
near her door, the shadows of the tall trees on her lawn were
somehow, compounded for him not only with classic beauty itself,
but with her own charm. When she was among these things she partook
of their beauty and was made more beautiful thereby. She did not
know how much she had lost in leaving them behind. To her all these
older elements of her life were shabby and unimportant, pointless
and to be neglected.

This new world was in its way for her an Aladdin's cave of
delight. When she looked out on the great square for the first time
the next morning, seeing it bathed in sunlight, a dignified line of
red brick dwellings to the north, a towering office building to the
east, trucks, carts, cars and vehicles clattering over the pavement
below, it all seemed gay with youth and energy.

"We'll have to dress and go out to breakfast," said Eugene. "I
didn't think to lay anything in. As a matter of fact I wouldn't
have known what to buy if I had wanted to. I never tried
housekeeping for myself."

"Oh, that's all right," said Angela, fondling his hands, "only
let's not go out to breakfast unless we have to. Let's see what's
here," and she went back to the very small room devoted to cooking
purposes to see what cooking utensils had been provided. She had
been dreaming of housekeeping and cooking for Eugene, of petting
and spoiling him, and now the opportunity had arrived. She found
that Mr. Dexter, their generous lessor, had provided himself with
many conveniences—breakfast and dinner sets of brown and blue
porcelain, a coffee percolator, a charming dull blue teapot with
cups to match, a chafing dish, a set of waffle irons, griddles,
spiders, skillets, stew and roasting pans and knives and forks of
steel and silver in abundance. Obviously he had entertained from
time to time, for there were bread, cake, sugar, flour and salt
boxes and a little chest containing, in small drawers, various
spices.

"Oh, it will be easy to get something here," said Angela,
lighting the burners of the gas stove to see whether it was in good
working order. "We can just go out to market if you'll come and
show me once and get what we want. It won't take a minute. I'll
know after that." Eugene consented gladly.

She had always fancied she would be an ideal housekeeper and now
that she had her Eugene she was anxious to begin. It would be such
a pleasure to show him what a manager she was, how everything would
go smoothly in her hands, how careful she would be of his
earnings—their joint possessions.

She was sorry, now that she saw that art was no great producer
of wealth, that she had no money to bring him, but she knew that
Eugene in the depth of his heart thought nothing of that. He was
too impractical. He was a great artist, but when it came to
practical affairs she felt instinctively that she was much the
wiser. She had bought so long, calculated so well for her sisters
and brothers.

Out of her bag (for her trunks had not yet arrived) she
extracted a neat house dress of pale green linen which she put on
after she had done up her hair in a cosy coil, and together with
Eugene for a temporary guide, they set forth to find the stores. He
had told her, looking out the windows, that there were lines of
Italian grocers, butchers and vegetable men in the side streets,
leading south from the square, and into one of these they now
ventured. The swarming, impressive life of the street almost took
her breath away, it was so crowded. Potatoes, tomatoes, eggs,
flour, butter, lamb chops, salt—a dozen little accessories were all
purchased in small quantities, and then they eagerly returned to
the studio. Angela was a little disgusted with the appearance of
some of the stores, but some of them were clean enough. It seemed
so strange to her to be buying in an Italian street, with Italian
women and children about, their swarthy leathern faces set with
bright, almost feverish eyes. Eugene in his brown corduroy suit and
soft green hat, watching and commenting at her side, presented such
a contrast. He was so tall, so exceptional, so laconic.

"I like them when they wear rings in their ears," he said at one
time.

"Get the coal man who looks like a bandit," he observed at
another.

"This old woman here might do for the witch of Endor."

Angela attended strictly to her marketing. She was gay and
smiling, but practical. She was busy wondering in what quantities
she should buy things, how she would keep fresh vegetables, whether
the ice box was really clean; how much delicate dusting the various
objects in the studio would require. The raw brick walls of the
street, the dirt and slops in the gutter, the stray cats and dogs
hungry and lean, the swarming stream of people, did not appeal to
her as picturesque at all. Only when she heard Eugene expatiating
gravely did she begin to realize that all this must have artistic
significance. If Eugene said so it did. But it was a fascinating
world whatever it was, and it was obvious that she was going to be
very, very happy.

There was a breakfast in the studio then of hot biscuit with
fresh butter, an omelette with tomatoes, potatoes stewed in cream,
and coffee. After the long period of commonplace restaurant dining
which Eugene had endured, this seemed ideal. To sit in your own
private apartment with a charming wife opposite you ready to render
you any service, and with an array of food before you which revived
the finest memories in your gustatory experience, seemed perfect.
Nothing could be better. He saw visions of a happy future if he
could finance this sort of thing. It would require a lot of money,
more than he had been making, but he thought he could make out.
After breakfast Angela played on the piano, and then, Eugene
wanting to work, she started housekeeping in earnest. The trunks
arriving gave her the task of unpacking and with that and lunch and
dinner to say nothing of love she had sufficient to do.

