The Genius (33 page)

Still by her tears she as yet had the power of rousing his
sympathies and awakening his sense of shame. Her sorrow made him
slightly ashamed of his conduct or rather sorry, for the tougher
nature was constantly presenting itself. Her suspicions made the
further pursuit of this love quest practically impossible. Secretly
he already cursed the day he had married her, for Frieda's face was
ever before him, a haunting lure to love and desire. In this hour
life looked terribly sad to him. He couldn't help feeling that all
the perfect things one might seek or find were doomed to the
searing breath of an inimical fate. Ashes of roses—that was all
life had to offer. Dead sea fruit, turning to ashes upon the lips.
Oh, Frieda! Frieda! Oh, youth, youth! That there should dance
before him for evermore an unattainable desire—the holy grail of
beauty. Oh life, oh death! Which was really better, waking or
sleeping? If he could only have Frieda now it would be worth
living, but without her—

The weakness of Eugene was that he was prone in each of these
new conquests to see for the time being the sum and substance of
bliss, to rise rapidly in the scale of uncontrollable, exaggerated
affection, until he felt that here and nowhere else, now and in
this particular form was ideal happiness. He had been in love with
Stella, with Margaret, with Ruby, with Angela, with Christina, and
now with Frieda, quite in this way, and it had taught him nothing
as yet concerning love except that it was utterly delightful. He
wondered at times how it was that the formation of a particular
face could work this spell. There was plain magic in the curl of a
lock of hair, the whiteness or roundness of a forehead, the
shapeliness of a nose or ear, the arched redness of full-blown
petal lips. The cheek, the chin, the eye—in combination with these
things—how did they work this witchery? The tragedies to which he
laid himself open by yielding to these spells—he never stopped to
think of them.

It is a question whether the human will, of itself alone, ever
has cured or ever can cure any human weakness. Tendencies are
subtle things. They are involved in the chemistry of one's being,
and those who delve in the mysteries of biology frequently find
that curious anomaly, a form of minute animal life born to be the
prey of another form of animal life—chemically and physically
attracted to its own disaster. Thus, to quote Calkins, "some
protozoa are apparently limited to special kinds of food. The
'slipper-animal' (Paramecium) and the 'bell-animal' (Vorticella)
live on certain kinds of bacteria, and many others, which live upon
smaller protozoa, seem to have a marked affinity for certain kinds.
I have watched one of these creatures (Actinobolus) lie perfectly
quiet while hundreds of bacteria and smaller kinds of protozoa
bumped against it, until a certain variety (Halteria grandinella)
came near, when a minute dart, or 'trochocyst,' attached to a
relatively long thread, was launched. The victim was invariably
hit, and after a short struggle was drawn in and devoured. The
results of many experiments indicate that the apparently
willful
selection in these cases is the inevitable action
of definite chemical and physical laws which the individual
organism can no more change than it can change the course of
gravitation. The killing dart mentioned above is called out by the
particular kind of prey with the irresistible attraction of an iron
filing for a magnet."

Eugene did not know of these curious biologic experiments at
this time, but he suspected that these attractions were deeper than
human will. He thought at times that he ought to resist his
impulses. At other times he asked himself why. If his treasure was
in this and he lost it by resistance, what had he? A sense of
personal purity? It did not appeal to him. The respect of his
fellow-citizens? He believed that most of his fellow-citizens were
whited sepulchres. What good did their hypocritical respect do him?
Justice to others? Others were not concerned, or should not be in
the natural affinity which might manifest itself between two
people. That was for them to settle. Besides, there was very little
justice in the world. As for his wife—well, he had given her his
word, but he had not done so willingly. Might one swear eternal
fealty and abide by it when the very essence of nature was lack of
fealty, inconsiderateness, destruction, change? A gloomy Hamlet to
be sure, asking "can honor set a leg?"—a subtle Machiavelli
believing that might made right, sure that it was a matter of
careful planning, not ethics which brought success in this world,
and yet one of the poorest planners in it. An anarchistic
manifestation of selfishness surely; but his additional plea was
that he did not make his own mind, nor his emotions, nor anything
else. And worst of all, he counselled himself that he was not
seizing anything ruthlessly. He was merely accepting that which was
thrust temptingly before him by fate.

