The studio of Messrs. Smite, MacHugh and Witla in Waverley Place
was concerned the following October with a rather picturesque
event. Even in the city the time when the leaves begin to yellow
and fall brings a sense of melancholy, augmented by those
preliminaries of winter, gray, lowery days, with scraps of paper,
straws, bits of wood blown about by gusty currents of air through
the streets, making it almost disagreeable to be abroad. The fear
of cold and storm and suffering among those who have little was
already apparent. Apparent too was the air of renewed vitality
common to those who have spent an idle summer and are anxious to
work again. Shopping and marketing and barter and sale were at high
key. The art world, the social world, the manufacturing world, the
professional worlds of law, medicine, finance, literature, were
bubbling with a feeling of the necessity to do and achieve. The
whole city, stung by the apprehension of winter, had an atmosphere
of emprise and energy.
In this atmosphere, with a fairly clear comprehension of the
elements which were at work making the colour of the life about
him, was Eugene, digging away at the task he had set himself. Since
leaving Angela he had come to the conclusion that he must complete
the jointings for the exhibition which had been running in his mind
during the last two years. There was no other way for him to make a
notable impression—he saw that. Since he had returned he had gone
through various experiences: the experience of having Angela tell
him that she was sure there was something wrong with her; an
impression sincere enough, but based on an excited and overwrought
imagination of evil to follow, and having no foundation in fact.
Eugene was as yet, despite his several experiences, not
sufficiently informed in such affairs to know. His lack of courage
would have delayed him from asking if he had known. In the next
place, facing this crisis, he had declared that he would marry her,
and because of her distressed condition he thought he might as well
do it now. He had wanted time to do some of the pictures he was
working on, to take in a little money for drawing, to find a
suitable place to live in. He had looked at various studios in
various sections of the city and had found nothing, as yet, which
answered to his taste or his purse. Anything with a proper light, a
bath, a suitable sleeping room, and an inconspicuous chamber which
might be turned into a kitchen, was difficult to find. Prices were
high, ranging from fifty to one hundred and twenty-five and one
hundred and fifty a month. There were some new studios being
erected for the rich loungers and idlers which commanded, so he
understood, three or four thousand dollars a year. He wondered if
he should ever attain to any such magnificence through his art.
Again, in taking a studio for Angela and himself there was the
matter of furniture. The studio he had with Smite and MacHugh was
more or less of a camp. The work room was bare of carpets or rugs.
The two folding beds and the cot which graced their individual
chambers were heirlooms from ancient predecessors—substantial but
shabby. Beyond various drawings, three easels, and a chest of
drawers for each, there was no suitable household equipment. A
woman came twice a week to clean, send out the linen, and make up
the beds.
To live with Angela required, in his judgment, many and much
more significant things. His idea of a studio was some such one as
that now occupied by Miriam Finch or Norma Whitmore. There ought to
be furniture of a period—old Flemish or Colonial, Heppelwhite or
Chippendale or Sheraton, such as he saw occasionally knocking about
in curio shops and second hand stores. It could be picked up if he
had time. He was satisfied that Angela knew nothing of these
things. There ought to be rugs, hangings of tapestry, bits of
brass, pewter, copper, old silver, if he could afford it. He had an
idea of some day obtaining a figure of the Christ in brass or
plaster, hung upon a rough cross of walnut or teak, which he could
hang or stand in some corner as one might a shrine and place before
it two great candlesticks with immense candles smoked and dripping
with wax. These lighted in a dark studio, with the outlines of the
Christ flickering in the shadows behind would give the desired
atmosphere to his studio. Such an equipment as he dreamed of would
have cost in the neighborhood of two thousand dollars.
