As he wandered he kept looking for some place where he might like to live, some house that had a yard or a tree. At length he found a row of houses in lower Seventh Avenue with an array of iron balconies in front which appealed to him. He applied7 here and in one house found a room for four dollars which he thought he had better take for the present. It was cheaper than any hotel. His hostess was a shabby woman in black who made scarcely any impression on him as a personality, merely giving him a thought as to what a dreary8 thing it was to keep roomers and the room itself was nothing, a commonplace, but he had a new world before him and all his interests were outside. He wanted to see this city. He deposited his grip and sent for his trunk and then took to the streets, having come to see and hear things which would be of advantage to him.
He went about this early relationship to the city in the right spirit. For a little while he did not try to think what he would do, but struck out and walked, here, there and everywhere, this very first day down Broadway to the City Hall and up Broadway from 14th to 42nd street the same night. Soon he knew all Third Avenue and the Bowery, the wonders of Fifth Avenue and Riverside Drive, the beauties of the East River, the Battery, Central Park and the lower East Side. He sought out quickly the wonders of metropolitan9 life—its crowds at dinner and theatre time in Broadway, its tremendous throngs10 morning and afternoon in the shopping district, its amazing world of carriages in Fifth Avenue and Central Park. He had marveled at wealth and luxury in Chicago, but here it took his breath away. It was obviously so much more fixed11, so definite and comprehensible. Here one felt intuitively the far reaches which separate the ordinary man from the scion12 of wealth. It curled him up like a frozen leaf, dulled his very soul, and gave him a clear sense of his position in the social scale. He had come here with a pretty high estimate of himself, but daily, as he looked, he felt himself crumbling13. What was he? What was art? What did the city care? It was much more interested in other things, in dressing14, eating, visiting, riding abroad. The lower part of the island was filled with cold commercialism which frightened him. In the upper half, which concerned only women and show—a voluptuous15 sybaritism—caused him envy. He had but two hundred dollars with which to fight his way, and this was the world he must conquer.
Men of Eugene's temperament16 are easily depressed17. He first gorged18 the spectacle of life and then suffered from mental indigestion. He saw too much of it too quickly. He wandered about for weeks, looking in the shop windows, the libraries, the museums, the great streets, growing all the while more despondent19. At night he would return to his bare room and indite20 long epistles to Angela, describing what he had seen and telling her of his undying love for her—largely because he had no other means of ridding himself of his superabundant vitality21 and moods. They were beautiful letters, full of color and feeling, but to Angela they gave a false impression of emotion and sincerity22 because they appeared to be provoked by absence from her. In part of course they were, but far more largely they were the result of loneliness and the desire for expression which this vast spectacle of life itself incited23. He also sent her some tentative sketches24 of things he had seen—a large crowd in the dark at 34th Street; a boat off 86th Street in the East River in the driving rain; a barge25 with cars being towed by a tug26. He could not think exactly what to do with these things at that time, but he wanted to try his hand at illustrating27 for the magazines. He was a little afraid of these great publications, however, for now that he was on the ground with them his art did not appear so significant.
It was during the first few weeks that he received his only letter from Ruby28. His parting letter to her, written when he reached New York, had been one of those makeshift affairs which faded passion indites29. He was so sorry he had to leave without seeing her. He had intended to come out but the rush of preparation at the last moment, and so forth30; he hoped to come back to Chicago one of these days and he would look her up. He still loved her, but it was necessary for him to leave—to come where the greatest possibilities were. "I remember how sweet you were when I first saw you," he added. "I shall never forget my first impressions, little Ruby."
It was cruel to add this touch of remembrance, but the artist in him could not refrain. It cut Ruby as a double edged sword, for she understood that he cared well enough that way—æsthetically. It was not her but beauty that he loved, and her particular beauty had lost its appeal.
She wrote after a time, intending to be defiant31, indifferent, but she really could not be. She tried to think of something sharp to say, but finally put down the simple truth.
"Dear Eugene:" she wrote, "I got your note several weeks ago, but I could not bring myself to answer it before this. I know everything is over between us and that is all right, for I suppose it has to be. You couldn't love any woman long, I think. I know what you say about your having to go to New York to broaden your field is true. You ought to, but I'm sorry you didn't come out. You might have. Still I don't blame you, Eugene. It isn't much different from what has been going on for some time. I have cared but I'll get over that, I know, and I won't ever think hard of you. Won't you return me the notes I have sent you from time to time and my pictures? You won't want them now.
