CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF A GENIUS
As might have been foreseen, even after the formation of The St. Ives
and Hart Company, the world continued in ignorance of Emil St. Ives. A
few devices composed of shining brass, crystal, and wood occupied a
modest amount of space in one of Simon Hart's shop windows, and
occasionally men of science, attracted by their ingenuity, made
inquiries about them; oftener than not, they returned to watch them in
operation, again and yet again. But the great public took no interest
and never made inquiries; the great public was interested in improved
stove-handles and door-locks and the rescue of discarded tin cans, and
gave not a thought to Emil St. Ives's little instruments.
But in heaven, or more properly speaking, the world of complete
objectivity which lies close about this and which only gifted minds
prematurely penetrate, there was excitement after excitement, all
produced by the childlike monster, Emil St. Ives. He had to his credit
an instrument for recording colours in the atmosphere, another little
instrument for recording the vibrations of the air occasioned by sound,
and numerous temporarily useless devices which were calculated to
delight those who came after him, but which were entirely unappreciated
and unapprehended by the age in which he lived. None the less, his
happiness was extreme.
The John Street loft, to which he and Annie had removed on the first
hint of improvement in his fortunes, was spacious; and here, under a
sky-light which glistened beneath the sun in pleasant weather and was
befogged by rain and snow when the weather was inclement, he lived and
worked. He ate irregularly and slept little. When he slept, in order
not to waste time he was in the habit of entrusting the problem upon
which he was engaged to his subconscious mind. Then after a sleep of a
few hours' duration, he would wake, and on first opening his large,
speculative eyes, would oftener than not see in mid-air the completed
instrument working perfectly.
The loft, which chanced to be singularly habitable, was divided by
partitions into four rooms. In order to be removed as far as possible
from the sound of the pounding and drilling, Annie had taken up her
abode in the rear room, which, besides the bay in the ceiling, had a
large window looking upon a court. Below, in that scrap of earth, a
maple tree had taken root and flourished to such a degree that its
topmost branches came opposite the window. In the branches of the
tree, a robin had built its nest. But Annie paid little attention to
the tree or the robin. Though she wept less than in the past, she
complained more; her lips drooped and her tongue had acquired
sharpness. When with her hands resting on her slight hips, she
remonstrated with Emil, her scolding sounded exactly like the chatter
of an enraged bird; indeed, she looked more than ever like a bird.
Though she occasionally might have managed to buy herself something
new, Annie no longer troubled herself about her clothes. What was the
use, she argued, since Alexander persisted in living in an attic; and
in any case, was it not wiser to save every penny toward the rent,
since he was so erratic in his methods of work, and insisted on making
impractical things for which he used up all his salary? So Annie, a
greater part of the time, lay on a sofa and sulked. In her inactivity,
she was a contrast to Emil.
The corner of the loft in which the inventor spent most of his time was
furnished, in addition to a workbench, with a cot upon which he slept,
a disreputable-looking chair in which he rested when he was not pacing
the floor, second-hand bookcases in which he kept his inventions and
his library, a basket for the monkey, and a three-legged stool upon
which Ding Dong could perch himself when so minded.
But Ding Dong, day or night, seldom had time to rest; and where he
slept was a question; sometimes, without doubt, on a square of carpet
outside his master's door. Willing, devoted, pathetic in his
resemblance to a dumb brute, Ding Dong was an extra pair of hands and
feet for Emil. He could scrub and sweep and make coffee, he could lift
heavy machines in his sinewy arms, he could pack boxes and run errands;
but he could not drill or hammer or saw with any accuracy. Though the
field of his usefulness was limited, he was invaluable to the inventor.
The atmosphere of unparalleled devotion which this humble creature
threw around him was agreeable to Emil; and the same could be said of
Annie's love. Whenever he observed it, his wife's faithful affection,
contributing to his egotism, helped him to work the harder. And so
again with Rachel Hart's intelligent and unwavering interest in his
progress; her interest so stirred in him the creative impulse that he
sped ahead like a fiery steed under the plaudits of the arena. On the
whole, Emil received much from the people surrounding him; and yet, in
the last analysis, their devotion was not essential to the "un-named,
seeing, acting, produced being" that constituted his genius.
When at work, in the depths of his eye lurked the consciousness of a
world; but in his mouth and chin was something less perfect and more
human; they looked as if they had been slighted by the sculptor who
fashioned him. For the rest, an almost supernatural serenity marked
his manner, despite the often convulsive manifestations of his energy.
It was as if a god drove the chariot of his forces. If allowed to
emerge gently from this state, he was unfailingly good natured; but if
broken in upon abruptly, "care, genius, and hell" distorted and
illuminated his face. Pausing on the threshold of that narrow gateway
between the world of thought and the world of materiality, Emil St.
