I WAS walking down the marble hall of our editorial floor one day not
long after I arrived when I noted on a door at its extreme end the
words: “Art Department.” The _Globe_ in Chicago had no art department,
at least I never discovered it. The mere word _art_, although I had no
real understanding of it, was fascinating to me. Was it not on every
tongue? A man who painted or drew was an artist; Doré was one, for
instance, and Rembrandt. (I classed the two together.) In Chicago I had
of course known that each paper should have an art department, and that
interested me in this one. What were artists like? I had never known
one.
Another day I was on my way to the lavatory when I discovered that I had
come away without the key, a duplicate of which every department
possessed. The art department door being nearest, I entered to borrow
theirs. Behold, three distinctive if not distinguished looking
individuals at work upon drawings laid upon drawing-boards. Two of these
looked up, the one nearest me with a look of criticism in his eye, I
thought. The one who answered me when I asked for the key, and who
swiftly arose to get it for me, was short and stocky, with bushy,
tramp-like hair and beard. There was something that savored of opera
bouffe about him, and yet, as I could see, he took himself seriously
enough. There was something pleasing in his voice too as he said,
“Certainly; here it is,” and smiled.
The one who had looked up at first and frowned but made no move was much
less cheery. I recall the long, thin, sallow face, the coal-black hair,
long and coarse, which was parted most carefully in the middle and
slicked down at the sides and back over the ears until it looked as
though it had been oiled, and the eyes, black and small and querulous
and petulant, as was the mouth, with drawn lines at each corner, as
though he had endured much pain. That long, loose, flowing black tie!
And that soft white or blue or green or brown linen shirt!—would any
Quartier Latin denizen have been without them? He had thin, pale bony
hands, long and graceful, and an air of “touch thou me not, O defiled
one.” The man appealed to and repelled me at a glance, appealing to me
much more later, and ever remained a human humoresque, something to
coddle, endure, decipher, laugh at. Surely Dick Wood, or “Richard Wood,
Artist,” as his card read, might safely be placed in any pantheon of the
unconventionally ridiculous and delicious.
This visit provided a mere glance, however. When I returned the key I
was given no encouragement. A little later, my ability to write having
been fairly established, I was given a rather large order for one so
new: a double-page spread, with illustrations, for the Sunday issue,
relating to the new depot then under construction. I was told to see
that the art department supplied several drawings—one in particular of a
proposed iron and glass train-shed which was to cover thirty-two tracks.
Also one of a clock-tower two hundred and thirty-two feet high. This
assignment seemed a very honorable one, since it was to carry drawings,
and I went about it with energy and enthusiasm. It was Mitchell who told
me to look to the art department for suitable illustrations.
Evidently the art department knew all about it before my arrival, for
upon inquiry I found that P. B. McCord, he of the tramp-like hair and
whiskers, was scheduled to make the pictures. His manner pleased me. He
was so cordial, so helpful. Together we visited the depot, and a few
days later he called upon me in the reportorial room to ask me to come
and see what he had done. Having in regard to most things the same point
of view, we were soon the best of friends. A more or less affectionate
relationship was then and there established, which endured until his
death sixteen years later. During all of that period we were scarcely
out of touch with each other, and through him I was destined to achieve
some of my sanest conceptions of life. (See _Peter_. Twelve Men.)
And the amazing Wood! I have never encountered another like him,
possibly because for years I have not been associated with young people,
who are frequently full of eccentricities. A more romantic ass than Wood
never lived, nor one with better sense in many ways. In regard to
newspaper drawing he was only a fairly respectable craftsman, if so
much, but in other ways he was fascinating enough. He and McCord were
compelled at that time to use the old chalk plate process for much of
their hurried work, a thing which required the artist to scratch with a
steel upon a chalk-covered surface, blowing the chalk away from his
outlines as he made them. This created a dust which both McCord and Wood
complained of as being disagreeable and “hard on the lungs.” Wood, who
pretended to be dying of consumption, and did die of it sixteen years
later within a month of his friend McCord, made an awful row about it,
although he could easily have done much to mend matters by taking a
little exercise and keeping out of doors as much as possible; but he
preferred to hover over a radiator or before a fire. Always, on every
occasion, he was given to playing the rôle of the martyr.
