The result of Angela's outburst was that Eugene hastened to notify those
whom he had not already informed--Shotmeyer, his father and mother,
Sylvia, Myrtle, Hudson Dula--and received in return cards and letters of
congratulation expressing surprise and interest, which he presented to
Angela in a conciliatory spirit. She realized, after it was all over,
that she had given him an unpleasant shock, and was anxious to make up
to him in personal affection what she had apparently compelled him to
suffer for policy's sake. Eugene did not know that in Angela, despite
her smallness of body and what seemed to him her babyishness of spirit,
he had to deal with a thinking woman who was quite wise as to ways and
means of handling her personal affairs. She was, of course, whirled in
the maelstrom of her affection for Eugene and this was confusing, and
she did not understand the emotional and philosophic reaches of his
mind; but she did understand instinctively what made for a stable
relationship between husband and wife and between any married couple and
the world. To her the utterance of the marriage vow meant just what it
said, that they would cleave each to the other; there should be
henceforth no thoughts, feelings, or emotions, and decidedly no actions
which would not conform with the letter and the spirit of the marriage
vow.
Eugene had sensed something of this, but not accurately or completely.
He did not correctly estimate either the courage or the rigidity of her
beliefs and convictions. He thought that her character might possibly
partake of some of his own easy tolerance and good nature. She must know
that people--men particularly--were more or less unstable in their
make-up. Life could not be governed by hard and fast rules. Why,
everybody knew that. You might try, and should hold yourself in check as
much as possible for the sake of self-preservation and social
appearances, but if you erred--and you might easily--it was no crime.
Certainly it was no crime to look at another woman longingly. If you
went astray, overbalanced by your desires, wasn't it after all in the
scheme of things? Did we make our desires? Certainly we did not, and if
we did not succeed completely in controlling them--well--
The drift of life into which they now settled was interesting enough,
though for Eugene it was complicated with the thought of possible
failure, for he was, as might well be expected of such a temperament, of
a worrying nature, and inclined, in his hours of ordinary effort, to
look on the dark side of things. The fact that he had married Angela
against his will, the fact that he had no definite art connections which
produced him as yet anything more than two thousand dollars a year, the
fact that he had assumed financial obligations which doubled the cost of
food, clothing, entertainment, and rent--for their studio was costing
him thirty dollars more than had his share of the Smite-MacHugh
chambers--weighed on him. The dinner which he had given to Smite and
MacHugh had cost about eight dollars over and above the ordinary
expenses of the week. Others of a similar character would cost as much
and more. He would have to take Angela to the theatre occasionally.
There would be the need of furnishing a new studio the following fall,
unless another such windfall as this manifested itself. Although Angela
had equipped herself with a varied and serviceable trousseau, her
clothes would not last forever. Odd necessities began to crop up not
long after they were married, and he began to see that if they lived
with anything like the freedom and care with which he had before he was
married, his income would have to be larger and surer.
The energy which these thoughts provoked was not without result. For one
thing he sent the original of the East Side picture, "Six O'clock" to
the American Academy of Design exhibition--a thing which he might have
done long before but failed to do.
Angela had heard from Eugene that the National Academy of Design was a
forum for the display of art to which the public was invited or admitted
for a charge. To have a picture accepted by this society and hung on the
line was in its way a mark of merit and approval, though Eugene did not
think very highly of it. All the pictures were judged by a jury of
artists which decided whether they should be admitted or rejected, and
if admitted whether they should be given a place of honor or hung in
some inconspicuous position. To be hung "on the line" was to have your
picture placed in the lower tier where the light was excellent and the
public could get a good view of it. Eugene had thought the first two
years he was in New York that he was really not sufficiently experienced
or meritorious, and the previous year he had thought that he would hoard
all that he was doing for his first appearance in some exhibition of his
own, thinking the National Academy commonplace and retrogressive. The
exhibitions he had seen thus far had been full of commonplace,
dead-and-alive stuff, he thought. It was no great honor to be admitted
to such a collection. Now, because MacHugh was trying, and because he
had accumulated nearly enough pictures for exhibition at a private
gallery which he hoped to interest, he was anxious to see what the
standard body of American artists thought of his work. They might reject
him. If so that would merely prove that they did not recognize a radical
departure from accepted methods and subject matter as art. The
impressionists, he understood, were being so ignored. Later they would
accept him. If he were admitted it would simply mean that they knew
better than he believed they did.