Ives was a demon. Annie, bent upon some trifling business of her own,
had one day ventured so to interrupt him; the offence had never been
repeated.
As has been hinted, conscience played no part in him. For Annie, for
Ding Dong, even for his employers, when the mood for work was upon him,
Emil showed not the slightest consideration. Nor was Rachel, in this
respect, an exception. Whatever his attitude was toward her--and he
bore himself in her presence at moments with a strange humility, at
other times with an ill-concealed turbulent admiration that threatened
to break all bounds--her influence at this period had well defined
limits. His mother alone had uninterrupted power over him. At a word
from her, even though he were on the eve of inspiration, he would drop
everything to fulfil her slightest whim.
Small wonder then that the mother adored him,--that she saw in him a
gifted creature not to be approached by the common run of humanity. It
had come to be Emil's custom to visit his mother at least once in a
fortnight, and, from the moment that they met, those thin hands of hers
had power in their caresses to transform him. Under their gentle
touch, the fire of his mind dwindled, the warmth of his heart grew; the
genius of a world was submerged in the son of a mother. And on Mrs.
St. Ives their companionship had an opposite effect. Questioning him
about his work, her brain in his presence acquiring something of the
agility of youth, she lit herself at the flame that was in her son.
Naturally the neglected Annie was jealous of this love. She never
missed an opportunity to pick a quarrel with her husband on the subject
of his devotion to his mother, but it was seldom she could provoke a
retort. Emil bore her reproaches indifferently. One morning in May
matters reached a decisive point.
At midnight Emil was off, bound for the village that drew him like a
magnet, and some hours later Annie sat over breakfast. She sat in one
of the interior rooms, which was fitted up with a gas-stove and a few
household necessities. Being left by herself frightened Annie. The
janitress of the building, a good motherly soul, had orders to look out
for her in Emil's absence; but the woman had gone about her duties some
time earlier. Now, except for Ding Dong and the little chattering
monkey, Annie was alone. Ding Dong, who had taken upon himself the
duties of cook in this establishment, tried to tempt her with choice
bits of food and Lulu made constant timid advances toward her
friendship; Annie would look at neither of them. She saw in them a
summing-up of the unusual, wretched and ridiculous situation.
Now tears rolled down her face. Why had she left home? Why had she
married Alexander? This was the constant refrain that beat in her
brain. All things considered, the imperturbable inventor could
scarcely have chosen a more unlucky moment to appear. The door opened
and there he stood.
Smiling, he entered the room, and at the account he gave of his
movements, Annie's eyes gleamed with anger and the muscles of one cheek
twitched.
"Well," he explained, tossing aside his hat, "Mother was all right. I
saw her through the window, and then I managed to get the next train
back. You see, it was raining when I got in this morning," he went on,
"and had I let Mother know I was there, she'd have been out to meet me,
if she got her death for it. So I took only a look at her. There she
was with the tiresome brats tumbling all over her, enough to wear her
out, but she looked as cheerful as could be. Only six o'clock, and the
whole lot of them waiting for breakfast! By Jove, but Edgar's family
get up betimes! it's part of his confounded thrift. Breakfast and
lunch at one sitting is more to my mind," and Emil approached the table
to pour himself a cup of coffee.
But Annie was quicker. Seizing the coffee-pot, she held it behind her
at imminent risk of spilling the contents.
"No, you shan't have it," she cried. "I'm sick of your performances,
and I'll not put up with them. You say you went to your brother's? If
you did, why didn't you go in openly? Edgar's not a wolf, I suppose.
From all you tell me, he lives decently in a house, which is more than
we do; and they have nice things. He's a wealthy man and your meeting
might have led to something--instead of that, you take an expensive
trip, just for the sake of peeping through a window at your mother,
when you saw her only a few days ago. And then you come back here,
thinking only of her, always of her--and you expect to go on eating and
drinking--"
Emil viewed his wife in troubled astonishment:
"And why shouldn't I eat and drink?"
"At my expense;" she finished; "for you owe everything to me. If it
hadn't been for me, you wouldn't have even what you've got. And now
when I've nothing more to give--" Dashing the coffee-pot on the table
and huddling her hands over her face, Annie escaped from the room.
For a few minutes Emil remained without stirring. The look of
amazement in his peculiar eyes was succeeded by a slight darkening of
his whole face. But he was never actually reached by Annie's flashes
of anger. They seemed to him like little storms taking place at a
great distance. Now with a shrug of the shoulders he began tranquilly
to eat his breakfast.
