The Genius by Theodore Dreiser

“I don’t know that I want to go to Narragansett just now,” she told her mother. “I’m tired. Norman has just worn my nerves to a frazzle. I think I’ll come up home for a week or so.”

“All right,” said her mother, “but do be careful how you act now. This Mr. Witla appears to be a very nice man and he’s happily married. Don’t you go casting any looks in his direction. If you do I won’t let him stay here at all.”

“Oh, how you talk,” replied Carlotta irritably. “Do give me a little credit for something. I’m not going up there to see him. I’m tired, I tell you. If you don’t want me to come I won’t.”

“It isn’t that, I do want you. But you know how you are. How do you ever expect to get free if you don’t conduct yourself circumspectly? You know that you—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, I hope you’re not going to start that old argument again,” exclaimed Carlotta defensively. “What’s the use beginning on that? We’ve been all over it a thousand times. I can’t go anywhere or do anything but what you want to fuss. Now I’m not coming up there to do anything but rest. Why will you always start in to spoil everything?”

“Well now, you know well enough, Carlotta—” reiterated her mother.

“Oh, chuck it. I’ll not come. To hell with the house. I’ll go to Narragansett. You make me tired!”

Her mother looked at her tall daughter, graceful, handsome, her black hair parted in rich folds, irritated and yet pleased with her force and ability. If she would only be prudent and careful, what a figure she might yet become! Her complexion was like old rose-tinted ivory, her lips the color of dark raspberries, her eyes bluish grey, wide set, large, sympathetic, kindly. What a pity she had not married some big, worthy man to begin with. To be tied up to this gambler, even though they did live in Central Park West and had a comparatively sumptuous apartment, was a wretched thing. Still it was better than poverty or scandal, though if she did not take care of herself both might ensue. She wanted her to come to Riverwood for she liked her company, but she wanted her to behave herself. Perhaps Eugene would save the day. He was certainly restrained enough in his manner and remarks. She went back to Riverwood, and Carlotta, the quarrel smoothed over, followed her.

Eugene did not see her during the day she arrived, for he was at work; and she did not see him as he came in at night. He had on his old peaked hat and carried his handsome leather lunch box jauntily in one hand. He went to his room, bathed, dressed and then out on the porch to await the call of the dinner gong. Mrs. Hibberdell was in her room on the second floor and “Cousin Dave,” as Carlotta called Simpson, was in the back yard. It was a lovely twilight. He was in the midst of deep thoughts about the beauty of the scene, his own loneliness, the characters at the shop-work, Angela and what not, when the screen door opened and she stepped out. She had on a short-sleeved house dress of spotted blue silk with yellow lace set about the neck and the ends of the sleeves. Her shapely figure, beautifully proportioned to her height, was set in a smooth, close fitting corset. Her hair, laid in great braids at the back, was caught in a brown spangled net. She carried herself with thoughtfulness and simplicity, seeming naturally indifferent.

Eugene rose. “I’m in your way, I think. Won’t you have this chair?”

“No, thanks. The one in the corner will do. But I might as well introduce myself, since there isn’t anyone here to do it. I’m Mrs. Wilson, Mrs. Hibberdell’s daughter. You’re Mr. Witla?”

“Yes, I answer to that,” said Eugene, smiling. He was not very much impressed at first. She seemed nice and he fancied intelligent—a little older than he would have preferred any woman to be who was to interest him. She sat down and looked at the water. He took his chair and held his peace. He was not even interested to talk to her. She was nice to look at, however. Her presence lightened the scene for him.

“I always like to come up here,” she volunteered finally. “It’s so warm in the city these days. I don’t think many people know of this place. It’s out of the beaten track.”

“I enjoy it,” said Eugene. “It’s such a rest for me. I don’t know what I would have done if your mother hadn’t taken me in. It’s rather hard to find any place, doing what I am.”

“You’ve taken a pretty strenuous way to get health, I should say,” she observed. “Day labor sounds rough to me. Do you mind it?”

“Not at all. I like it. The work is interesting and not so very hard. It’s all so new to me, that’s what makes it easy. I like the idea of being a day laborer and associating with laborers. It’s only because I’m run down in health that I worry. I don’t like to be sick.”

“It is bad,” she replied, “but this will probably put you on your feet. I think we’re always inclined to look on our present troubles as the worst. I know I am.”

“Thanks for the consolation,” he said.

She did not look at him and he rocked to and fro silently. Finally the dinner gong struck. Mrs. Hibberdell came down stairs and they went in.

The conversation at dinner turned on his work for a few moments and he described accurately the personalities of John and Bill and Big John the engineer, and little Suddsy and Harry Fornes, the blacksmith. Carlotta listened attentively without appearing to, for everything about Eugene seemed singular and exceptional to her. She liked his tall, spare body, his lean hands, his dark hair and eyes. She liked the idea of his dressing as a laboring man in the morning, working all day in the shop, and yet appearing so neat and trim at dinner. He was easy in his manner, apparently lethargic in his movements and yet she could feel a certain swift force that filled the room. It was richer for his presence. She understood at a glance that he was an artist, in all probability a good one. He said nothing of that, avoided carefully all reference to his art, and listened attentively. She felt though as if he were studying her and everyone else, and it made her gayer. At the same time she had a strong leaning toward him. “What an ideal man to be associated with,” was one of her repeated thoughts.

Although she was about the house for ten days and he met her after the third morning not only at dinner, which was natural enough, but at breakfast (which surprised him a little), he paid not so very much attention to her. She was nice, very, but Eugene was thinking of another type. He thought she was uncommonly pleasant and considerate and he admired her style of dressing and her beauty, studying her with interest, wondering what sort of a life she led, for from various bits of conversation he overheard not only at table but at other times he judged she was fairly well to do. There was an apartment in Central Park West, card parties, automobile parties, theatre parties and a general sense of people—acquaintances anyhow, who were making money. He heard her tell of a mining engineer, Dr. Rowland; of a successful coal-mining speculator, Gerald Woods; of a Mrs. Hale who was heavily interested in copper mines and apparently very wealthy. “It’s a pity Norman couldn’t connect with something like that and make some real money,” he heard her say to her mother one evening. He understood that Norman was her husband and that he probably would be back soon. So he kept his distance—interested and curious but hardly more.

Mrs. Wilson was not so easily baffled, however. A car appeared one evening at the door immediately after dinner, a great red touring car, and Mrs. Wilson announced easily, “We’re going for a little spin after dinner, Mr. Witla. Don’t you want to come along?”

Eugene had never ridden in an automobile at that time. “I’d be very pleased,” he said, for the thought of a lonely evening in an empty house had sprung up when he saw it appear.

There was a chauffeur in charge—a gallant figure in a brown straw cap and tan duster, but Mrs. Wilson manœuvred for place.

“You sit with the driver, coz,” she said to Simpson, and when her mother stepped in she followed after, leaving Eugene the place to the right of her.

“There must be a coat and cap in the locker,” she said to the chauffeur; “let Mr. Witla have it.”