"You know," said Eugene, looking up from Burton's "Kasidah" and
into her brown eyes, "New York gets me dizzy. It's so
wonderful!"
"Just how?" she asked.
"It's so compact of wonderful things. I saw a shop the other day
full of old jewelry and ornaments and quaint stones and clothes,
and O Heaven! I don't know what all—more things than I had ever
seen in my whole life before; and here in this quiet side street
and this unpretentious house I find this room. Nothing seems to
show on the outside; everything seems crowded to suffocation with
luxury or art value on the inside."
"Are you talking about this room?" she ventured.
"Why, yes," he replied.
"Take note, Mr. Wheeler," she called, over her shoulder to her
young editor friend. "This is the first time in my life that I have
been accused of possessing luxury. When you write me up again I
want you to give me credit for luxury. I like it."
"I'll certainly do it," said Wheeler.
"Yes. 'Art values' too."
"Yes. 'Art values.' I have it," said Wheeler.
Eugene smiled. He liked her vivacity. "I know what you mean,"
she added. "I've felt the same thing about Paris. You go into
little unpretentious places there and come across such wonderful
things—heaps and heaps of fine clothes, antiques, jewels. Where was
it I read such an interesting article about that?"
"Not in
Craft
I hope?" ventured Wheeler.
"No, I don't think so.
Harper's Bazaar
, I believe."
"Oh, pshaw!" exclaimed Wheeler. "
Harper's Bazaar!
What
rot!"
"But that's just what you ought to have. Why don't you do
it—right?"
"I will," he said.
Eugene went to the piano and turned over a pile of music. Again
he came across the unfamiliar, the strange, the obviously
distinguished—Grieg's "Arabian Dance"; "Es war ein Traum" by
Lassen; "Elegie" by Massenet; "Otidi" by Davydoff; "Nymphs and
Shepherds" by Purcell—things whose very titles smacked of color and
beauty. Gluck, Sgambati, Rossini, Tschaikowsky—the Italian
Scarlatti—Eugene marvelled at what he did not know about music.
"Play something," he pleaded, and with a smile Miriam stepped to
the piano.
"Do you know 'Es war ein Traum'?" she inquired.
"No," said he.
"That's lovely," put in Wheeler. "Sing it!"
Eugene had thought that possibly she sang, but he was not
prepared for the burst of color that came with her voice. It was
not a great voice, but sweet and sympathetic, equal to the tasks
she set herself. She selected her music as she selected her
clothes—to suit her capacity. The poetic, sympathetic reminiscence
of the song struck home. Eugene was delighted.
"Oh," he exclaimed, bringing his chair close to the piano and
looking into her face, "you sing beautifully."
She gave him a glittering smile.
"Now I'll sing anything you want for you if you go on like
that."
"I'm crazy about music," he said; "I don't know anything about
it, but I like this sort of thing."
"You like the really good things. I know. So do I."
He felt flattered and grateful. They went through "Otidi," "The
Nightingale," "Elegie," "The Last Spring"—music Eugene had never
heard before. But he knew at once that he was listening to playing
which represented a better intelligence, a keener selective
judgment, a finer artistic impulse than anyone he had ever known
had possessed. Ruby played and Angela, the latter rather well, but
neither had ever heard of these things he was sure. Ruby had only
liked popular things; Angela the standard melodies—beautiful but
familiar. Here was someone who ignored popular taste—was in advance
of it. In all her music he had found nothing he knew. It grew on
him as a significant fact. He wanted to be nice to her, to have her
like him. So he drew close and smiled and she always smiled back.
Like the others she liked his face, his mouth, his eyes, his
hair.
"He's charming," she thought, when he eventually left; and his
impression of her was of a woman who was notably and significantly
distinguished.
But Miriam Finch's family, of which she seemed so independent,
had not been without its influence on her. This family was of
Middle West origin, and did not understand or sympathize very much
with the artistic temperament. Since her sixteenth year, when
Miriam had first begun to exhibit a definite striving toward the
artistic, her parents had guarded her jealously against what they
considered the corrupting atmosphere of the art world. Her mother
had accompanied her from Ohio to New York, and lived with her while
she studied art in the art school, chaperoning her everywhere. When
it became advisable, as she thought, for Miriam to go abroad, she
went with her. Miriam's artistic career was to be properly
supervised. When she lived in the Latin Quarter in Paris her mother
was with her; when she loitered in the atmosphere of the galleries
and palaces in Rome it was with her mother at her side. At Pompeii
and Herculaneum—in London and in Berlin—her mother, an iron-willed
little woman at forty-five at that time, was with her. She was
convinced that she knew exactly what was good for her daughter and
had more or less made the girl accept her theories. Later, Miriam's
personal judgment began to diverge slightly from that of her mother
and then trouble began.
It was vague at first, hardly a definite, tangible thing in the
daughter's mind, but later it grew to be a definite feeling that
her life was being cramped. She had been warned off from
association with this person and that; had been shown the pitfalls
that surround the free, untrammelled life of the art studio.
