The ''Genius'' - Theodore Dreiser (love books to read .txt) 📗

She kissed him good-bye at the door and let him go, but her heart troubled her.

"I'm afraid Eugene is going to get sick," she thought. "He ought to stop work."

It was the beginning of a period destined to last five or six years, in which, to say the least, Eugene was not himself. He was not in any sense out of his mind, if power to reason clearly, jest sagely, argue and read intelligently are any evidences of sanity; but privately his mind was a maelstrom of contradictory doubts, feelings and emotions. Always of a philosophic and introspective turn, this peculiar faculty of reasoning deeply and feeling emotionally were now turned upon himself and his own condition and, as in all such cases where we peer too closely into the subtleties of creation, confusion was the result. Previously he had been well satisfied that the world knew nothing. Neither in religion, philosophy nor science was there any answer to the riddle of existence. Above and below the little scintillating plane of man's thought was—what? Beyond the optic strength of the greatest telescope,—far out upon the dim horizon of space—were clouds of stars. What were they doing out there? Who governed them? When were their sidereal motions calculated? He figured life as a grim dark mystery, a sad semiconscious activity turning aimlessly in the dark. No one knew anything. God knew nothing—himself least of all. Malevolence, life living on death, plain violence—these were the chief characteristics of existence. If one failed of strength in any way, if life were not kind in its bestowal of gifts, if one were not born to fortune's pampering care—the rest was misery. In the days of his strength and prosperity the spectacle of existence had been sad enough: in the hours of threatened delay and defeat it seemed terrible. Why, if his art failed him now, what had he? Nothing. A little puny reputation which he could not sustain, no money, a wife to take care of, years of possible suffering and death. The abyss of death! When he looked into that after all of life and hope, how it shocked him, how it hurt! Here was life and happiness and love in health—there was death and nothingness—æons and æons of nothingness.

He did not immediately give up hope—immediately succumb to the evidences of a crumbling reality. For months and months he fancied each day that this was a temporary condition; that drugs and doctors could heal him. There were various remedies that were advertised in the papers, blood purifiers, nerve restorers, brain foods, which were announced at once as specifics and cures, and while he did not think that the ordinary patent medicine had anything of value in it, he did imagine that some good could be had from tonics, or the tonic. A physician whom he consulted recommended rest and an excellent tonic which he knew of. He asked whether he was subject to any wasting disease. Eugene told him no. He confessed to an over-indulgence in the sex-relationship, but the doctor did not believe that ordinarily this should bring about a nervous decline. Hard work must have something to do with it, over-anxiety. Some temperaments such as his were predisposed at birth to nervous breakdowns; they had to guard themselves. Eugene would have to be very careful. He should eat regularly, sleep as long as possible, observe regular hours. A system of exercise might not be a bad thing for him. He could get him a pair of Indian clubs or dumb-bells or an exerciser and bring himself back to health that way.

Eugene told Angela that he believed he would try exercising and joined a gymnasium. He took a tonic, walked with her a great deal, sought to ignore the fact that he was nervously depressed. These things were of practically no value, for the body had apparently been drawn a great distance below normal and all the hell of a subnormal state had to be endured before it could gradually come into its own again.

In the meantime he was continuing his passional relations with Angela, in spite of a growing judgment that they were in some way harmful to him. But it was not easy to refrain, and each failure to do so made it harder. It was a customary remark of his that "he must quit this," but it was like the self-apologetic assurance of the drunkard that he must reform.

Now that he had stepped out into the limelight of public observation—now that artists and critics and writers somewhat knew of him, and in their occasional way were wondering what he was doing, it was necessary that he should bestir himself to especial effort in order to satisfy the public as to the enduring quality of his art. He was glad, once he realized that he was in for a siege of bad weather, that his Paris drawings had been so nearly completed before the break came. By the day he suffered the peculiar nervousness which seemed to mark the opening of his real decline, he had completed twenty-two paintings, which Angela begged him not to touch; and by sheer strength of will, though he misdoubted gravely, he managed to complete five more. All of these M. Charles came to see on occasion, and he approved of them highly. He was not so sure that they would have the appeal of the American pictures, for after all the city of Paris had been pretty well done over and over in illustration and genré work. It was not so new as New York; the things Eugene chose were not as unconventional. Still, he could say truly they were exceptional. They might try an exhibition of them later in Paris if they did not take here. He was very sorry to see that Eugene was in poor health and urged him to take care of himself.

