The Genius (38 page)

Eugene was himself intensely interested in the men. Harry Fornes
and Jimmy Sudds attracted him especially. The former was an
undersized American of distant Irish extraction who was so broad
chested, swollen armed, square-jawed and generally self-reliant and
forceful as to seem a minor Titan. He was remarkably industrious,
turning out a great deal of work and beating a piece of iron with a
resounding lick which could be heard all about the hills and
hollows outside. Jimmy Sudds, his assistant, was like his master
equally undersized, dirty, gnarled, twisted, his teeth showing like
a row of yellow snags, his ears standing out like small fans, his
eye askew, but nevertheless with so genial a look in his face as to
disarm criticism at once. Every body liked Jimmy Sudds because he
was honest, single-minded and free of malicious intent. His coat
was three and his trousers two times too large for him, and his
shoes were obviously bought at a second-hand store, but he had the
vast merit of being a picture. Eugene was fascinated with him. He
learned shortly that Jimmy Sudds truly believed that buffaloes were
to be shot around Buffalo, New York.

John Peters, the engineer, was another character who fixed his
attention. John was almost helplessly fat and was known for this
reason as "Big John." He was a veritable whale of a man. Six feet
tall, weighing over three hundred pounds and standing these summer
days in his hot engine room, his shirt off, his suspenders down,
his great welts of fat showing through his thin cotton undershirt,
he looked as though he might be suffering, but he was not. John, as
Eugene soon found out, did not take life emotionally. He stood
mostly in his engine room door when the shade was there staring out
on the glistening water of the river, occasionally wishing that he
didn't need to work but could lie and sleep indefinitely
instead.

"Wouldja think them fellers would feel purty good sittin' out
there on the poop deck of them there yachts smokin' their
perfectos?" he once asked Eugene, apropos of the magnificent
private vessels that passed up and down the river.

"I certainly would," laughed Eugene.

"Aw! Haw! That's the life fer yer uncle Dudley. I could do that
there with any of 'em. Aw! Haw!"

Eugene laughed joyously.

"Yes, that's the life," he said. "We all could stand our
share."

Malachi Dempsey, the driver of the great plane, was dull,
tight-mouthed, silent, more from lack of ideas than anything else,
though oyster-wise he had learned to recede from all manner of harm
by closing his shell tightly. He knew no way to avoid earthly harm
save by being preternaturally silent, and Eugene saw this quickly.
He used to stare at him for long periods at a time, marvelling at
the curiosity his attitude presented. Eugene himself, though, was a
curiosity to the others, even more so than they to him. He did not
look like a workingman and could not be made to do so. His spirit
was too high, his eye too flashing and incisive. He smiled at
himself carrying basketful after basketful of shavings from the
planing room, where it rained shavings and from which, because of
the lack of a shaving blower, they had to be removed back to the
hot engine room where Big John presided. The latter took a great
fancy to Eugene, but something after the fashion of a dog for a
master. He did not have a single idea above his engine, his garden
at home, his wife, his children and his pipe. These and sleep—lots
of it—were his joys, his recreations, the totality of his
world.

There were many days now, three months all told, in which Eugene
obtained insight into the workaday world such as he had not
previously had. It is true he had worked before in somewhat this
fashion, but his Chicago experience was without the broad
philosophic insight which had come to him since. Formerly the
hierarchies of power in the universe and on earth were inexplicable
to him—all out of order; but here, where he saw by degrees
ignorant, almost animal intelligence, being directed by greater,
shrewder, and at times it seemed to him possibly malicious
intelligences—he was not quite sure about that—who were so strong
that the weaker ones must obey them, he began to imagine that in a
rough way life might possibly be ordered to the best advantage even
under this system. It was true that men quarreled here with each
other as to who should be allowed to lead. There was here as
elsewhere great seeking for the privileges and honors of direction
and leadership in such petty things as the proper piling of lumber,
the planing of boards, the making of desks and chairs, and men were
grimly jealous of their talents and abilities in these respects,
but in the main it was the jealousy that makes for ordered,
intelligent control. All were striving to do the work of
intelligence, not of unintelligence. Their pride, however ignorant
it might be, was in the superior, not the inferior. They might
complain of their work, snarl at each other, snarl at their bosses,
but after all it was because they were not able or permitted to do
the higher work and carry out the orders of the higher mind. All
were striving to do something in a better way, a superior way, and
to obtain the honors and emoluments that come from doing anything
in a superior way. If they were not rewarded according to their
estimate of their work there was wrath and opposition and complaint
and self-pity, but the work of the superior intelligence was the
thing which each in his blind, self-seeking way was apparently
trying to do.