He could not remain insensible to his brother's continued antipathy;
therefore, that he might not be reminded of it, he never put himself in
the way of seeing Edgar. What would have been the use? Between the
now flourishing merchant and himself, there was even less in common
than formerly. They would not have found a word to say to each other.
And his mother, who had at first sought feverishly to bring about a
reconciliation between them, now did all she could to prevent their
meeting. Had not Edgar told her that he would never receive him, Emil?
Had he not warned her that if she tried to foist Emil's presence upon
him, he would insult him to his face?
At times Emil was tempted to urge his mother to leave his brother's
house and cast in her lot with his own, but remembering his
uncomfortable quarters and the openly hostile Annie, he was driven to
silence. The one thing that consoled him was the thought that at least
his mother was comfortably housed where she was; at least she was happy
in her grandchildren. So the pair, kept apart by poverty, continued to
meet like lovers. Anything prettier than the eagerness with which the
little old woman went to a rendezvous with her favourite son, it would
be impossible to imagine. In vain, actuated by a wish to torment her,
Edgar's wife and even the children, put obstacles in the way of the
meetings. Now it was a jacket to be mended which was brought to Mrs.
St. Ives at the exact moment of her setting forth; it was a sheet to be
hemmed, or a stocking to be darned. With every faculty alert, she
always circumvented her annoyers, never failing to meet Emil at the
appointed spot. This slyness, which is a part of love, brought back
her youth.
Had the conditions of her own life been other than just what they were,
Annie might have found in Mrs. St. Ives a staunch friend. Now she
hated her mother-in-law.
For a time after her angry outburst, she lay face downward upon the
bed. But presently, having wept herself into a repentant mood, she was
all for running to Emil and putting up her tear-stained face for a
kiss. In fancy she pictured him still sitting discomfited; and,
trembling with a desire to make peace, she slipped into the passageway.
But Emil had quitted the scene of the breakfast, and a glance at the
table revealed the fact that he had eaten his fill. Annie passed on to
his workroom and, at what she saw through the door, rage, bitter and
stifling, once more filled her breast.
Annie had never said a word to Rachel of Emil's constant shortcomings
in relation to his company; "But I'll tell her now, I will tell her!"
she whispered. She was convinced that Rachel's belief in Emil could
not be shaken; therefore she would gratify her desire to expose his
faults without further result than putting him to shame. So she
argued. But as usual, where her husband was concerned, she reasoned
wildly. As sensibly expect a bird of the air to drop its eyes in
acknowledgement of a fault, as expect the inventor to show
embarrassment for what he had done amiss or failed to do at all.
As it chanced Rachel put in an appearance that afternoon and Annie flew
to her. She caught the other by the hand and drew her into her own
room. Then she subsided on the sofa and burst into tears.
"What is it, Annie?" Rachel asked. She had never been greatly drawn to
Annie, perhaps for some reason she would have died rather than admit.
Annie was nettled.
"Nothing's the matter. Did you bring any message from Mr. Hart?" she
asked, drying her eyes with an assumption of dignity.
"Yes; the telephone at the shop is out of order, and I told him I'd
come round and deliver this note. See here, Annie," Rachel interrupted
herself, "tell me what's bothering you."
"Oh--it's just Alexander!" returned Annie, and without more persuasion
unburdened herself. "You see what my life is here?" she wailed. "And
we might live so differently if Alexander wished--if he cared--if he
even did the things he ought to do in connection with the Company; if
he wasn't a fool, in short. Now take that _radiometer_," she went on,
"you know as well as I do that it's considered wonderful. Well, only
yesterday, your husband sent someone from Columbia University to
inspect it; the college thought of getting one. Emil was out, so I
showed the gentleman the old model, for the new one isn't done, and I
was just thinking what we'd make on the sale, when in comes Alexander.
'Oh, that's trash!' he cries. 'That ought to go in the junk heap!
Don't take that; I have something else on hand that will put that in
the shade completely.' So," she finished in a tone between tragedy and
disgust, "the sale was ruined. And if that kind of thing has happened
once, it's happened dozens of times."
"But the college will get the instrument eventually?" Rachel asked;
and, as she looked at Annie, in spite of her sympathy, she was
conscious of an inclination to laugh.
"Possibly, but we'll likely as not be dead, for Alexander goes on
perfecting a thing and perfecting it and the people can wait an
eternity and he doesn't care. Sometimes," she concluded, "I'm tempted
to give it all up."
As she reviewed the situation, Rachel also for the moment was forced
into depression. Similar complaints reached her from every side.
