The Genius (46 page)

Eugene was beginning to get the measure of his iniquity as
Angela interpreted it. He could see now how cruelly he had hurt
her. He could see now how vile what he was doing looked in her
eyes. It was bad business—running with other women—no doubt of it.
It always ended in something like this—a terrible storm in which he
had to sit by and hear himself called brutal names to which there
was no legitimate answer. He had heard of this in connection with
other people, but he had never thought it would come to him. And
the worst of it was that he was guilty and deserving of it. No
doubt of that. It lowered him in his own estimation. It lowered her
in his and her own because she had to fight this way. Why did he do
it? Why did he drag her into such a situation? It was breaking down
that sense of pride in himself which was the only sustaining power
a man had before the gaze of the world. Why did he let himself into
these situations? Did he really love Carlotta? Did he want pleasure
enough to endure such abuse as this? This was a terrible scene. And
where would it end? His nerves were tingling, his brain fairly
aching. If he could only conquer this desire for another type and
be faithful, and yet how dreadful that seemed! To confine himself
in all his thoughts to just Angela! It was not possible. He thought
of these things, standing there enduring the brunt of this storm.
It was a terrible ordeal, but it was not wholly reformatory even at
that.

"What's the use of your carrying on like that, Angela?" he said
grimly, after he had listened to all this. "It isn't as bad as you
think. I'm not a liar, and I'm not a dog! You must have pieced that
note I threw in the paper box together and read it. When did you do
it?"

He was curious about that and about how much she knew. What were
her intentions in regard to him? What in regard to Carlotta? What
would she do next?

"When did I do it?" she replied. "When did I do it? What has
that to do with it? What right have you to ask? Where is this
woman, that's what I want to know? I want to find her. I want to
face her. I want to tell her what a wretched beast she is. I'll
show her how to come and steal another woman's husband. I'll kill
her. I'll kill her and I'll kill you, too. Do you hear? I'll kill
you!" And she advanced on him defiantly, blazingly.

Eugene was astounded. He had never seen such rage in any woman.
It was wonderful, fascinating, something like a great
lightning-riven storm. Angela was capable of hurling thunderbolts
of wrath. He had not known that. It raised her in his
estimation—made her really more attractive than she would otherwise
have been, for power, however displayed, is fascinating. She was so
little, so grim, so determined! It was in its way a test of great
capability. And he liked her for it even though he resented her
abuse.

"No, no, Angela," he said sympathetically and with a keen wish
to alleviate her sorrow. "You would not do anything like that. You
couldn't!"

"I will! I will!" she declared. "I'll kill her and you,
too!"

And then having reached this tremendous height she suddenly
broke. Eugene's big, sympathetic understanding was after all too
much for her. His brooding patience in the midst of her wrath, his
innate sorrow for what he could not or would not help (it was
written all over his face), his very obvious presentation of the
fact by his attitude that he knew that she loved him in spite of
this, was too much for her. It was like beating her hands against a
stone. She might kill him and this woman, whoever she was, but she
would not have changed his attitude toward her, and that was what
she wanted. A great torrent of heart-breaking sobs broke from her,
shaking her frame like a reed. She threw her arms and head upon the
kitchen table, falling to her knees, and cried and cried. Eugene
stood there contemplating the wreck he had made of her dreams.
Certainly it was hell, he said to himself; certainly it was. He was
a liar, as she said, a dog, a scoundrel. Poor little Angela! Well,
the damage had been done. What could he do now? Anything? Certainly
not. Not a thing. She was broken—heart-broken. There was no earthly
remedy for that. Priests might shrive for broken laws, but for a
broken heart what remedy was there?

"Angela!" he called gently. "Angela! I'm sorry! Don't cry!
Angela!! Don't cry!"

But she did not hear him. She did not hear anything. Lost in the
agony of her situation, she could only sob convulsively until it
seemed that her pretty little frame would break to pieces.