Of course this was not to be thought of at this period. He had
no more than that in ready cash. He was writing to Angela about his
difficulties in finding a suitable place, when he heard of a studio
in Washington Square South, which its literary possessor was going
to quit for the winter. It was, so he understood, handsomely
furnished, and was to be let for the rent of the studio. The owner
wanted someone who would take care of it by occupying it for him
until he should return the following fall. Eugene hurried round to
look at it and, taken with the location, the appearance of the
square from the windows, the beauty of the furnishings, felt that
he would like to live here. This would be the way to introduce
Angela to New York. This would be the first and proper impression
to give her. Here, as in every well arranged studio he had yet seen
were books, pictures, bits of statuary, implements of copper and
some few of silver. There was a great fish net dyed green and
spangled with small bits of mirror to look like scales which hung
as a veil between the studio proper and an alcove. There was a
piano done in black walnut, and odd pieces of furniture, Mission,
Flemish, Venetian of the sixteenth century and English of the
seventeenth, which, despite that diversity offered a unity of
appearance and a harmony of usefulness. There was one bed room, a
bath, and a small partitioned section which could be used as a
kitchen. With a few of his pictures judiciously substituted he
could see a perfect abode here for himself and his wife. The rent
was fifty dollars. He decided that he would risk it.
Having gone so far as to indicate that he would take it—he was
made to feel partially resigned to marriage by the very appearance
of this place—he decided that he would marry in October. Angela
could come to New York or Buffalo—she had never seen Niagara
Falls—and they could be married there. She had spoken recently of
visiting her brother at West Point. Then they could come here and
settle down. He decided that this must be so, wrote to her to that
effect, and vaguely hinted to Smite and MacHugh that he might get
married shortly.
This was a great blow to his partners in art, for Eugene was
very popular with them. He had the habit, with those he liked, of
jesting constantly. "Look at the look of noble determination on
Smite's brow this morning," he would comment cheerfully on getting
up; or "MacHugh, you lazy lout, crawl out and earn your
living."
MacHugh's nose, eyes and ears would be comfortably buried in the
folds of a blanket.
"These hack artists," Eugene would sigh disconsolately. "There's
not much to be made out of them. A pile of straw and a couple of
boiled potatoes a day is all they need."
"Aw, cut it out," MacHugh would grunt.
"To hell, to hell, I yell, I yell," would come from somewhere in
the voice of Smite.
"If it weren't for me," Eugene would go on, "God knows what
would become of this place. A lot of farmers and fishermen trying
to be artists."
"And laundry wagon drivers, don't forget that," MacHugh would
add, sitting up and rubbing his tousled head, for Eugene had
related some of his experiences. "Don't forget the contribution
made by the American Steam Laundry Company to the world of true
art."
"Collars and cuffs I would have you know is artistic," Eugene at
once declared with mock dignity, "whereas plows and fish is
trash."
Sometimes this "kidding" would continue for a quarter of an hour
at a stretch, when some one remark really brighter than any other
would dissolve the whole in laughter. Work began after breakfast,
to which they usually sallied forth together, and would continue
unbroken save for necessary engagements or periods of
entertainment, lunch and so on, until five in the afternoon.
They had worked together now for a couple of years. They had, by
experience, learned of each other's reliability, courtesy, kindness
and liberality. Criticism was free, generous, and sincerely
intended to be helpful. Pleasure trips, such as walks on grey,
lowery days, or in rain or brilliant sunshine, or trips to Coney
Island, Far Rockaway, the theatres, the art exhibitions, the odd
and peculiar restaurants of different nationalities, were always
undertaken in a spirit of joyous camaraderie. Jesting as to
morality, their respective abilities, their tendencies and
characteristics were all taken and given in good part. At one time
it would be Joseph Smite who would come in for a united drubbing
and excoriation on the part of Eugene and MacHugh. At another time
Eugene or MacHugh would be the victim, the other two joining forces
vigorously. Art, literature, personalities, phases of life,
philosophy, were discussed by turn. As with Jerry Mathews, Eugene
had learned of new things from these men—the life of fisher-folk,
and the characteristics of the ocean from Joseph Smite; the nature
and spirit of the great West from MacHugh. Each appeared to have an
inexhaustible fund of experiences and reminiscences which refreshed
and entertained the trio day by day year in and year out. They were
at their best strolling through some exhibit or preliminary view of
an art collection offered for sale, when all their inmost
convictions of what was valuable and enduring in art would come to
the surface. All three were intolerant of reputations as such, but
were strong for individual merit whether it carried a great name or
not. They were constantly becoming acquainted with the work of some
genius little known here, and celebrating his talents, each to the
others. Thus Monet, Degas, Manet, Ribera, Monticelli, by turns came
up for examination and praise.
