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.
Angela thrilled at the invitation, and the use of her new name,
Mrs. Witla, by Eugene's old friends.
"I'd be delighted," she replied, flushing.
"My word, you look nice, Angel-Face," exclaimed Marietta, catching her
about the waist. "You paint her with her hair down in braids,
Mr. MacHugh. She makes a stunning Gretchen."
Angela flushed anew.
"I've been reserving that for myself, Peter," said Eugene, "but you try
your hand at it. I'm not much in portraiture anyhow."
Smite smiled at Marietta. He wished he could paint her, but he was poor
at figure work except as incidental characters in sea scenes. He could
do men better than he could women.
"If you were an old sea captain now, Miss Blue," he said to Marietta
gallantly, "I could make a striking thing out of you."
"I'll try to be, if you want to paint me," she replied gaily. "I'd look
fine in a big pair of boots and a raincoat, wouldn't I, Eugene?"
"You certainly would, if I'm any judge," replied Smite. "Come over to
the studio and I'll rig you out. I have all those things on hand."
"I will," she replied, laughing. "You just say the word."
MacHugh felt as if Smite were stealing a march on him. He wanted to be
nice to Marietta, to have her take an interest in him.
"Now, looky, Joseph," he protested. "I was going to suggest making a
study of Miss Blue myself."
"Well, you're too late," replied Smite. "You didn't speak quick enough."
Marietta was greatly impressed with this atmosphere in which Angela and
Eugene were living. She expected to see something artistic, but nothing
so nice as this particular studio. Angela explained to her that Eugene
did not own it, but that made small difference in Marietta's estimate of
its significance. Eugene had it. His art and social connections brought
it about. They were beginning excellently well. If she could have as
nice a home when she started on her married career she would be
satisfied.
They sat down about the round teak table which was one of Dexter's
prized possessions, and were served by Angela's borrowed maid. The
conversation was light and for the most part pointless, serving only to
familiarize these people with each other. Both Angela and Marietta were
taken with the two artists because they felt in them a note of homely
conservatism. These men spoke easily and naturally of the trials and
triumphs of art life, and the difficulty of making a good living, and
seemed to be at home with personages of repute in one world and another,
its greatest reward.
During the dinner Smite narrated experiences in his sea-faring life, and
MacHugh of his mountain camping experiences in the West. Marietta
described experiences with her beaux in Wisconsin and characteristics of
her yokel neighbors at Blackwood, Angela joining in. Finally MacHugh
drew a pencil sketch of Marietta followed by a long train of admiring
yokels, her eyes turned up in a very shy, deceptive manner.
"Now I think that's cruel," she declared, when Eugene laughed heartily.
"I never look like that."
"That's just the way you look and do," he declared. "You're the broad
and flowery path that leadeth to destruction."
"Never mind, Babyette," put in Angela, "I'll take your part if no one
else will. You're a nice, demure, shrinking girl and you wouldn't look
at anyone, would you?"
Angela got up and was holding Marietta's head mock sympathetically in
her arms.
"Say, that's a dandy pet name," called Smite, moved by Marietta's
beauty.
"Poor Marietta," observed Eugene. "Come over here to me and I'll
sympathize with you."
"You don't take my drawing in the right spirit, Miss Blue," put in
MacHugh cheerfully. "It's simply to show how popular you are."
Angela stood beside Eugene as her guests departed, her slender arm about
his waist. Marietta was coquetting finally with MacHugh. These two
friends of his, thought Eugene, had the privilege of singleness to be
gay and alluring to her. With him that was over now. He could not be
that way to any girl any more. He had to behave--be calm and
circumspect. It cut him, this thought. He saw at once it was not in
accord with his nature. He wanted to do just as he had always done--make
love to Marietta if she would let him, but he could not. He walked to
the fire when the studio door was closed.
"They're such nice boys," exclaimed Marietta. "I think Mr. MacHugh is as
funny as he can be. He has such droll wit."
"Smite is nice too," replied Eugene defensively.
"They're both lovely--just lovely," returned Marietta.
"I like Mr. MacHugh a little the best--he's quainter," said Angela, "but
I think Mr. Smite is just as nice as he can be. He's so old fashioned.
There's not anyone as nice as my Eugene, though," she said
affectionately, putting her arm about him.
"Oh, dear, you two!" exclaimed Marietta. "Well, I'm going to bed."
Eugene sighed.
They had arranged a couch for her which could be put behind the
silver-spangled fish net in the alcove when company was gone.
Eugene thought what a pity that already this affection of Angela's was
old to him. It was not as it would be if he had taken Marietta or
Christina. They went to their bed room to retire and then he saw that
all he had was passion. Must he be satisfied with that? Could he be? It
started a chain of thought which, while persistently interrupted or
befogged, was really never broken. Momentary sympathy, desire,
admiration, might obscure it, but always fundamentally it was there. He
had made a mistake. He had put his head in a noose. He had subjected
himself to conditions which he did not sincerely approve of. How was he
going to remedy this--or could it ever be remedied?