"I believe I will do it," he said; "I'd like to know what they think of
my stuff anyhow."
The picture was sent as he had planned, and to his immense satisfaction
it was accepted and hung. It did not, for some reason, attract as much
attention as it might, but it was not without its modicum of praise.
Owen Overman, the poet, met him in the general reception entrance of the
Academy on the opening night, and congratulated him sincerely. "I
remember seeing that in _Truth_," he said, "but it's much better in the
original. It's fine. You ought to do a lot of those things."
"I am," replied Eugene. "I expect to have a show of my own one of these
days."
He called Angela, who had wandered away to look at a piece of statuary,
and introduced her.
"I was just telling your husband how much I like his picture," Overman
informed her.
Angela was flattered that her husband was so much of a personage that he
could have his picture hung in a great exhibition such as this, with its
walls crowded with what seemed to her magnificent canvases, and its
rooms filled with important and distinguished people. As they strolled
about Eugene pointed out to her this well known artist and that writer,
saying almost always that they were very able. He knew three or four of
the celebrated collectors, prize givers, and art patrons by sight, and
told Angela who they were. There were a number of striking looking
models present whom Eugene knew either by reputation, whispered comment
of friends, or personally--Zelma Desmond, who had posed for Eugene,
Hedda Anderson, Anna Magruder and Laura Matthewson among others. Angela
was struck and in a way taken by the dash and beauty of these girls.
They carried themselves with an air of personal freedom and courage
which surprised her. Hedda Anderson was bold in her appearance but
immensely smart. Her manner seemed to comment on the ordinary woman as
being indifferent and not worth while. She looked at Angela walking with
Eugene and wondered who she was.
"Isn't she striking," observed Angela, not knowing she was anyone whom
Eugene knew.
"I know her well," he replied; "she's a model."
Just then Miss Anderson in return for his nod gave him a fetching smile.
Angela chilled.
Elizabeth Stein passed by and he nodded to her.
"Who is she?" asked Angela.
"She's a socialist agitator and radical. She sometimes speaks from a
soap-box on the East Side."
Angela studied her carefully. Her waxen complexion, smooth black hair
laid in even plaits over her forehead, her straight, thin, chiseled
nose, even red lips and low forehead indicated a daring and subtle soul.
Angela did not understand her. She could not understand a girl as good
looking as that doing any such thing as Eugene said, and yet she had a
bold, rather free and easy air. She thought Eugene certainly knew
strange people. He introduced to her William McConnell, Hudson Dula, who
had not yet been to see them, Jan Jansen, Louis Deesa, Leonard Baker and
Paynter Stone.
In regard to Eugene's picture the papers, with one exception, had
nothing to say, but this one in both Eugene's and Angela's minds made up
for all the others. It was the _Evening Sun_, a most excellent medium
for art opinion, and it was very definite in its conclusions in regard
to this particular work. The statement was:
"A new painter, Eugene Witla, has an oil entitled 'Six O'clock' which
for directness, virility, sympathy, faithfulness to detail and what for
want of a better term we may call totality of spirit, is quite the best
thing in the exhibition. It looks rather out of place surrounded by the
weak and spindling interpretations of scenery and water which so readily
find a place in the exhibition of the Academy, but it is none the weaker
for that. The artist has a new, crude, raw and almost rough method, but
his picture seems to say quite clearly what he sees and feels. He may
have to wait--if this is not a single burst of ability--but he will have
a hearing. There is no question of that. Eugene Witla is an artist."
Eugene thrilled when he read this commentary. It was quite what he would
have said himself if he had dared. Angela was beside herself with joy.
Who was the critic who had said this, they wondered? What was he like?
He must be truly an intellectual personage. Eugene wanted to go and look
him up. If one saw his talent now, others would see it later. It was for
this reason--though the picture subsequently came back to him unsold,
and unmentioned so far as merit or prizes were concerned--that he
decided to try for an exhibition of his own.