Hypnotic spells of this character like contagion and fever have
their period of duration, their beginning, climax and end. It is
written that love is deathless, but this was not written of the
body nor does it concern the fevers of desire. The marriage of true
minds to which Shakespeare would admit no impediment is of a
different texture and has little sex in it. The friendship of Damon
and Pythias was a marriage in the best sense, though it concerned
two men. The possibilities of intellectual union between a man and
a woman are quite the same. This is deathless in so far as it
reflects the spiritual ideals of the universe—not more so. All else
is illusion of short duration and vanishes in thin air.

When the time came for Eugene to leave Alexandria as he had
originally wanted to do, he was not at all anxious to depart;
rather it was an occasion of great suffering for him. He could not
see any solution to the problem which confronted him in connection
with Frieda's love for him. As a matter of fact, when he thought
about it at all he was quite sure that she did not understand or
appreciate the nature of her affection for him or his for her. It
had no basis in responsibility. It was one of those things born of
thin air—sunlight, bright waters, the reflection of a bright
room—things which are intangible and insubstantial. Eugene was not
one who, if he thought anything at all about it, would persuade a
girl to immorality for the mere sake of indulgence. His feelings
were invariably compounded of finer things, love of companionship,
love of beauty, a variable sense of the consequences which must
ensue, not so much to him as to her, though he took himself into
consideration. If she were not already experienced and he had no
method of protecting her, if he could not take her as his wife or
give her the advantages of his presence and financial support,
secretly or openly, if he could not keep all their transactions a
secret from the world, he was inclined to hesitate. He did not want
to do anything rash—as much for her sake as for his. In this case,
the fact that he could not marry her, that he could not reasonably
run away with her, seeing that he was mentally sick and of
uncertain financial condition, the fact that he was surrounded by
home conditions which made it of the greatest importance that he
should conduct himself circumspectly, weighed greatly with him.
Nevertheless a tragedy could easily have resulted here. If Frieda
had been of a headstrong, unthinking nature; if Angela had been
less watchful, morbid, appealing in her mood; if the family and
town conditions had been less weighty; if Eugene had had health and
ample means, he would probably have deserted Angela, taken Frieda
to some European city—he dreamed of Paris in this connection—and
found himself confronted later by an angry father or a growing
realization that Frieda's personal charms were not the sum and
substance of his existence, or both. George Roth, for all he was a
traveling salesman, was a man of considerable determination. He
might readily have ended the life of his daughter's betrayer—art
reputation or no. He worshiped Frieda as the living image of his
dead wife, and at best he would have been heartbroken.

As it was, there was not much chance of this, for Eugene was not
rash. He was too philosophic. Conditions might have arisen in which
he would have shown the most foolhardy bravado, but not in his
present state. There was not sufficient anguish in his own
existence to drive him to action. He saw no clear way. So, in June,
with Angela he took his departure for Blackwood, pretending, to
her, outward indifference as to his departure, but inwardly feeling
as though his whole life were coming to nothing.

When he reached Blackwood he was now, naturally, disgusted with
the whole atmosphere of it. Frieda was not there. Alexandria, from
having been the most wearisome sidepool of aimless inactivity, had
suddenly taken on all the characteristics of paradise. The little
lakes, the quiet streets, the court house square, his sister's
home, Frieda's home, his own home, had been once more invested for
him with the radiance of romance—that intangible glory of feeling
which can have no existence outside the illusion of love. Frieda's
face was everywhere in it, her form, the look of her eyes. He could
see nothing there now save the glory of Frieda. It was as though
the hard, weary face of a barren landscape were suddenly bathed in
the soft effulgence of a midnight moon.

