Free The Genius by Theodore Dreiser Page B

short, to be an art student. So this
was what it was, a world absolutely different from anything he had
ever known. And he was self-called to be a member of it.

Chapter 7
     
    It was after he had decided to enter the art class that Eugene
paid his first visit to his family. Though they were only a hundred
miles away, he had never felt like going back, even at Christmas.
Now it seemed to him he had something definite to proclaim. He was
going to be an artist; and as to his work, he was getting along
well in that. Mr. Mitchly appeared to like him. It was to Mr.
Mitchly that he reported daily with his collections and his
unsatisfied bills. The collections were checked up by Mr. Mitchly
with the cash, and the unpaid bills certified. Sometimes Eugene
made a mistake, having too much or too little, but the "too much"
was always credited against the "too little," so that in the main
he came out even. In money matters there was no tendency on
Eugene's part to be dishonest. He thought of lots of things he
wanted, but he was fairly well content to wait and come by them
legitimately. It was this note in him that appealed to Mitchly. He
thought that possibly something could be made of Eugene in a trade
way.
    He left the Friday night preceding Labor Day, the first Monday
in September, which was a holiday throughout the city. He had told
Mr. Mitchly that he thought of leaving Saturday after work for over
Sunday and Monday, but Mr. Mitchly suggested that he might double
up his Saturday's work with Thursday's and Friday's if he wished,
and go Friday evening.
    "Saturday's a short day, anyhow," he said. "That would give
three days at home and still you wouldn't be behind in your
work."
    Eugene thanked his employer and did as suggested. He packed his
bag with the best he had in the way of clothes, and journeyed
homeward, wondering how he would find things. How different it all
was! Stella was gone. His youthful unsophistication had passed. He
could go home as a city man with some prospects. He had no idea of
how boyish he looked—how much the idealist he was—how far removed
from hard, practical judgment which the world values so highly.
    When the train reached Alexandria, his father and Myrtle and
Sylvia were at the depot to greet him—the latter with her two year
old son. They had all come down in the family carryall, which left
one seat for Eugene. He greeted them warmly and received their
encomiums on his looks with a befitting sense of humility.
    "You're bigger," his father exclaimed. "You're going to be a
tall man after all, Eugene. I was afraid you had stopped
growing."
    "I hadn't noticed that I had grown any," said Eugene.
    "Ah, yes," put in Myrtle. "You're much bigger, Gene. It makes
you look a little thinner. Are you good and strong?"
    "I ought to be," laughed Eugene. "I walk about fifteen or twenty
miles a day, and I'm out in the air all the time. If I don't get
strong now I never will."
    Sylvia asked him about his "stomach trouble." About the same, he
told her. Sometimes he thought it was better, sometimes worse. A
doctor had told him to drink hot water in the morning but he didn't
like to do it. It was so hard to swallow the stuff.
    While they were talking, asking questions, they reached the
front gate of the house, and Mrs. Witla came out on the front
porch. Eugene, at sight of her in the late dusk, jumped over the
front wheel and ran to meet her.
    "Little ma," he exclaimed. "Didn't expect me back so soon, did
you?"
    "So soon," she said, her arms around his neck. Then she held him
so, quite still for a few moments. "You're getting to be a big
man," she said when she released him.
    He went into the old sitting room and looked around. It was all
quite the same—no change. There were the same books, the same
table, the same chairs, the same pulley lamp hanging from the
center of the ceiling. In the parlor there was nothing new, nor in
the bed rooms or the kitchen. His mother looked a little older—his
father not. Sylvia had