When Eugene then, toward the end of September, announced that he
might be leaving them shortly, there was a united wail of
opposition. Joseph Smite was working on a sea scene at the time,
doing his best to get the proper colour harmony between the
worm-eaten deck of a Gold Coast trading ship, a half naked West
Coast negro handling a broken wheel, and a mass of blue black
undulations in the distance which represented the boundless
sea.
"G'wan!" said Smite, incredulously, for he assumed that Eugene
was jesting. There had been a steady stream of letters issuing from
somewhere in the West and delivered here week after week, as there
had been for MacHugh, but this by now was a commonplace, and
apparently meant nothing. "You marry? What the hell do you want to
get married for? A fine specimen you will make! I'll come around
and tell your wife."
"Sure," returned Eugene. "It's true, I may get married." He was
amused at Smite's natural assumption that it was a jest.
"Stow that," called MacHugh, from his easel. He was working on a
country corner picture, a group of farmers before a country post
office. "You don't want to break up this shack, do you?" Both of
these men were fond of Eugene. They found him inspiring, helpful,
always intensely vigorous and apparently optimistic.
"I don't want to break up any shack. But haven't I a right to
get married?"
"I vote no, by God!" said Smite emphatically. "You'll never go
out of here with my consent. Peter, are we going to stand for
anything like that?"
"We are not," replied MacHugh. "We'll call out the reserves if
he tries any game like that on us. I'll prefer charges against him.
Who's the lady, Eugene?"
"I bet I know," suggested Smite. "He's been running up to
Twenty-sixth Street pretty regularly." Joseph was thinking of
Miriam Finch, to whom Eugene had introduced both him and
MacHugh.
"Nothing like that, surely," inquired MacHugh, looking over at
Eugene to see if it possibly could be so.
"It's all true, fellers," replied Eugene, "—as God is my judge.
I'm going to leave you soon."
"You're not really talking seriously, are you, Witla?" inquired
Joseph soberly.
"I am, Joe," said Eugene quietly. He was studying the
perspective of his sixteenth New York view,—three engines coming
abreast into a great yard of cars. The smoke, the haze, the dingy
reds and blues and yellows and greens of kicked about box cars were
showing with beauty—the vigor and beauty of raw reality.
"Soon?" asked MacHugh, equally quietly. He was feeling that
touch of pensiveness which comes with a sense of vanishing
pleasures.
"I think some time in October, very likely," replied Eugene.
"Jesus Christ, I'm sorry to hear that," put in Smite.
He laid down his brush and strolled over to the window. MacHugh,
less expressive in extremes, worked on medatively.
"When'd you reach that conclusion, Witla?" he asked after a
time.
"Oh, I've been thinking it over for a long time, Peter," he
returned. "I should really have married before if I could have
afforded it. I know how things are here or I wouldn't have sprung
this so suddenly. I'll hold up my end on the rent here until you
get someone else."
"To hell with the rent," said Smite. "We don't want anyone else,
do we, Peter? We didn't have anyone else before."
Smite was rubbing his square chin and contemplating his partner
as if they were facing a catastrophe.
"There's no use talking about that," said Peter. "You know we
don't care about the rent. Do you mind telling us who you're going
to marry? Do we know her?"
"You don't," returned Eugene. "She's out in Wisconsin. It's the
one who writes the letters. Angela Blue is her name."
"Well, here's to Angela Blue, by God, say I," said Smite,
recovering his spirits and picking up his paint brush from his
board to hold aloft. "Here's to Mrs. Eugene Witla, and may she
never reef a sail to a storm or foul an anchor, as they say up Nova
Scotia way."