Eugene's feelings on this occasion were of reasonable duration.
It is always possible under such circumstances to take the victim
of our brutalities in our arms and utter a few sympathetic or
repentant words. The real kindness and repentance which consists in
reformation is quite another matter. One must see with eyes too
pure to behold evil to do that. Eugene was not to be reformed by an
hour or many hours of agony on anyone's part. Angela was well
within the range of his sympathetic interests. He suffered with her
keenly, but not enough to outrun or offset his own keen desire for
what he considered his spiritual right to enjoy beauty. What harm
did it do, he would have asked himself, if he secretly exchanged
affectionate looks and feelings with Carlotta or any other woman
who fascinated him and in turn was fascinated by him? Could an
affinity of this character really be called evil? He was not giving
her any money which Angela ought to have, or very little. He did
not want to marry her—and she really did not want to marry him, he
thought—there was no chance of that, anyhow. He wanted to associate
with her. And what harm did that do Angela? None, if she did not
know. Of course, if she knew, it was very sad for her and for him.
But, if the shoe were on the other foot, and Angela was the one who
was acting as he was acting now he would not care, he thought. He
forgot to add that if he did not care it would be because he was
not in love, and Angela was in love. Such reasoning runs in
circles. Only it is not reasoning. It is sentimental and emotional
anarchy. There is no will toward progress in it.

When Angela recovered from her first burst of rage and grief it
was only to continue it further, though not in quite the same vein.
There can only be one superlative in any field of endeavor. Beyond
that may be mutterings and thunderings or a shining after-glow, but
no second superlative. Angela charged him with every weakness and
evil tendency, only to have him look at her in a solemn way,
occasionally saying: "Oh, no! You know I'm not as bad as that," or
"Why do you abuse me in that way? That isn't true," or "Why do you
say that?"

"Because it is so, and you know it's so," Angela would
declare.

"Listen, Angela," he replied once, with a certain amount of
logic, "there is no use in brow-beating me in this way. It doesn't
do any good to call me names. You want me to love you, don't you?
That's all that you want. You don't want anything else. Will
calling me names make me do it? If I can't I can't, and if I can I
can. How will fighting help that?"

She listened to him pitifully, for she knew that her rage was
useless, or practically so. He was in the position of power. She
loved him. That was the sad part of it. To think that tears and
pleadings and wrath might not really avail, after all! He could
only love her out of a desire that was not self-generated. That was
something she was beginning to see in a dim way as a grim
truth.

Once she folded her hands and sat white and drawn, staring at
the floor. "Well, I don't know what to do," she declared. "I
suppose I ought to leave you. If it just weren't for my family!
They all think so highly of the marriage state. They are so
naturally faithful and decent. I suppose these qualities have to be
born in people. They can't be acquired. You would have to be made
over."

Eugene knew she would not leave him. He smiled at the superior
condescension of the last remark, though it was not intended as
such by her. To think of his being made over after the model Angela
and her relatives would lay down!

"I don't know where I'd go or what I'd do," she observed. "I
can't go back to my family. I don't want to go there. I haven't
been trained in anything except school teaching, and I hate to
think of that again. If I could only study stenography or
book-keeping!" She was talking as much to clear her own mind as
his. She really did not know what to do.

Eugene listened to this self-demonstrated situation with a
shamed face. It was hard for him to think of Angela being thrown
out on the world as a book-keeper or a stenographer. He did not
want to see her doing anything like that. In a way, he wanted to
live with her, if it could be done in his way—much as the Mormons
might, perhaps. What a lonely life hers would be if she were away
from him! And she was not suited to it. She was not suited to the
commercial world—she was too homey, too housewifely. He wished he
could assure her now that she would not have further cause for
grief and mean it, but he was like a sick man wishing he could do
the things a hale man might. There was no self-conviction in his
thoughts, only the idea that if he tried to do right in this matter
he might succeed, but he would be unhappy. So he drifted.

In the meanwhile Eugene had taken up his work with Deegan and
was going through a very curious experience. At the time Deegan had
stated that he would take him he had written to Haverford, making a
polite request for transfer, and was immediately informed that his
wishes would be granted. Haverford remembered Eugene kindly. He
hoped he was improving. He understood from inquiry of the
Superintendent of Buildings that Deegan was in need of a capable
assistant, anyhow, and that Eugene could well serve in that
capacity. The foreman was always in trouble about his reports. An
order was issued to Deegan commanding him to receive Eugene, and
another to Eugene from the office of the Superintendent of
Buildings ordering him to report to Deegan. Eugene went, finding
him working on the problem of constructing a coal bin under the
depot at Fords Centre, and raising as much storm as ever. He was
received with a grin of satisfaction.

