The Genius by Theodore Dreiser

They talked of metropolitan experiences generally. Marietta came in from a shopping expedition with a Mrs. Link, wife of an army captain acting as an instructor at West Point, and tea was served immediately afterward. Miss Whitmore was insistent that they should come and take dinner with her some evening. Eugene confided that he was sending a painting to the Academy.

“They’ll hang it, of course,” assured Norma, “but you ought to have an exhibition of your own.”

Marietta gushed about the wonder of the big stores and so it finally came time for Miss Whitmore to go.

“Now you will come up, won’t you?” she said to Angela, for in spite of a certain feeling of incompatibility and difference she was determined to like her. She thought Angela a little inexperienced and presumptuous in marrying Eugene. She was afraid she was not up to his standard. Still she was quaint, piquant. Perhaps she would do very well. Angela was thinking all the while that Miss Whitmore was presuming on her old acquaintance with Eugene—that she was too affected and enthusiastic.

There was another day on which Miriam Finch called. Richard Wheeler, having learned at Smite’s and MacHugh’s studio of Eugene’s marriage and present whereabouts, had hurried over, and then immediately afterwards off to Miriam Finch’s studio. Surprised himself, he knew that she would be more so.

“Witla’s married!” he exclaimed, bursting into her room, and for the moment Miriam lost her self-possession sufficiently to reply almost dramatically: “Richard Wheeler, what are you talking about! You don’t mean that, do you?”

“He’s married,” insisted Wheeler, “and he’s living down in Washington Square, 61 is the number. He has the cutest yellow-haired wife you ever saw.”

Angela had been nice to Wheeler and he liked her. He liked the air of this domicile and thought it was going to be a good thing for Eugene. He needed to settle down and work hard.

Miriam winced mentally at the picture. She was hurt by this deception of Eugene’s, chagrined because he had not thought enough of her even to indicate that he was going to get married.

“He’s been married ten days,” communicated Wheeler, and this added force to her temporary chagrin. The fact that Angela was yellow-haired and cute was also disturbing.

“Well,” she finally exclaimed cheerfully, “he might have said something to us, mightn’t he?” and she covered her own original confusion by a gay nonchalance which showed nothing of what she was really thinking. This was certainly indifference on Eugene’s part, and yet, why shouldn’t he? He had never proposed to her. Still they had been so intimate mentally.

She was interested to see Angela. She wondered what sort of a woman she really was. “Yellow-haired! Cute!” Of course, like all men, Eugene had sacrificed intellect and mental charm for a dainty form and a pretty face. It seemed queer, but she had fancied that he would not do that—that his wife, if he ever took one, would be tall perhaps, and gracious, and of a beautiful mind—someone distinguished. Why would men, intellectual men, artistic men, any kind of men, invariably make fools of themselves! Well, she would go and see her.

Because Wheeler informed him that he had told Miriam, Eugene wrote, saying as briefly as possible that he was married and that he wanted to bring Angela to her studio. For reply she came herself, gay, smiling, immaculately dressed, anxious to hurt Angela because she had proved the victor. She also wanted to show Eugene how little difference it all made to her.

“You certainly are a secretive young man, Mr. Eugene Witla,” she exclaimed, when she saw him. “Why didn’t you make him tell us, Mrs. Witla?” she demanded archly of Angela, but with a secret dagger thrust in her eyes. “You’d think he didn’t want us to know.”

Angela cowered beneath the sting of this whip cord. Miriam made her feel as though Eugene had attempted to conceal his relationship to her—as though he was ashamed of her. How many more women were there like Miriam and Norma Whitmore?

Eugene was gaily unconscious of the real animus in Miriam’s conversation, and now that the first cruel moment was over, was talking glibly of things in general, anxious to make everything seem as simple and natural as possible. He was working at one of his pictures when Miriam came in and was eager to obtain her critical opinion, since it was nearly done. She squinted at it narrowly but said nothing when he asked. Ordinarily she would have applauded it vigorously. She did think it exceptional, but was determined to say nothing. She walked indifferently about, examining this and that object in a superior way, asking how he came to obtain the studio, congratulating him upon his good luck. Angela, she decided, was interesting, but not in Eugene’s class mentally, and should be ignored. He had made a mistake, that was plain.

“Now you must bring Mrs. Witla up to see me,” she said on leaving. “I’ll play and sing all my latest songs for you. I have made some of the daintest discoveries in old Italian and Spanish pieces.”

Angela, who had posed to Eugene as knowing something about music, resented this superior invitation, without inquiry as to her own possible ability or taste, as she did Miriam’s entire attitude. Why was she so haughty—so superior? What was it to her whether Eugene had said anything about her or not?

She said nothing to show that she herself played, but she wondered that Eugene said nothing. It seemed neglectful and inconsiderate of him. He was busy wondering what Miriam thought of his picture. Miriam took his hand warmly at parting, looked cheerfully into his eyes, and said, “I know you two are going to be irrationally happy,” and went out.

Eugene felt the irritation at last. He knew Angela felt something. Miriam was resentful, that was it. She was angry at him for his seeming indifference. She had commented to herself on Angela’s appearance and to her disadvantage. In her manner had been the statement that his wife was not very important after all, not of the artistic and superior world to which she and he belonged.

“How do you like her?” he asked tentatively after she had gone, feeling a strong current of opposition, but not knowing on what it might be based exactly.

“I don’t like her,” returned Angela petulantly. “She thinks she’s sweet. She treats you as though she thought you were her personal property. She openly insulted me about your not telling her. Miss Whitmore did the same thing—they all do! They all will! Oh!!”

She suddenly burst into tears and ran crying toward their bedroom.

Eugene followed, astonished, ashamed, rebuked, guilty minded, almost terror-stricken—he hardly knew what.

“Why, Angela,” he urged pleadingly, leaning over her and attempting to raise her. “You know that isn’t true.”

“It is! It is!!” she insisted. “Don’t touch me! Don’t come near me! You know it is true! You don’t love me. You haven’t treated me right at all since I’ve been here. You haven’t done anything that you should have done. She insulted me openly to my face.”

She was speaking with sobs, and Eugene was at once pained and terrorized by the persistent and unexpected display of emotion. He had never seen Angela like this before. He had never seen any woman so.

“Why, Angelface,” he urged, “how can you go on like this? You know what you say isn’t true. What have I done?”

“You haven’t told your friends—that’s what you haven’t done,” she exclaimed between gasps. “They still think you’re single. You keep me here hidden in the background as though I were a—were a—I don’t know what! Your friends come and insult me openly to my face. They do! They do! Oh!” and she sobbed anew.

She knew very well what she was doing in her anger and rage. She felt that she was acting in the right way. Eugene needed a severe reproof; he had acted very badly, and this was the way to administer it to him now in the beginning. His conduct was indefensible, and only the fact that he was an artist, immersed in cloudy artistic thoughts and not really subject to the ordinary conventions of life, saved him in her estimation. It didn’t matter that she had urged him to marry her. It didn’t absolve him that he had done so. She thought he owed her that. Anyhow they were married now, and he should do the proper thing.

Eugene stood there cut as with a knife by this terrific charge. He had not meant anything by concealing her presence, he thought. He had only endeavored to protect himself very slightly, temporarily.

“You oughtn’t to say that, Angela,” he pleaded. “There aren’t any more that don’t know—at least any more that I care anything about. I didn’t think. I didn’t mean to conceal anything. I’ll write to everybody that might be interested.”