The Genius (39 page)

So had it been only a little while ago with Frieda. So had it
been once with Angela. So long ago with Stella! Dear, sweet Stella,
how nice she was. And now here he was sick and lonely and married
and Angela would be coming back soon—and—He would get up frequently
to shut out these thoughts, and either read or walk or go to bed.
But he was lonely, almost irritably so. There was only one true
place of comfort for Eugene anywhere and that was in the spring
time in love.

It was while he was mooning along in this mood, working,
dreaming, wishing, that there came, one day to her mother's house
at Riverwood, Carlotta Wilson—Mrs. Norman Wilson, in the world in
which she moved—a tall brunette of thirty-two, handsome after the
English fashion, shapely, graceful, with a knowledge of the world
which was not only compounded of natural intelligence and a sense
of humor, but experiences fortunate and unfortunate which had shown
her both the showy and the seamy sides of life. To begin with she
was the wife of a gambler—a professional gambler—of that peculiar
order which essays the rôle of a gentleman, looks the part, and
fleeces unmercifully the unwary partakers of their companionship.
Carlotta Hibberdell, living with her mother at that time in
Springfield, Massachusetts, had met him at a local series of races,
which she was attending with her father and mother, where Wilson
happened to be accidentally upon another mission. Her father, a
real estate dealer, and fairly successful at one time, was very
much interested in racing horses, and owned several of worthy
records though of no great fame. Norman Wilson had posed as a real
estate speculator himself, and had handled several fairly
successful deals in land, but his principal skill and reliance was
in gambling. He was familiar with all the gambling opportunities of
the city, knew a large circle of those who liked to gamble, men and
women in New York and elsewhere, and his luck or skill at times was
phenomenal. At other times it was very bad. There were periods when
he could afford to live in the most expensive apartment houses,
dine at the best restaurants, visit the most expensive country
pleasure resorts and otherwise disport himself in the companionship
of friends. At other times, because of bad luck, he could not
afford any of these things and though he held to his estate grimly
had to borrow money to do it. He was somewhat of a fatalist in his
interpretation of affairs and would hang on with the faith that his
luck would turn. It did turn invariably, of course, for when
difficulties began to swarm thick and fast he would think
vigorously and would usually evolve some idea which served to help
him out. His plan was always to spin a web like a spider and await
the blundering flight of some unwary fly.

At the time she married him Carlotta Hibberdell did not know of
the peculiar tendencies and subtle obsession of her ardent lover.
Like all men of his type he was suave, persuasive, passionate,
eager. There was a certain cat-like magnetism about him also which
fascinated her. She could not understand him at that time and she
never did afterwards. The license which he subsequently manifested
not only with her but with others astonished and disgusted her. She
found him selfish, domineering, outside his own particular field
shallow, not at all artistic, emotional, or poetic. He was inclined
to insist on the last touch of material refinement in surroundings
(so far as he understood them) when he had money, but she found to
her regret that he did not understand them. In his manner with her
and everyone else he was top-lofty, superior, condescending. His
stilted language at times enraged and at other times amused her,
and when her original passion passed and she began to see through
his pretence to his motives and actions she became indifferent and
then weary. She was too big a woman mentally to quarrel with him
much. She was too indifferent to life in its totality to really
care. Her one passion was for an ideal lover of some type, and
having been thoroughly mistaken in him she looked abroad wondering
whether there were any ideal men.

Various individuals came to their apartments. There were
gamblers, blasé society men, mining experts, speculators, sometimes
with, sometimes without a wife. From these and from her husband and
her own observation she learned of all sorts of scoundrels,
mes-alliances, [
sic
] queer manifestations of
incompatibility of temper, queer freaks of sex desire. Because she
was good looking, graceful, easy in her manners, there were no end
of proposals, overtures, hints and luring innuendos cast in her
direction. She had long been accustomed to them. Because her
husband deserted her openly for other women and confessed it in a
blasé way she saw no valid reason for keeping herself from other
men. She chose her lovers guardedly and with subtle taste,
beginning after mature deliberation with one who pleased her
greatly. She was seeking refinement, emotion, understanding coupled
with some ability and they were not so easy to find. The long
record of her liaisons is not for this story, but their impress on
her character was important.