"Ruby."
There was a little blank space on the paper and then:—
"I stood by the window last night and looked out on the street. The moon was shining and those dead trees were waving in the wind. I saw the moon on that pool of water over in the field. It looked like silver. Oh, Eugene, I wish I were dead."
He jumped up as he read these words and clenched32 the letter in his hands. The pathos33 of it all cut him to the quick, raised his estimate of her, made him feel as if he had made a mistake in leaving her. He really cared for her after all. She was sweet. If she were here now he could live with her. She might as well be a model in New York as in Chicago. He was on the verge34 of writing this, when one of the long, almost daily epistles Angela was sending arrived and changed his mood. He did not see how, in the face of so great and clean a love as hers, he could go on with Ruby. His affection had obviously been dying. Should he try to revive it now?
This conflict of emotions was so characteristic of Eugene's nature, that had he been soundly introspective, he would have seen that he was an idealist by temperament, in love with the æsthetic, in love with love, and that there was no permanent faith in him for anybody—except the impossible she.
As it was, he wrote Ruby a letter breathing regret and sorrow but not inviting35 her to come. He could not have supported her long if she had, he thought. Besides he was anxious to secure Angela. So that affair lapsed36.
In the meantime he visited the magazine offices. On leaving Chicago he had put in the bottom of his trunk a number of drawings which he had done for the Globe—his sketches of the Chicago River, of Blue Island Avenue, of which he had once made a study as a street, of Goose Island and of the Lake front. There were some street scenes, too, all forceful in the peculiar37 massing of their blacks, the unexpected, almost flashing, use of a streak38 of white at times. There was emotion in them, a sense of life. He should have been appreciated at once, but, oddly, there was just enough of the radically39 strange about what he did to make his work seem crude, almost coarse. He drew a man's coat with a single dash of his pen. He indicated a face by a spot. If you looked close there was seldom any detail, frequently none at all. From the praise he had received at the art school and from Mathews and Goldfarb he was slowly coming to the conclusion that he had a way of his own. Being so individual he was inclined to stick to it. He walked with an air of conviction which had nothing but his own belief in himself to back it up, and it was not an air which drew anybody to him. When he showed his pictures at the Century, Harper's, Scribner's, they were received with an air of weary consideration. Dozens of magnificent drawings were displayed on their walls signed by men whom Eugene now knew to be leaders in the illustration world. He returned to his room convinced that he had made no impression at all. They must be familiar with artists a hundred times better than himself.
As a matter of fact Eugene was simply overawed by the material face of things. These men whose pictures he saw displayed on the walls of the art and editorial rooms of the magazines were really not, in many instances, any better than himself, if as good. They had the advantage of solid wood frames and artistic40 acceptance. He was a long way as yet from magazine distinction but the work he did later had no more of the fire than had this early stuff. It was a little broader in treatment, a little less intolerant of detail, but no more vigorous if as much so. The various art directors were weary of smart young artists showing drawings. A little suffering was good for them in the beginning. So Eugene was incontinently turned away with a little faint praise which was worse than opposition41. He sank very low in spirits.
There were still the smaller magazines and the newspapers, however, and he hunted about faithfully, trying to get something to do. From one or two of the smaller magazines, he secured commissions, after a time, three or four drawings for thirty-five dollars; and from that had to be extracted models' fees. He had to have a room where he could work as an artist, receiving models to pose, and he finally found one in West 14th Street, a back bedroom, looking out over an open court and with a public stair which let all come who might without question. This cost him twenty-five dollars a month, but he thought he had better risk it. If he could get a few commissions he could live.
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1
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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7
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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8
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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metropolitan
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| adj.大城市的，大都会的 | |
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throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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12
scion
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| n.嫩芽，子孙 | |
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crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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15
voluptuous
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| adj.肉欲的，骄奢淫逸的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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despondent
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| adj.失望的，沮丧的，泄气的 | |
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indite
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| v.写（文章，信等）创作 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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incited
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| 刺激，激励，煽动( incite的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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24
sketches
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| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
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barge
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| n.平底载货船，驳船 | |
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tug
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| v.用力拖(或拉)；苦干；n.拖；苦干；拖船 | |
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illustrating
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的现在分词 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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indites
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| vt.写（文章，信等）创作，赋诗，创作（indite的第三人称单数形式） | |
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30
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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34
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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36
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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38
streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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39
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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40
artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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41
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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