"So here ye arre. Will, ye're just in time. I want ye to go down
to the ahffice."

Eugene laughed. "Sure," he said. Deegan was down in a freshly
excavated hole and his clothes were redolent of the freshly turned
earth which surrounded him. He had a plumb bob in his hand and a
spirit level, but he laid them down. Under the neat train shed to
which he crawled when Eugene appeared and where they stood, he
fished from a pocket of his old gray coat a soiled and crumpled
letter which he carefully unfolded with his thick and clumsy
fingers. Then he held it up and looked at it defiantly.

"I want ye to go to Woodlawn," he continued, "and look after
some bolts that arre theyer—there's a keg av thim—an' sign the bill
fer thim, an' ship thim down to me. They're not miny. An' thin I
waant ye to go down to the ahffice an' take thim this O. K." And
here he fished around and produced another crumpled slip. "It's
nonsinse!" he exclaimed, when he saw it. "It's onraisonable!
They're aalways yillen fer thim O. K. blanks. Ye'd think, begad, I
was goin' to steal thim from thim. Ye'd think I lived on thim
things. O. K. blanks, O. K. blanks. From mornin' 'til night O. K.
blanks. It's nonsinse! It's onraisonable!" And his face flushed a
defiant red.

Eugene could see that some infraction of the railroad's rules
had occurred and that Deegan had been "called down," or "jacked up"
about it, as the railroad men expressed it. He was in a high state
of dudgeon—as defiant and pugnacious as his royal Irish temper
would allow.

"I'll fix it," said Eugene. "That's all right. Leave it to
me."

Deegan showed some signs of approaching relief. At last he had a
man of "intilligence," as he would have expressed it. He flung a
parting shot though at his superior as Eugene departed.

"Tell thim I'll sign fer thim when I git thim and naat before!"
he rumbled.

Eugene laughed. He knew no such message would be accepted, but
he was glad to give Deegan an opportunity to blow off steam. He
entered upon his new tasks with vim, pleased with the out-of-doors,
the sunshine, the opportunity for brief trips up and down the road
like this. It was delightful. He would soon be all right now, that
he knew.

He went to Woodlawn and signed for the bolts; went to the office
and met the chief clerk (delivering the desired O. K. blanks in
person) who informed him of the chief difficulty in Deegan's life.
It appeared that there were some twenty-five of these reports to be
made out monthly, to say nothing of endless O. K. blanks to be
filled in with acknowledgments of material received. Everything had
to be signed for in this way, it mattered not whether it was a
section of a bridge or a single bolt or a pound of putty. If a man
could sit down and reel off a graphic report of what he was doing,
he was the pride of the chief clerk's heart. His doing the work
properly was taken as a matter of course. Deegan was not efficient
at this, though he was assisted at times by his wife and all three
of his children, a boy and two girls. He was constantly in hot
water.

"My God!" exclaimed the chief clerk, when Eugene explained that
Deegan had thought that he might leave the bolts at the station
where they would be safe until he needed them and then sign for
them when he took them out. He ran his hands distractedly through
his hair. "What do you think of that?" he exclaimed. "He'll leave
them there until he needs them, will he? What becomes of my
reports? I've got to have those O. K.'s. You tell Deegan he ought
to know better than that; he's been long enough on the road. You
tell him that I said that I want a signed form for everything
consigned to him the moment he learns that it's waiting for him.
And I want it without fail. Let him go and get it. The gall! He's
got to come to time about this, or something's going to drop. I'm
not going to stand it any longer. You'd better help him in this.
I've got to make out my reports on time."

Eugene agreed that he would. This was his field. He could help
Deegan. He could be really useful.