She was indifferent in her manner at most times and to most
people. A good jest or story drew from her a hearty laugh. She was
not interested in books except those of a very exceptional
character—the realistic school—and these she thought ought not to
be permitted except to private subscribers, nevertheless she cared
for no others. Art was fascinating—really great art. She loved the
pictures of Rembrandt, Frans Hals, Correggio, Titian. And with less
discrimination, and more from a sensual point of view the nudes of
Cabanel, Bouguereau and Gerome. To her there was reality in the
works of these men, lightened by great imagination. Mostly people
interested her, the vagaries of their minds, the idiosyncrasies of
their characters, their lies, their subterfuges, their pretences,
their fears. She knew that she was a dangerous woman and went
softly, like a cat, wearing a half-smile not unlike that seen on
the lips of Monna Lisa, but she did not worry about herself. She
had too much courage. At the same time she was tolerant, generous
to a fault, charitable. When someone suggested that she overdid the
tolerance, she replied, "Why shouldn't I? I live in such a
magnificent glass house."

The reason for her visit home on this occasion was that her
husband had practically deserted her for the time being. He was in
Chicago for some reason principally because the atmosphere in New
York was getting too hot for him, as she suspected. Because she
hated Chicago and was weary of his company she refused to go with
him. He was furious for he suspected her of liaisons, but he could
not help himself. She was indifferent. Besides she had other
resources than those he represented, or could get them.

A certain wealthy Jew had been importuning her for years to get
a divorce in order that he might marry her. His car and his
resources were at her command but she condescended only the vaguest
courtesies. It was within the ordinary possibilities of the day for
him to call her up and ask if he could not come with his car. He
had three. She waved most of this aside indifferently. "What's the
use?" was her pet inquiry. Her husband was not without his car at
times. She had means to drive when she pleased, dress as she liked,
and was invited to many interesting outings. Her mother knew well
of her peculiar attitude, her marital troubles, her quarrels and
her tendency to flirt. She did her best to keep her in check, for
she wanted to retain for her the privilege of obtaining a divorce
and marrying again, the next time successfully. Norman Wilson,
however, would not readily give her a legal separation even though
the preponderance of evidence was against him and, if she
compromised herself, there would be no hope. She half suspected
that her daughter might already have compromised herself, but she
could not be sure. Carlotta was too subtle. Norman made open
charges in their family quarrels, but they were based largely on
jealousy. He did not know for sure.

Carlotta Wilson had heard of Eugene. She did not know of him by
reputation, but her mother's guarded remarks in regard to him and
his presence, the fact that he was an artist, that he was sick and
working as a laborer for his health aroused her interest. She had
intended to spend the period of her husband's absence at
Narragansett with some friends, but before doing so she decided to
come home for a few days just to see for herself. Instinctively her
mother suspected curiosity on her part in regard to Eugene. She
threw out the remark that he might not stay long, in the hope that
her daughter might lose interest. His wife was coming back.
Carlotta discerned this opposition—this desire to keep her away.
She decided that she would come.

"I don't know that I want to go to Narragansett just now," she
told her mother. "I'm tired. Norman has just worn my nerves to a
frazzle. I think I'll come up home for a week or so."

"All right," said her mother, "but do be careful how you act
now. This Mr. Witla appears to be a very nice man and he's happily
married. Don't you go casting any looks in his direction. If you do
I won't let him stay here at all."

"Oh, how you talk," replied Carlotta irritably. "Do give me a
little credit for something. I'm not going up there to see him. I'm
tired, I tell you. If you don't want me to come I won't."

"It isn't that, I do want you. But you know how you are. How do
you ever expect to get free if you don't conduct yourself
circumspectly? You know that you—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, I hope you're not going to start that
old argument again," exclaimed Carlotta defensively. "What's the
use beginning on that? We've been all over it a thousand times. I
can't go anywhere or do anything but what you want to fuss. Now I'm
not coming up there to do anything but rest. Why will you always
start in to spoil everything?"

"Well now, you know well enough, Carlotta—" reiterated her
mother.

"Oh, chuck it. I'll not come. To hell with the house. I'll go to
Narragansett. You make me tired!"