As for Blackwood, it was as lovely as ever but he could not see
it. The fact that his attitude had changed toward Angela for the
time being made all the difference. He did not really hate her—he
told himself that. She was not any different from that she had
been, that was perfectly plain. The difference was in him. He
really could not be madly in love with two people at once. He had
entertained joint affections for Angela and Ruby, and Angela and
Christina, but those were not the dominating fevers which this
seemed to be. He could not for the time get the face of this girl
out of his mind. He was sorry for Angela at moments. Then, because
of her insistence on his presence with her—on her being in his
company, "following him around" as he put it, he hated her. Dear
Heaven! if he could only be free without injuring her. If he could
only get loose. Think, at this moment he might be with Frieda
walking in the sun somewhere, rowing on the lake at Alexandria,
holding her in his arms. He would never forget how she looked the
first morning she came into his barn studio at home—how enticing
she was the first night he saw her at Sylvia's. What a rotten mess
living was, anyhow. And so he sat about in the hammock at the Blue
homestead, or swung in a swing that old Jotham had since put up for
Marietta's beaux, or dreamed in a chair in the shade of the house,
reading. He was dreary and lonely with just one ambition in the
world—Frieda.

Meanwhile, as might be expected, his health was not getting any
better. Instead of curing himself of those purely carnal
expressions of passion which characterized his life with Angela,
the latter went on unbroken. One would have thought that his
passion for Frieda would have interrupted this, but the presence of
Angela, the comparatively enforced contact, her insistence on his
attentions, broke down again and again the protecting barrier of
distaste. Had he been alone, he would have led a chaste life until
some new and available infatuation seized him. As it was there was
no refuge either from himself or Angela, and the at times almost
nauseating relationship went on and on.

Those of the Blue family, who were in the home or near it, were
delighted to see him. The fact that he had achieved such a great
success, as the papers had reported, with his first exhibition and
had not lost ground with the second—a very interesting letter had
come from M. Charles saying that the Paris pictures would be shown
in Paris in July—gave them a great estimate of him. Angela was a
veritable queen in this home atmosphere; and as for Eugene, he was
given the privilege of all geniuses to do as he pleased. On this
occasion Eugene was the centre of interest, though he appeared not
to be, for his four solid Western brothers-in-law gave no
indication that they thought he was unusual. He was not their
type—banker, lawyer, grain merchant and real estate dealer—but they
felt proud of him just the same. He was different, and at the same
time natural, genial, modest, inclined to appear far more
interested in their affairs than he really was. He would listen by
the hour to the details of their affairs, political, financial,
agricultural, social. The world was a curious compost to Eugene and
he was always anxious to find out how other people lived. He loved
a good story, and while he rarely told one he made a splendid
audience for those who did. His eyes would sparkle and his whole
face light with the joy of the humor he felt.

Through all this—the attention he was receiving, the welcome he
was made to feel, the fact that his art interests were not yet dead
(the Paris exhibition being the expiring breath of his original
burst of force), he was nevertheless feeling the downward trend of
his affairs most keenly. His mind was not right. That was surely
true. His money affairs were getting worse, not better, for while
he could hope for a few sales yet (the Paris pictures did not sell
in New York) he was not certain that this would be the case. This
homeward trip had cost him two hundred of his seventeen hundred
dollars and there would be additional expenses if he went to
Chicago, as he planned in the fall. He could not live a single year
on fifteen hundred dollars—scarcely more than six months, and he
could not paint or illustrate anything new in his present state.
Additional sales of the pictures of the two original exhibitions
must be effected in a reasonable length of time or he would find
himself in hard straits.

Meanwhile, Angela, who had obtained such a high estimate of his
future by her experience in New York and Paris, was beginning to
enjoy herself again, for after all, in her judgment, she seemed to
be able to manage Eugene very well. He might have had some slight
understanding with Frieda Roth—it couldn't have been much or she
would have seen it, she thought—but she had managed to break it up.
Eugene was cross, naturally, but that was due more to her
quarreling than anything else. These storms of feeling on her
part—not always premeditated—seemed very essential. Eugene must be
made to understand that he was married now; that he could not look
upon or run after girls as he had in the old days. She was well
aware that he was considerably younger than she was in temperament,
inclined to be exceedingly boyish, and this was apt to cause
trouble anywhere. But if she watched over him, kept his attention
fixed on her, everything would come out all right. And then there
were all these other delightful qualities—his looks, his genial
manner, his reputation, his talent. What a delightful thing it had
become to announce herself as Mrs. Eugene Witla and how those who
knew about him sat up. Big people were his friends, artists admired
him, common, homely, everyday people thought he was nice and
considerate and able and very worth while. He was generally liked
everywhere. What more could one want?