Read Online The Genius by Theodore Dreiser - Free Book Online Page B

suffering which was
somehow around and in and through everything that was shown. This
man had virility and insight; stupendous imagination and
temperament. Eugene stood and stared, wondering how such things
could be done. Ever afterward the name of Verestchagin was like a
great call to his imagination; that was the kind of an artist to be
if you were going to be one.
    Another picture came there once, which appealed to another side
of his nature, although primarily the basis of its appeal was
artistic. It was a great, warm tinted nude by Bouguereau, a French
artist who was startling his day with his daring portrayal of the
nude. The types he depicted were not namby-pamby little slim-bodied
women with spindling qualities of strength and passion, but great,
full-blown women whose voluptuous contour of neck and arms and
torso and hip and thigh was enough to set the blood of youth at
fever heat. The man obviously understood and had passion, love of
form, love of desire, love of beauty. He painted with a sense of
the bridal bed in the background; of motherhood and of fat, growing
babies, joyously nursed. These women stood up big in their sense of
beauty and magnetism, the soft lure of desire in their eyes, their
full lips parted, their cheeks flushed with the blood of health. As
such they were anathema to the conservative and puritanical in
mind, the religious in temperament, the cautious in training or
taste. The very bringing of this picture to Chicago as a product
for sale was enough to create a furore of objection. Such pictures
should not be painted, was the cry of the press; or if painted, not
exhibited. Bouguereau was conceived of by many as one of those
dastards of art who were endeavoring to corrupt by their talent the
morals of the world; there was a cry raised that the thing should
be suppressed; and as is always the case in all such outbursts of
special class opposition, the interest of the general public was
aroused.
    Eugene was one of those who noted the discussion. He had never
seen a picture by Bouguereau or, indeed, an original nude by any
other artist. Being usually at liberty after three o'clock, he was
free to visit some of these things, and having found it possible to
do his work in good clothes he had come to wear his best suit every
day. He was a fairly presentable youth with a solemn mien, and his
request to be shown anything in any art store would have aroused no
surprise. He looked as though he belonged to the intellectual and
artistic classes.
    Not being sure of what reception would be accorded one so
young—he was now nearing twenty—he nevertheless ventured to stop at
the gallery where the Bouguereau was being exhibited and ask to see
it. The attendant in charge eyed him curiously, but led him back to
a room hung in dark red, and turning on a burst of incandescent
bulbs set in the ceiling of a red plush hung cabinet, pulled back
the curtain revealing the picture. Eugene had never seen such a
figure and face. It was a dream of beauty—his ideal come to life.
He studied the face and neck, the soft mass of brown, sensuous hair
massed at the back of the head, the flowerlike lips and soft
cheeks. He marveled at the suggestion of the breasts and the
abdomen, that potentiality of motherhood that is so firing to the
male. He could have stood there hours dreaming, luxuriating, but
the attendant who had left him alone with it for a few minutes
returned.
    "What is the price of this?" Eugene asked.
    "Ten thousand dollars," was the reply.
    He smiled solemnly. "It's a wonderful thing," he said, and
turned to go. The attendant put out the light.
    This picture, like those of Verestchagin, made a sharp
impression on him. Curiously he had no longing to paint anything of
this kind. He only rejoiced to look at it. It spoke to him of his
present ideal of womanhood—physical beauty, and he longed with all
his heart to find a creature like that who would look on him with
favor.
    There were other exhibitions—one