Scarcely a day passed when Simon was not moved to anger by some
shortcoming on the part of the inventor. Now it was his failure to be
on hand at a critical moment to sign necessary papers; again it was his
mysterious disappearance from the city. In fact, his unbusiness-like
methods placed the struggling company in many an embarrassing
situation. More than once Simon had threatened to withdraw from the
enterprise and it was only her own persuasions that restrained him.
His faith in the inventor, never of the strongest, was clearly on the
wane.
"And you mustn't think it's just one thing," resumed Annie, putting
renewed pathos in her voice, "it's a whole succession of things. Take
that Washington matter. You never heard the rights of that, I'll be
bound. And I'm going to tell you. You remember, don't you, that time
a month or two ago when the Government showed such interest in that
_colour wave_ device, and the Company were so encouraged? Well, your
husband thought it would be a good plan for them to send Alexander to
Washington instead of anyone else because Alexander could explain the
thing eloquently. And he did explain it--to the wrong official. He
went there, as I found out afterward from a letter, and demonstrated it
to the wrong man. Then he returned home, blandly satisfied with
himself, and of course nothing came of the matter on which the Company
had built such hopes. But I never said a word to explain it; I was so
ashamed."
Looking at Annie's little woe-begone visage, Rachel burst out laughing.
The other, however, stared at her angrily.
"I don't see anything to laugh at. Alexander is enough to try the
patience of a saint; and I guess if you were married to him, you'd know
it."
Rachel's mirth vanished and the colour flew over her face.
After an uncomfortable pause, she took Annie's hand.
"You look too much on the dark side, try to be patient awhile longer.
Things may straighten themselves." She pressed Annie's fingers. "Now
tell me, shall I slip this note under his door, or shall I hand it to
him. It's important."
"Oh, you needn't slip it under the door, you can just go right in and
put it where he'll see it; the door will be open fast enough. A lot of
good that special lock does," Annie finished in a burst of scorn. "Mr.
Mudge thought we'd better have it put on to protect Alexander from
dishonest people who come in and get him talking and then steal his
ideas. But do you suppose he leaves the door closed? Not a bit of it.
Why only yesterday he had the lock tied back with a string while he
poured all he knew into the ear of a man from that screw company across
the street. A word of flattery and he forgets everything."
"Don't--don't tell me any more, please;" and as Rachel turned away
smiles rippled over her face. Why could not Annie, Simon, Victor
Mudge, everyone, see that the inventor lived in another world and hence
was not amenable to the laws of this. Nodding to Annie, who refused to
be won from her dejected mood, Rachel traversed the passageway, and
paused at the door of Emil's eyrie.
As Annie had pictured, the patent lock was out of commission and the
door stood wide open. Placing her note on the corner of a desk where
he could not fail to see it, Rachel lingered on the threshold. Had he
observed her, she could not have remained, but he kept steadily forward
with his work.
It was a rich pleasure to note every detail of the room--the sagging
couch, the shabby coat hanging against the wall, the table laden with
dust, bottles and tobacco boxes, the long bench, on the lower shelf of
which was ranged, with astonishing order, a multitude of tools. She
drew a contented sigh.
The sun poured through the skylight and twinkled on the brass-work of
his darling inventions, enthroned behind the glass of an old bookcase.
Even while he slept, they peered out at him, these children of his
active brain. And in every corner some mechanism was revealed, some
cunning, complicated thing of joints and prisms.
Rachel completed her inventory, then her brows suddenly rose and her
eyes with involuntary devotion fixed themselves upon Emil. It was as
if she had saved him until the last for a closer inspection, like a
little girl who reserves her chief treasure for a leisurely examination.
Seated on a high stool, before a bench, he was at work, from his head
covered with its thick mane, the eyes burning beneath like coals, down
to his big feet, planted against a convenient shelf. These feet hinted
at a force in him that urged him to make a rift in the wall of the
Unknown.
She remained for a long time motionless. Then with a smile,
unfathomable in its freshness, its terror, its confusion, she turned
away.
There, rises a mountain peak--in silence, clouds, eternal snows! The
sun beats on the snow and the sparkling snow responds to the light.
There is the laboratory of genius!
From the mountain roll downward, sometimes small streamlets, sometimes
mighty rivers. These streamlets and rivers nourish the valley below
and even the cities out on the plain, these rivers nourish the world.
Yet the trees and shrubs at the base of the mountain suffer, for
sometimes instead of refreshing streamlets, avalanches of snow come
down. At such times the bushes and trees cling together; with their
twisted branches and denuded roots, they whisper and moan execrations
on the mountain.
Close to the summit--in order to observe what is taking place
there--its foot in the snow and its head in the clouds, pushes that
imperturbable and daring little flower, the edelweiss.
Rachel climbed close to heaven in order to have sight of her love.