Time passed. The weather grew colder, and while the work was
interesting at first, like all other things it began after a time
to grow monotonous. It was nice enough when the weather was fine to
stand out under the trees, where some culvert was being built to
bridge a small rivulet or some well to supply the freight engines
with water, and survey the surrounding landscape; but when the
weather grew colder it was not so nice. Deegan was always
interesting. He was forever raising a ruction. He lived a life of
hard, narrow activity laid among boards, wheelbarrows, cement,
stone, a life which concerned construction and had no particular
joy in fruition. The moment a thing was nicely finished they had to
leave it and go where everything would be torn up again. Eugene
used to look at the wounded ground, the piles of yellow mud, the
dirty Italians, clean enough in their spirit, but soiled and
gnarled by their labor, and wonder how much longer he could stand
it. To think that he, of all men, should be here working with
Deegan and the
guineas
! He became lonesome at
times—terribly, and sad. He longed for Carlotta, longed for a
beautiful studio, longed for a luxurious, artistic life. It seemed
that life had wronged him terribly, and yet he could do nothing
about it. He had no money-making capacity.

About this time the construction of a rather pretentious machine
shop, two hundred by two hundred feet and four storeys high was
assigned to Deegan, largely because of the efficiency which Eugene
contributed to Deegan's work. Eugene handled his reports and
accounts with rapidity and precision, and this so soothed the
division management that they had an opportunity to see Deegan's
real worth. The latter was beside himself with excitement,
anticipating great credit and distinction for the work he was now
to be permitted to do.

"'Tis the foine time we'll have, Eugene, me bye," he exclaimed,
"puttin' up that buildin'. 'Tis no culvert we'll be afther buildin'
now. Nor no coal bin. Wait till the masons come. Then ye'll see
somethin'."

Eugene was pleased that their work was progressing so
successfully, but of course there was no future in it for him. He
was lonely and disheartened.

Besides, Angela was complaining, and rightfully enough, that
they were leading a difficult life—and to what end, so far as she
was concerned? He might recover his health and his art (by reason
of his dramatic shake-up and changes he appeared to be doing so),
but what would that avail her? He did not love her. If he became
prosperous again it might be to forsake her, and at best he could
only give her money and position if he ever attained these, and how
would that help? It was love that she wanted—his love. And she did
not have that, or only a mere shadow of it. He had made up his mind
after this last fatal argument that he would not pretend to
anything he did not feel in regard to her, and this made it even
harder. She did believe that he sympathized with her in his way,
but it was an intellectual sympathy and had very little to do with
the heart. He was sorry for her. Sorry! Sorry! How she hated the
thought of that! If he could not do any better than that, what was
there in all the years to come but misery?

A curious fact to be noted about this period was that suspicion
had so keyed up Angela's perceptions that she could almost tell,
and that without knowing, when Eugene was with Carlotta or had
been. There was something about his manner when he came in of an
evening, to say nothing of those subtler thought waves which passed
from him to her when he was with Carlotta, which told her instantly
where he had been and what he had been doing. She would ask him
where he had been and he would say: "Oh, up to White Plains" or
"out to Scarborough," but nearly always when he had been with
Carlotta she would flare up with, "Yes, I know where you've been.
You've been out again with that miserable beast of a woman. Oh, God
will punish her yet! You will be punished! Wait and see."

Tears would flood her eyes and she would berate him roundly.

Eugene stood in profound awe before these subtle outbreaks. He
could not understand how it was that Angela came to know or suspect
so accurately. To a certain extent he was a believer in
spiritualism and the mysteries of a subconscious mind or self. He
fancied that there must be some way of this subconscious self
seeing or apprehending what was going on and of communicating its
knowledge in the form of fear and suspicion to Angela's mind. If
the very subtleties of nature were in league against him, how was
he to continue or profit in this career? Obviously it could not be
done. He would probably be severely punished for it. He was half
terrified by the vague suspicion that there might be some laws
which tended to correct in this way all the abuses in nature. There
might be much vice and crime going seemingly unpunished, but there
might also be much correction going on, as the suicides and deaths
and cases of insanity seemed to attest. Was this true? Was there no
escape from the results of evil except by abandoning it entirely?
He pondered over this gravely.