Marriage with the average artist was not to be considered.
Modelling from the nude, particularly the nude of a man, was to her
mother at first most distressing. She insisted on being present and
for a long time her daughter thought that was all right. Finally
the presence, the viewpoint, the intellectual insistence of her
mother, became too irksome, and an open break followed. It was one
of those family tragedies which almost kill conservative parents.
Mrs. Finch's heart was practically broken.
The trouble with this break was that it came a little too late
for Miriam's happiness. In the stress of this insistent chaperonage
she had lost her youth—the period during which she felt she should
have had her natural freedom. She had lost the interest of several
men who in her nineteenth, twentieth and twenty-first years had
approached her longingly, but who could not stand the criticism of
her mother. At twenty-eight when the break came the most delightful
love period was over and she felt grieved and resentful.
At that time she had insisted on a complete and radical change
for herself. She had managed to get, through one art dealer and
another, orders for some of her spirited clay figurines. There was
a dancing girl, a visualization of one of the moods of Carmencita,
a celebrated dancer of the period, which had caught the public
fancy—at least the particular art dealer who was handling her work
for her had managed to sell some eighteen replicas of it at $175
each. Miss Finch's share of this was $100, each. There was another
little thing, a six-inch bronze called "Sleep," which had sold some
twenty replicas at $150 each, and was still selling. "The Wind," a
figure crouching and huddling as if from cold, was also selling. It
looked as though she might be able to make from three to four
thousand dollars a year steadily.
She demanded of her mother at this time the right to a private
studio, to go and come when she pleased, to go about alone wherever
she wished, to have men and women come to her private apartment,
and be entertained by her in her own manner. She objected to
supervision in any form, cast aside criticism and declared roundly
that she would lead her own life. She realized sadly while she was
doing it, however, that the best was gone—that she had not had the
wit or the stamina to do as she pleased at the time she most wanted
to do so. Now she would be almost automatically conservative. She
could not help it.
Eugene when he first met her felt something of this. He felt the
subtlety of her temperament, her philosophic conclusions, what
might be called her emotional disappointment. She was eager for
life, which seemed to him odd, for she appeared to have so much. By
degrees he got it out of her, for they came to be quite friendly
and then he understood clearly just how things were.
By the end of three months and before Christina Channing
appeared, Eugene had come to the sanest, cleanest understanding
with Miss Finch that he had yet reached with any woman. He had
dropped into the habit of calling there once and sometimes twice a
week. He had learned to understand her point of view, which was
detachedly æsthetic and rather removed from the world of the
sensuous. Her ideal of a lover had been fixed to a certain extent
by statues and poems of Greek youth—Hylas, Adonis, Perseus, and by
those men of the Middle Ages painted by Millais, Burne-Jones, Dante
Gabriel Rossetti and Ford Madox Brown. She had hoped for a youth
with a classic outline of face, distinction of form, graciousness
of demeanor and an appreciative intellect. He must be manly but
artistic. It was a rather high ideal, not readily capable of
attainment by a woman already turned thirty, but nevertheless worth
dreaming about.
Although she had surrounded herself with talented youth as much
as possible—both young men and young women—she had not come across
the one
. There had been a number of times when, for a very
little while, she had imagined she had found him, but had been
compelled to see her fancies fail. All the youths she knew had been
inclined to fall in love with girls younger than themselves—some to
the interesting maidens she had introduced them to. It is hard to
witness an ideal turning from yourself, its spiritual counterpart,
and fixing itself upon some mere fleshly vision of beauty which a
few years will cause to fade. Such had been her fate, however, and
she was at times inclined to despair. When Eugene appeared she had
almost concluded that love was not for her, and she did not flatter
herself that he would fall in love with her. Nevertheless she could
not help but be interested in him and look at times with a longing
eye at his interesting face and figure. It was so obvious that if
he loved at all it would be dramatically, in all probability,
beautifully.
As time went on she took pains to be agreeable to him. He had,
as it were, the freedom of her room. She knew of exhibitions,
personalities, movements—in religion, art, science, government,
literature. She was inclined to take an interest in socialism, and
believed in righting the wrongs of the people. Eugene thought he
did, but he was so keenly interested in life as a spectacle that he
hadn't as much time to sympathize as he thought he ought to have.
She took him to see exhibitions, and to meet people, being rather
proud of a boy with so much talent; and she was pleased to find
that he was so generally acceptable. People, particularly writers,
poets, musicians—beginners in every field, were inclined to
remember him. He was an easy talker, witty, quick to make himself
at home and perfectly natural. He tried to be accurate in his
judgments of things, and fair, but he was young and subject to
strong prejudices. He appreciated her friendship, and did not seek
to make their relationship more intimate. He knew that only a
sincere proposal of marriage could have won her, and he did not
care enough for her for that. He felt himself bound to Angela and,
curiously, he felt Miriam's age as a bar between them. He admired
her tremendously and was learning in part through her what his
ideal ought to be, but he was not drawn sufficiently to want to
make love to her.