It seemed as if some malign planetary influence were affecting him. Eugene knew of astrology and palmistry and one day, in a spirit of curiosity and vague apprehensiveness, consulted a practitioner of the former, receiving for his dollar the statement that he was destined to great fame in either art or literature but that he was entering a period of stress which would endure for a number of years. Eugene's spirits sank perceptibly. The musty old gentleman who essayed his books of astrological lore shook his head. He had a rather noble growth of white hair and a white beard, but his coffee-stained vest was covered with tobacco ash and his collar and cuffs were dirty.

"It looks pretty bad between your twenty-eighth and your thirty-second years, but after that there is a notable period of prosperity. Somewhere around your thirty-eighth or thirty-ninth year there is some more trouble—a little—but you will come out of that—that is, it looks as though you would. Your stars show you to be of a nervous, imaginative character, inclined to worry; and I see that your kidneys are weak. You ought never to take much medicine. Your sign is inclined to that but it is without benefit to you. You will be married twice, but I don't see any children."

He rambled on dolefully and Eugene left in great gloom. So it was written in the stars that he was to suffer a period of decline and there was to be more trouble for him in the future. But he did see a period of great success for him between his thirty-second and his thirty-eighth years. That was some comfort. Who was the second woman he was to marry? Was Angela going to die? He walked the streets this early December afternoon, thinking, thinking.

The Blue family had heard a great deal of Eugene's success since Angela had come to New York. There had never been a week but at least one letter, and sometimes two, had gone the rounds of the various members of the family. It was written to Marietta primarily, but Mrs. Blue, Jotham, the boys and the several sisters all received it by turns. Thus the whole regiment of Blue connections knew exactly how it was with Angela and even better than it was; for although things had looked prosperous enough, Angela had not stayed within the limits of bare fact in describing her husband's success. She added atmosphere, not fictitious, but the seeming glory which dwelt in her mind, until the various connections of the Blue family, Marietta in particular, were convinced that there was nothing but dignity and bliss in store for the wife of so talented a man. The studio life which Angela had seen, here and in Paris, the picturesque descriptions which came home from London and Paris, the personalities of M. Charles, M. Arkquin, Isaac Wertheim, Henry L. Tomlins, Luke Severas—all the celebrities whom they met, both in New York and abroad, had been described at length. There was not a dinner, a luncheon, a reception, a tea party, which was not pictured in all its native colors and more. Eugene had become somewhat of a demi-god to his Western connections. The quality of his art was never questioned. It was only a little time now before he would be rich or at least well-to-do.

All the relatives hoped that he would bring Angela home some day on a visit. To think that she should have married such a distinguished man!

In the Witla family it was quite the same. Eugene had not been home to see his parents since his last visit to Blackwood, but they had not been without news. For one thing, Eugene had been neglectful, and somewhat because of this Angela had taken it upon herself to open up a correspondence with his mother. She wrote that of course she didn't know her but that she was terribly fond of Eugene, that she hoped to make him a good wife and that she hoped to make her a satisfactory daughter-in-law. Eugene was so dilatory about writing. She would write for him now and his mother should hear every week. She asked if she and her husband couldn't manage to come and see them sometime. She would be so glad and it would do Eugene so much good. She asked if she couldn't have Myrtle's address—they had moved from Ottumwa—and if Sylvia wouldn't write occasionally. She sent a picture of herself and Eugene, a sketch of the studio which Eugene had made one day, a sketch of herself looking pensively out of the window into Washington Square. Pictures from his first show published in the newspapers, accounts of his work, criticisms,—all reached the members of both families impartially and they were kept well aware of how things were going.

During the time that Eugene was feeling so badly and because, if he were going to lose his health, it might be necessary to economize greatly, it occurred to Angela that it might be advisable for them to go home for a visit. While her family were not rich, they had sufficient means to live on. Eugene's mother also was constantly writing, wanting to know why they didn't come out there for a while. She could not see why Eugene could not paint his pictures as well in Alexandria as in New York or Paris. Eugene listened to this willingly, for it occurred to him that instead of going to London he might do Chicago next, and he and Angela could stay awhile at Blackwood and another while at his own home. They would be welcome guests.

The condition of his finances at this time was not exactly bad, but it was not very good. Of the thirteen hundred dollars he had received for the first three pictures sold, eleven hundred had been used on the foreign trip. He had since