Her mother looked at her tall daughter, graceful, handsome, her
black hair parted in rich folds, irritated and yet pleased with her
force and ability. If she would only be prudent and careful, what a
figure she might yet become! Her complexion was like old
rose-tinted ivory, her lips the color of dark raspberries, her eyes
bluish grey, wide set, large, sympathetic, kindly. What a pity she
had not married some big, worthy man to begin with. To be tied up
to this gambler, even though they did live in Central Park West and
had a comparatively sumptuous apartment, was a wretched thing.
Still it was better than poverty or scandal, though if she did not
take care of herself both might ensue. She wanted her to come to
Riverwood for she liked her company, but she wanted her to behave
herself. Perhaps Eugene would save the day. He was certainly
restrained enough in his manner and remarks. She went back to
Riverwood, and Carlotta, the quarrel smoothed over, followed
her.

Eugene did not see her during the day she arrived, for he was at
work; and she did not see him as he came in at night. He had on his
old peaked hat and carried his handsome leather lunch box jauntily
in one hand. He went to his room, bathed, dressed and then out on
the porch to await the call of the dinner gong. Mrs. Hibberdell was
in her room on the second floor and "Cousin Dave," as Carlotta
called Simpson, was in the back yard. It was a lovely twilight. He
was in the midst of deep thoughts about the beauty of the scene,
his own loneliness, the characters at the shop-work, Angela and
what not, when the screen door opened and she stepped out. She had
on a short-sleeved house dress of spotted blue silk with yellow
lace set about the neck and the ends of the sleeves. Her shapely
figure, beautifully proportioned to her height, was set in a
smooth, close fitting corset. Her hair, laid in great braids at the
back, was caught in a brown spangled net. She carried herself with
thoughtfulness and simplicity, seeming naturally indifferent.

Eugene rose. "I'm in your way, I think. Won't you have this
chair?"

"No, thanks. The one in the corner will do. But I might as well
introduce myself, since there isn't anyone here to do it. I'm Mrs.
Wilson, Mrs. Hibberdell's daughter. You're Mr. Witla?"

"Yes, I answer to that," said Eugene, smiling. He was not very
much impressed at first. She seemed nice and he fancied
intelligent—a little older than he would have preferred any woman
to be who was to interest him. She sat down and looked at the
water. He took his chair and held his peace. He was not even
interested to talk to her. She was nice to look at, however. Her
presence lightened the scene for him.

"I always like to come up here," she volunteered finally. "It's
so warm in the city these days. I don't think many people know of
this place. It's out of the beaten track."

"I enjoy it," said Eugene. "It's such a rest for me. I don't
know what I would have done if your mother hadn't taken me in. It's
rather hard to find any place, doing what I am."

"You've taken a pretty strenuous way to get health, I should
say," she observed. "Day labor sounds rough to me. Do you mind
it?"

"Not at all. I like it. The work is interesting and not so very
hard. It's all so new to me, that's what makes it easy. I like the
idea of being a day laborer and associating with laborers. It's
only because I'm run down in health that I worry. I don't like to
be sick."

"It is bad," she replied, "but this will probably put you on
your feet. I think we're always inclined to look on our present
troubles as the worst. I know I am."

"Thanks for the consolation," he said.

She did not look at him and he rocked to and fro silently.
Finally the dinner gong struck. Mrs. Hibberdell came down stairs
and they went in.

The conversation at dinner turned on his work for a few moments
and he described accurately the personalities of John and Bill and
Big John the engineer, and little Suddsy and Harry Fornes, the
blacksmith. Carlotta listened attentively without appearing to, for
everything about Eugene seemed singular and exceptional to her. She
liked his tall, spare body, his lean hands, his dark hair and eyes.
She liked the idea of his dressing as a laboring man in the
morning, working all day in the shop, and yet appearing so neat and
trim at dinner. He was easy in his manner, apparently lethargic in
his movements and yet she could feel a certain swift force that
filled the room. It was richer for his presence. She understood at
a glance that he was an artist, in all probability a good one. He
said nothing of that, avoided carefully all reference to his art,
and listened attentively. She felt though as if he were studying
her and everyone else, and it made her gayer. At the same time she
had a strong leaning toward him. "What an ideal man to be
associated with," was one of her repeated thoughts.