But in Christina Channing, whom he met shortly afterward, he
found a woman of a more sensuous and lovable type, though hardly
less artistic. Christina Channing was a singer by profession,
living also in New York with her mother, but not, as Miss Finch had
been, dominated by her so thoroughly, although she was still at the
age when her mother could and did have considerable influence with
her. She was twenty-seven years of age and so far, had not yet
attained the eminence which subsequently was hers, though she was
full of that buoyant self-confidence which makes for eventual
triumph. So far she had studied ardently under various teachers,
had had several love affairs, none serious enough to win her away
from her chosen profession, and had gone through the various
experiences of those who begin ignorantly to do something in art
and eventually reach experience and understanding of how the world
is organized and what they will have to do to succeed.
Although Miss Channing's artistic sense did not rise to that
definite artistic expression in her material surroundings which
characterized Miss Finch's studio atmosphere, it went much farther
in its expression of her joy in life. Her voice, a rich contralto,
deep, full, colorful, had a note of pathos and poignancy which gave
a touch of emotion to her gayest songs. She could play well enough
to accompany herself with delicacy and emphasis. She was at present
one of the soloists with the New York Symphony Orchestra, with the
privilege of accepting occasional outside engagements. The
following Fall she was preparing to make a final dash to Germany to
see if she could not get an engagement with a notable court opera
company and so pave the way for a New York success. She was already
quite well known in musical circles as a promising operatic
candidate and her eventual arrival would be not so much a question
of talent as of luck.
While these two women fascinated Eugene for the time being, his
feeling for Angela continued unchanged; for though she suffered in
an intellectual or artistic comparison, he felt that she was richer
emotionally. There was a poignancy in her love letters, an
intensity about her personal feelings when in his presence which
moved him in spite of himself—an ache went with her which brought a
memory of the tales of Sappho and Marguerite Gautier. It occurred
to him now that if he flung her aside it might go seriously with
her. He did not actually think of doing anything of the sort, but
he was realizing that there was a difference between her and
intellectual women like Miriam Finch. Besides that, there was a
whole constellation of society women swimming into his ken—women
whom he only knew, as yet, through the newspapers and the smart
weeklies like Town Topics and Vogue, who were presenting still a
third order of perfection. Vaguely he was beginning to see that the
world was immense and subtle, and that there were many things to
learn about women that he had never dreamed of.
Christina Channing was a rival of Angela's in one sense, that of
bodily beauty. She had a tall perfectly rounded form, a lovely oval
face, a nut brown complexion with the rosy glow of health showing
in cheeks and lips, and a mass of blue black hair. Her great brown
eyes were lustrous and sympathetic.
Eugene met her through the good offices of Shotmeyer, who had
been given by some common friend in Boston a letter of introduction
to her. He had spoken of Eugene as being a very brilliant young
artist and his friend, and remarked that he would like to bring him
up some evening to hear her sing. Miss Channing acquiesced, for she
had seen some of his drawings and was struck by the poetic note in
them. Shotmeyer, vain of his notable acquaintances—who in fact
tolerated him for his amusing gossip—described Miss Channing's
voice to Eugene and asked him if he did not want to call on her
some evening. "Delighted," said Eugene.
The appointment was made and together they went to Miss
Channing's suite in a superior Nineteenth Street boarding house.
Miss Channing received them, arrayed in a smooth, close fitting
dress of black velvet, touched with red. Eugene was reminded of the
first costume in which he had seen Ruby. He was dazzled. As for
her, as she told him afterward, she was conscious of a peculiar
illogical perturbation.
"When I put on my ribbon that night," she told him, "I was going
to put on a dark blue silk one I had just bought and then I thought
'No, he'll like me better in a red one.' Isn't that curious? I just
felt as though you were going to like me—as though we might know
each other better. That young man—what's his name—described you so
accurately." It was months afterward when she confessed that.
When Eugene entered it was with the grand air he had acquired
since his life had begun to broaden in the East. He took his
relationship with talent, particularly female talent, seriously. He
stood up very straight, walked with a noticeable stride, drove an
examining glance into the very soul of the person he was looking
at. He was quick to get impressions, especially of talent. He could
feel ability in another. When he looked at Miss Channing he felt it
like a strong wave—the vibrating wave of an intense
consciousness.
She greeted him, extending a soft white hand. They spoke of how
they had heard of each other. Eugene somehow made her feel his
enthusiasm for her art. "Music is the finer thing," he said, when
she spoke of his own gift.
Christina's dark brown eyes swept him from head to foot. He was
like his pictures, she thought—and as good to look at.
He was introduced to her mother. They sat down, talking, and
presently Miss Channing sang—"Che faro senza Euridice." Eugene felt
as if she were singing to him. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips
red.
Her mother remarked after she had finished, "You're in splendid
voice this evening, Christina."
"I feel particularly fit," she replied.
"A wonderful voice—it's like a big red poppy or a great yellow
orchid!" cried Eugene.
Christina thrilled. The description caught her fancy. It seemed
true. She felt something of that in the sounds to which she gave
utterance.