Because he was not so far out of his troubles that he could be
forgetful of them, and because he was not at all certain that his
talent to paint was ever coming back to him, he was not as cheerful
at times as he might have been; but he managed to conceal it pretty
well. This one thought with its attendant ills of probable poverty
and obscurity were terrible to him. Time was slipping away and
youth. But when he was not thinking of this he was cheerful enough.
Besides he had the ability to simulate cheerfulness even when he
did not feel it. Because he did not permanently belong to this
world of day labor and because his position which had been given
him as a favor was moderately secure, he felt superior to
everything about him. He did not wish to show this feeling in any
way—was very anxious as a matter of fact to conceal it, but his
sense of superiority and ultimate indifference to all these petty
details was an abiding thought with him. He went to and fro
carrying a basket of shavings, jesting with "the village smith,"
making friends with "Big John," the engineer, with Joseph, Malachi
Dempsey, little Jimmy Sudds, in fact anyone and everyone who came
near him who would be friends. He took a pencil one day at the noon
hour and made a sketch of Harry Fornes, the blacksmith, his arm
upraised at the anvil, his helper, Jimmy Sudds, standing behind
him, the fire glowing in the forge. Fornes, who was standing beside
him, looking over his shoulder, could scarcely believe his
eyes.

"Wotcha doin'?" he asked Eugene curiously, looking over his
shoulder, for it was at the blacksmith's table, in the sun of his
window that he was sitting, looking out at the water. Eugene had
bought a lunch box and was carrying with him daily a delectable
lunch put up under Mrs. Hibberdell's direction. He had eaten his
noonday meal and was idling, thinking over the beauty of the scene,
his peculiar position, the curiosities of this shop—anything and
everything that came into his head.

"Wait a minute," he said genially, for he and the smith were
already as thick as thieves.

The latter gazed interestedly and finally exclaimed:

"W'y that's me, ain't it?"

"Yep!" said Eugene.

"Wat are you goin' to do with that wen you get through with it?"
asked the latter avariciously.

"I'm going to give it to you, of course."

"Say, I'm much obliged fer that," replied the smith delightedly.
"Gee, the wife'll be tickled to see that. You're a artist, ain't
cher? I hearda them fellers. I never saw one. Gee, that's good,
that looks just like me, don't it?"

"Something," said Eugene quietly, still working.

The helper came in.

"Watcha' doin'?" he asked.

"He's drawin' a pitcher, ya rube, watchye suppose he's doin',"
informed the blacksmith authoritatively. "Don't git too close. He's
gotta have room."

"Aw, whose crowdin'?" asked the helper irritably. He realized at
once that his superior was trying to shove him in the background,
this being a momentous occasion. He did not propose that any such
thing should happen. The blacksmith glared at him irritably but the
progress of the art work was too exciting to permit of any
immediate opportunities for hostilities, so Jimmy was allowed to
crowd close and see.

"Ho, ho! that's you, ain't it," he asked the smith curiously,
indicating with a grimy thumb the exact position of that dignitary
on the drawing.

"Don't," said the latter, loftily—"sure! He's gotta have
room."

"An' there's me. Ho! Ho! Gee, I look swell, don't I? Ho!
ho!"

The little helper's tushes were showing joyously—a smile that
extended far about either side of his face. He was entirely
unconscious of the rebuke administered by the smith.

"If you're perfectly good, Jimmy," observed Eugene cheerfully
still working, "I may make a sketch of you, sometime!"

"Na! Will you? Go on! Say, hully chee. Dat'll be fine, won't it?
Say, ho! ho! De folks at home won't know me. I'd like to have a
ting like dat, say!"

Eugene smiled. The smith was regretful. This dividing of honors
was not quite all that it might be. Still his own picture was
delightful. It looked exactly like the shop. Eugene worked until
the whistle blew and the belts began to slap and the wheels to
whirr. Then he got up.

"There you are, Fornes," he said. "Like it?"

"Gee, it's swell," said the latter and carried it to the locker.
He took it out after a bit though and hung it up over his bench on
the wall opposite his forge, for he wanted everyone to see. It was
one of the most significant events in his life. This sketch was the
subject immediately of a perfect storm of discussion. Eugene was an
artist—could draw pictures—that was a revelation in itself. Then
this picture was so life-like. It looked like Fornes and Sudds and
the shop. Everyone was interested. Everyone jealous. They could not
understand how God had favored the smith in this manner. Why hadn't
Eugene sketched them before he did him? Why didn't he immediately
offer to sketch them now? Big John came first, tipped off and
piloted by Jimmy Sudds.

"Say!" he said his big round eyes popping with surprise.
"There's some class to that, what? That looks like you, Fornes.
Jinged if it don't! An' Suddsy! Bless me if there ain't Suddsy.
Say, there you are, kid, natural as life, damned if you ain't.
That's fine. You oughta keep that, smith."

"I intend to," said the latter proudly.

Big John went back to his engine room regretfully. Next came
Joseph Mews, his shoulders humped, his head bobbing like a duck,
for he had this habit of nodding when he walked.

"Say, wot d'ye thinka that?" he asked. "Ain't that fine. He kin
drawr jist as good as they do in them there magazines. I see them
there things in them, now an' then. Ain't that swell? Lookit Suddsy
back in there. Eh, Suddsy, you're in right, all right. I wisht he'd
make a picture o' us out there. We're just as good as you people.
Wats the matter with us, eh?"

"Oh, he ain't goin' to be bothered makin' pitchers of you
mokes," replied the smith jestingly. "He only draws real ones. You
want to remember that, Mews. He's gotta have good people to make
sketches of. None o' your half-class plane-drivers and jig-saw
operators."

"Is that so? Is that so?" replied Joseph contemptuously, his
love of humor spurred by the slight cast upon his ability. "Well if
he was lookin' for real ones he made a mistake wen he come here.
They're all up front. You don't want to forget that, smith. They
don't live in no blacksmith's shop as I ever seen it."

"Cut it out! Cut it out!" called little Sudds from a position of
vantage near the door. "Here comes the boss," and Joseph
immediately pretended to be going to the engine room for a drink.
The smith blew up his fire as though it were necessary to heat the
iron he had laid in the coals. Jack Stix came ambling by.

"Who did that?" he asked, stopping after a single general,
glance and looking at the sketch on the wall.

"Mr. Witla, the new man," replied the smith, reverently.

"Say, that's pretty good, ain't it?" the foreman replied
pleasantly. "He did that well. He must be an artist."

"I think he is," replied the smith, cautiously. He was always
eager to curry favor with the boss. He came near to his side and
looked over his arm. "He done it here today at noon in about a half
an hour."

"Say, that's pretty good now," and the foreman went on his way,
thinking.

If Eugene could do that, why was he here? It must be his run
down condition, sure enough. And he must be the friend of someone
high in authority. He had better be civil. Hitherto he had stood in
suspicious awe of Eugene, not knowing what to make of him. He could
not figure out just why he was here—a spy possibly. Now he thought
that he might be mistaken.

"Don't let him work too hard," he told Bill and John. "He ain't
any too strong yet. He came up here for his health."

He was obeyed in this respect, for there was no gain-saying the
wishes of a foreman, but this open plea for consideration was the
one thing if any which could have weakened Eugene's popularity. The
men did not like the foreman. He would have been stronger at any
time in the affections of the men if the foreman had been less
markedly considerate or against him entirely.

The days which followed were restful enough though hard, for
Eugene found that the constant whirl of work which went on here,
and of which he had naturally to do his share, was beneficial to
him. For the first time in several years he slept soundly. He would
don his suit of blue overalls and jumper in the morning a few
minutes before the whistle blew at seven and from then on until
noon, and from one o'clock until six he would carry shavings, pile
lumber for one or several of the men in the yard, load or unload
cars, help Big John stoke his boilers, or carry chips and shavings
from the second floor. He wore an old hat which he had found in a
closet at Mrs. Hibberdell's, a faded, crumpled memory of a soft
tan-colored sombrero which he punched jauntily to a peak and wore
over one ear. He had big new yellow gloves which he kept on his
hands all day, which were creased and frayed, but plenty good
enough for this shop and yard. He learned to handle lumber nicely,
to pile with skill, to "take" for Malachi Dempsey from the plane,
to drive the jig-saw, and other curious bits. He was tireless in
his energy because he was weary of thinking and hoped by sheer
activity to beat down and overcome his notion of artistic
inability—to forget that he believed that he couldn't paint and so
be able to paint again. He had surprised himself in these sketches
he had made, for his first feeling under the old régime would have
been that he could not make them. Here, because the men were so
eager and he was so much applauded, he found it rather easy and,
strange to say, he thought they were good.

At the home of Mrs. Hibberdell at night he would lay off all his
working clothes before dinner, take a cold bath and don a new brown
suit, which because of the assurance of this position he had bought
for eighteen dollars, ready made. He found it hard to get off to
buy anything, for his pay ceased (fifteen cents an hour) the moment
he left the shop. He had put his pictures in storage in New York
and could not get off (or at least did not want to take the time
off) to go and sell any. He found that he could leave without
question if he wanted no pay, but if he wanted pay and had a good
reason he could sometimes be excused. His appearance about the
house and yard after six-thirty in the evening and on Sundays was
attractive enough. He looked delicate, refined, conservative, and,
when not talking to someone, rather wistful. He was lonely and
restless, for he felt terribly out of it. This house was lonely. As
at Alexandria, before he met Frieda, he was wishing there were some
girls about. He wondered where Frieda was, what she was doing,
whether she had married. He hoped not. If life had only given him a
girl like Frieda—so young, so beautiful! He would sit and gaze at
the water after dark in the moonlight, for this was his one
consolation—the beauty of nature—thinking. How lovely it all was!
How lovely life was,—this village, the summer trees, the shop where
he worked, the water, Joseph, little Jimmy, Big John, the stars. If
he could paint again, if he could be in love again. In love! In
love! Was there any other sensation in the world like that of being
in love?

A spring evening, say, some soft sweet odours blowing as they
were tonight, the dark trees bending down, or the twilight
angelically silver, hyacinth, orange, some soothing murmurs of the
wind; some faint chirping of the tree-toads or frogs and then your
girl. Dear God! Could anything be finer than that? Was anything
else in life worth while? Your girl, her soft young arms about your
neck, her lips to yours in pure love, her eyes speaking like twin
pools of color here in the night.