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life—the thing to draw; and then there were the
low, drab, rain-soaked cottages standing in lonely, shabby little
rows out on flat prairie land, perhaps a scrubby tree somewhere
near. He loved these. He would take an envelope and try to get the
sense of them—the feel, as he called it—but it wouldn't come. All
he did seemed cheap and commonplace, mere pointless lines and stiff
wooden masses. How did the great artists get their smoothness and
ease? He wondered.

Chapter 6
     
    Eugene collected and reported faithfully every day, and had
managed to save a little money. Margaret was now a part of his
past. His landlady, Mrs. Woodruff, had gone to live with a daughter
in Sedalia, Missouri, and he had moved to a comparatively nice
house in East Twenty-first Street on the South Side. It had taken
his eye because of a tree in a fifty foot space of ground before
it. Like his other room it cost him little, and he was in a private
family. He arranged a twenty cent rate per meal for such meals as
he took there, and thus he managed to keep his bare living expenses
down to five dollars a week. The remaining nine he spent sparingly
for clothes, car-fare, and amusements—almost nothing of the latter.
When he saw he had a little money in reserve he began to think of
looking up the Art Institute, which had been looming up in his mind
as an avenue of advancement, and find out on what condition he
could join a night class in drawing. They were very reasonable, he
heard, only fifteen dollars a quarter, and he decided to begin if
the conditions were not too severe. He was beginning to be
convinced that he was born to be an artist—how soon he could not
tell.
    The old Art Institute, which preceded the present impressive
structure, was located at Michigan Avenue and Monroe Street, and
presented an atmosphere of distinction which was not present in
most of the structures representing the public taste of the period.
It was a large six storey building of brown stone, and contained a
number of studios for painters, sculptors, and music teachers,
besides the exhibition rooms and the rooms for the classes. There
were both day and evening classes, and even at that time a large
number of students. The western soul, to a certain extent, was
fired by the wonder of art. There was so little of it in the life
of the people—the fame of those who could accomplish things in this
field and live in a more refined atmosphere was great. To go to
Paris! To be a student in any one of the great ateliers of that
city! Or of Munich or Rome, to know the character of the artistic
treasures of Europe—the life of the Art quarter—that was something.
There was what might have been termed a wild desire in the breast
of many an untutored boy and girl to get out of the ranks of the
commonplace; to assume the character and the habiliments of the
artistic temperament as they were then supposed to be; to have a
refined, semi-languorous, semi-indifferent manner; to live in a
studio, to have a certain freedom in morals and temperament not
accorded to the ordinary person—these were the great things to do
and be. Of course, art composition was a part of this. You were
supposed ultimately to paint great pictures or do noble sculptures,
but in the meanwhile you could and should live the life of the
artist. And that was beautiful and wonderful and free.
    Eugene had long had some sense of this. He was aware that there
were studios in Chicago; that certain men were supposed to be doing
good work—he saw it in the papers. There were mentions now and then
of exhibitions, mostly free, which the public attended but
sparingly. Once there was an exhibition of some of the war pictures
of Verestchagin, a great Russian painter who had come West for some
purpose. Eugene saw them one Sunday afternoon, and was enthralled
by the magnificence of their grasp of the elements of battle; the
wonder of color; the truth of character; the dramatic quality; the
sense of force and danger and horror and