Spiritually he was morbid, as was I, only he showed it much more in his
manner. He had much the same desire as I had at the time: to share in
the splendors of marble halls and palaces and high places generally;
and, like myself, he had but little chance. Fresh from Bloomington,
Illinois, a commonplace American town, he was obsessed by the
commonplace dream of marrying rich and coming into the imaginary
splendors of that west end life of St. Louis which was so interesting to
both of us. Far more than myself, I am sure, he seemed to be seething
with an inward rebellion against the fact that he was poor, not included
in the exclusive pleasures of the rich. At the same time he was glowing
with a desire to make other people imagine that he was or soon would be
of them. What airs! what shades of manner! He, like myself, was forever
dreaming of some gorgeous maiden, rich, beautiful, socially elect, who
was to solve all his troubles for him. But there was this difference
between us, or so I imagined at the time, Dick being an artist, rather
remote and disdainful in manner and handsome as well as poetic and
better-positioned than myself, as I fancied, was certain to achieve this
gilded and crystal state whereas I, not being so handsome, nor an
artist, nor sufficiently poetic, could hardly aspire to so gorgeous an
end. I might perchance arrive at some such goal if I sought it eagerly
enough, but the probabilities were that I should not unless I waited a
long while, and besides, my dreams and plans varied so swiftly from day
to day that I couldn’t be sure what I wanted to do, whereas Wood, being
so stable in this, that and the other (all the things I was not), was
certain to arrive quickly.
Sometimes around dinner time when I would see him leaving the office
arrayed in the latest mode, as I assumed—dark blue suit, patent leather
boots, dark, round, soft felt hat, loose tie blowing idly about his
neck, neat thin cane in his hand—I was fairly convinced that this
much-anticipated fortune had already arrived or was about to arrive,
this very evening perhaps, and that I should never see him more, never
even be permitted to speak to him. Somewhere (out in the west end, of
course) was _the_ girl, wondrous, rich, beautiful, with whom he was to
elope and be forgiven by her wealthy parents. Even now he was on his way
to her, while I, poor oaf that I was, was moiling here over some trucky
task. Would my ship never come in, my great day arrive?
And Wood was just the type of person who would take infinite delight in
creating such an impression. Ten years later, when McCord and I were in
the East together and Wood was still in St. Louis, we were never weary
of discussing this histrionic characteristic of his, laughing
sympathetically with and at him. Later he married—but I shall not
anticipate. Mentally, at this time, he was living a dream and in so far
as possible acting it, playing the part of some noble Algernon Charles
Claude Vere de Vere, heir to or affianced to some maid with an immense
fortune which was to make them both eternally happy and allow him to
travel, pose, patronize as he chose. A laudable dream, verily.
But I—I confess that I was bitter with envy. What, never to shine thus?
Never to be an artist? Never to have beauty in my lap? For me there were
other stings, in connection with him—stings sharp as serpents’ teeth.
Dick had a wrist-watch, the envy of my youthful days (oh, wondrous
watch!) Also a scarf pin made of some strange stone brought from the
Orient and with a cabalistic sign or word on it (enough in itself to
entice any heiress)—-and that _boutonnière_ of violets! He was never
without them.
And along with all this, that sad, wan, reproachful, dying smile! And
that mysterious something of manner which seemed to say: “My boy! My
boy! The things you will never know!”
And yet after a time Dick condescended to receive me into his confidence
and into his “studio,” a very picturesque affair, situated in the heart
of the downtown district. Also he condescended to bestow upon me some of
his dreams as well as his friendly presence; a thing which exalted me,
being so new to this art world. I was _permitted_ (note the word) to
gather dimly, as neophyte from priest, the faintest outlines of these
wondrous dreams of his, and to share with him the hope that they might
be realized. I was so set up by this great favor that I felt certain
great things must flow from it. Assuredly we three could do great things
if only we would stick together. But was I worthy? There were already
rumors of books, plays, stories, poems, to come from a certain mighty
pen—as a matter of fact, it was already hard upon the task of writing
them—which were to set the world aflame by-and-by. Certain editors in
New York were already receiving (and sending back, alas!) certain
preliminary masterpieces along with carefully worded suggestions in
regard to slight but necessary changes which would perfect them and so
inaugurate the new era. Certain writers, certain poets, certain
playwrights were already better than any that had ever been—the best
ever, in short. Dick knew, of course, and I was allowed to share this
knowledge, to be thrilled by it.
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