It was a charming existence for a little while. Eugene suggested
that they should have Smite and MacHugh to dinner first of all,
these being his closest friends. Angela agreed heartily for she was
only too anxious to meet the people he knew. She wanted to show him
she knew how to receive and entertain as well as anyone. She made
great preparations for the Wednesday evening following—the night
fixed for the dinner—and when it came was on the qui vive to see
what his friends were like and what they would think of her.

The occasion passed off smoothly enough and was the occasion of
considerable jollity. These two cheerful worthies were greatly
impressed with the studio. They were quick to praise it before
Angela, and to congratulate him on his good fortune in having
married her. Angela, in the same dress in which she had appeared at
dinner in Buffalo, was impressive. Her mass of yellow hair
fascinated the gaze of both Smite and MacHugh.

"Gee, what hair!" Smite observed secretly to MacHugh when
neither Angela nor Eugene were within hearing distance.

"You're right," returned MacHugh. "She's not at all bad looking,
is she?"

"I should say not," returned Smite who admired Angela's simple,
good-natured western manners. A little later, more subtly, they
expressed their admiration to her, and she was greatly pleased.

Marietta, who had arrived late that afternoon, had not made her
appearance yet. She was in the one available studio bedroom making
her toilet. Angela, in spite of her fine raiment, was busy
superintending the cooking, for although through the janitor she
had managed to negotiate the loan of a girl to serve, she could not
get anyone to cook. A soup, a fish, a chicken and a salad, were the
order of procedure. Marietta finally appeared, ravishing in pink
silk. Both Smite and MacHugh sat up and Marietta proceeded to
bewitch them. Marietta knew no order or distinctions in men. They
were all slaves to her—victims to be stuck on the spit of her
beauty and broiled in their amorous uncertainties at her leisure.
In after years Eugene learned to speak of Marietta's smile as "the
dagger." The moment she appeared smiling he would say, "Ah, we have
it out again, have we? Who gets the blade this evening? Poor
victim!"

Being her brother-in-law now, he was free to slip his arm about
her waist and she took this family connection as license to kiss
him. There was something about Eugene which held her always. During
these very first days she gratified her desire to be in his arms,
but always with a sense of reserve which kept him in check. She
wondered secretly how much he liked her.

Smite and MacHugh, when she appeared, both rose to do her
service. MacHugh offered her his chair by the fire. Smite bestirred
himself in an aimless fashion.

"I've just had such a dandy week up at West Point," began
Marietta cheerfully, "dancing, seeing dress parades, walking with
the soldier boys."

"I warn you two, here and now," began Eugene, who had already
learned to tease Marietta, "that you're not safe. This woman here
is dangerous. As artists in good standing you had better look out
for yourselves."

"Oh, Eugene, how you talk," laughed Marietta, her teeth showing
effectively. "Mr. Smite, I leave it to you. Isn't that a mean way
to introduce a sister-in-law? I'm here for just a few days too, and
have so little time. I think it cruel!"

"It's a shame!" said Smite, who was plainly a willing victim.
"You ought to have another kind of brother-in-law. If you had some
people I know now—"

"It's an outrage," commented MacHugh. "There's one thing though.
You may not require so very much time."

"Now I think that's ungallant," Marietta laughed. "I see I'm all
alone here except for Mr. Smite. Never mind. You all will be sorry
when I'm gone."

"I believe that," replied MacHugh, feelingly.

Smite simply stared. He was lost in admiration of her cream and
peach complexion, her fluffy, silky brown hair, her bright blue
eyes and plump rounded arms. Such radiant good nature would be
heavenly to live with. He wondered what sort of a family this was
that Eugene had become connected with. Angela, Marietta, a brother
at West Point. They must be nice, conservative, well-to-do western
people. Marietta went to help her sister, and Smite, in the absence
of Eugene, said: "Say, he's in right, isn't he? She's a peach.
She's got it a little on her sister."

MacHugh merely stared at the room. He was taken with the
complexion and arrangement of things generally. The old furniture,
the rugs, the hangings, the pictures, Eugene's borrowed maid
servant in a white apron and cap, Angela, Marietta, the bright
table set with colored china and an arrangement of silver
candlesticks—Eugene had certainly changed the tenor of his life
radically within the last ten days. Why he was marvellously
fortunate. This studio was a wonderful piece of luck. Some
people—and he shook his head meditatively.

"Well," said Eugene, coming back after some final touches to his
appearance, "what do you think of it, Peter?"

"You're certainly moving along, Eugene. I never expected to see
it. You ought to praise God. You're plain lucky."

Eugene smiled enigmatically. He was wondering whether he was.
Neither Smite nor MacHugh nor anyone could dream of the conditions
under which this came about. What a sham the world was anyhow. It's
surface appearances so ridiculously deceptive! If anyone had known
of the apparent necessity when he first started to look for an
apartment, of his own mood toward it!

Marietta came back, and Angela. The latter had taken kindly to
both these men, or boys as she already considered them. Eugene had
a talent for reducing everybody to "simply folks," as he called
them. So these two capable and talented men were mere country boys
like himself—and Angela caught his attitude.

"I'd like to have you let me make a sketch of you some day, Mrs.
Witla," MacHugh said to Angela when she came back to the fire. He
was essaying portraiture as a side line and he was anxious for good
opportunities to practice.