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?
Angela knew nothing of his real thoughts, for because of sympathy, a
secret sense of injustice toward her on his part, a vigorous, morbid
impression of the injustice of life as a whole, a desire to do things in
a kindly or at least a secret and not brutal way, he was led to pretend
at all times that he really cared for her; to pose as being comfortable
and happy; to lay all his moods to his inability to work. Angela, who
could not read him clearly, saw nothing of this. He was too subtle for
her understanding at times. She was living in a fool's paradise; playing
over a sleeping volcano.
He grew no better and by fall began to get the notion that he could do
better by living in Chicago. His health would come back to him there
perhaps. He was terribly tired of Blackwood. The long tree-shaded lawn
was nothing to him now. The little lake, the stream, the fields that he
had rejoiced in at first were to a great extent a commonplace. Old
Jotham was a perpetual source of delight to him with his kindly, stable,
enduring attitude toward things and his interesting comment on life, and
Marietta entertained him with her wit, her good nature, her intuitive
understanding; but he could not be happy just talking to everyday,
normal, stable people, interesting and worthwhile as they might be. The
doing of simple things, living a simple life, was just now becoming
irritating. He must go to London, Paris--do things. He couldn't loaf
this way. It mattered little that he could not work. He must try. This
isolation was terrible.
There followed six months spent in Chicago in which he painted not one
picture that was satisfactory to him, that was not messed into
nothingness by changes and changes and changes. There were then three
months in the mountains of Tennessee because someone told him of a
wonderfully curative spring in a delightful valley where the spring came
as a dream of color and the expense of living was next to nothing. There
were four months of summer in southern Kentucky on a ridge where the air
was cool, and after that five months on the Gulf of Mexico, at Biloxi,
in Mississippi, because some comfortable people in Kentucky and
Tennessee told Angela of this delightful winter resort farther South.
All this time Eugene's money, the fifteen hundred dollars he had when he
left Blackwood, several sums of two hundred, one hundred and fifty and
two hundred and fifty, realized from pictures sold in New York and Paris
during the fall and winter following his Paris exhibition, and two
hundred which had come some months afterward from a fortuitous sale by
M. Charles of one of his old New York views, had been largely
dissipated. He still had five hundred dollars, but with no pictures
being sold and none painted he was in a bad way financially in so far as
the future was concerned. He could possibly return to Alexandria with
Angela and live cheaply there for another six months, but because of the
Frieda incident both he and she objected to it. Angela was afraid of
Frieda and was resolved that she would not go there so long as Frieda
was in the town, and Eugene was ashamed because of the light a return
would throw on his fading art prospects. Blackwood was out of the
question to him. They had lived on her parents long enough. If he did
not get better he must soon give up this art idea entirely, for he could
not live on trying to paint.
He began to think that he was possessed--obsessed of a devil--and that
some people were pursued by evil spirits, fated by stars, doomed from
their birth to failure or accident. How did the astrologer in New York
know that he was to have four years of bad luck? He had seen three of
them already. Why did a man who read his palm in Chicago once say that
his hand showed two periods of disaster, just as the New York astrologer
had and that he was likely to alter the course of his life radically in
the middle portion of it? Were there any fixed laws of being? Did any of
the so-called naturalistic school of philosophers and scientists whom he
had read know anything at all? They were always talking about the fixed
laws of the universe--the unalterable laws of chemistry and physics. Why
didn't chemistry or physics throw some light on his peculiar physical
condition, on the truthful prediction of the astrologer, on the signs
and portents which he had come to observe for himself as foretelling
trouble or good fortune for himself. If his left eye twitched he had
observed of late he was going to have a quarrel with someone--invariably
Angela. If he found a penny or any money, he was going to get money; for
every notification of a sale of a picture with the accompanying check
had been preceded by the discovery of a coin somewhere: once a penny in
State Street, Chicago, on a rainy day--M. Charles wrote that a picture
had been sold in Paris for two hundred; once a three-cent piece of the
old American issue in the dust of a road in Tennessee--M. Charles wrote
that one of his old American views had brought one hundred and fifty;
once a penny in sands by the Gulf in Biloxi--another notification of a
sale. So it went. He found that when doors squeaked, people were apt to
get sick in the houses where they were; and a black dog howling in front
of a house was a sure sign of death. He had seen this with his own eyes,
this sign which his mother had once told him of as having been verified
in her experience, in connection with the case of a man who was sick in
Biloxi. He was sick, and a dog came running along the street and stopped
in front of this place--a black dog--and the man died. Eugene saw this
with his own eyes,--that is, the dog and the sick man's death notice.
The dog howled at four o'clock in the afternoon and the next morning the
man was dead. He saw the crape on the door. Angela mocked at his
superstition, but he was convinced. "There are more things in heaven and
earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy."