CHAPTER II
CONTINUATION OF THE HISTORY OF A GENIUS
As might have been foreseen, even after the formation of The St. Ives and Hart Company, the world continued in ignorance of Emil St. Ives. A few devices composed of shining brass, crystal, and wood occupied a modest amount of space in one of Simon Hart's shop windows, and occasionally men of science, attracted by their ingenuity, made inquiries about them; oftener than not, they returned to watch them in operation, again and yet again. But the great public took no interest and never made inquiries; the great public was interested in improved stove-handles and door-locks and the rescue of discarded tin cans, and gave not a thought to Emil St. Ives's little instruments.
But in heaven, or more properly speaking, the world of complete objectivity which lies close about this and which only gifted minds prematurely penetrate, there was excitement after excitement, all produced by the childlike monster, Emil St. Ives. He had to his credit an instrument for recording colours in the atmosphere, another little instrument for recording the vibrations of the air occasioned by sound, and numerous temporarily useless devices which were calculated to delight those who came after him, but which were entirely unappreciated and unapprehended by the age in which he lived. None the less, his happiness was extreme.
The John Street loft, to which he and Annie had removed on the first hint of improvement in his fortunes, was spacious; and here, under a sky-light which glistened beneath the sun in pleasant weather and was befogged by rain and snow when the weather was inclement, he lived and worked. He ate irregularly and slept little. When he slept, in order not to waste time he was in the habit of entrusting the problem upon which he was engaged to his subconscious mind. Then after a sleep of a few hours' duration, he would wake, and on first opening his large, speculative eyes, would oftener than not see in mid-air the completed instrument working perfectly.
The loft, which chanced to be singularly habitable, was divided by partitions into four rooms. In order to be removed as far as possible from the sound of the pounding and drilling, Annie had taken up her abode in the rear room, which, besides the bay in the ceiling, had a large window looking upon a court. Below, in that scrap of earth, a maple tree had taken root and flourished to such a degree that its topmost branches came opposite the window. In the branches of the tree, a robin had built its nest. But Annie paid little attention to the tree or the robin. Though she wept less than in the past, she complained more; her lips drooped and her tongue had acquired sharpness. When with her hands resting on her slight hips, she remonstrated with Emil, her scolding sounded exactly like the chatter of an enraged bird; indeed, she looked more than ever like a bird. Though she occasionally might have managed to buy herself something new, Annie no longer troubled herself about her clothes. What was the use, she argued, since Alexander persisted in living in an attic; and in any case, was it not wiser to save every penny toward the rent, since he was so erratic in his methods of work, and insisted on making impractical things for which he used up all his salary? So Annie, a greater part of the time, lay on a sofa and sulked. In her inactivity, she was a contrast to Emil.
The corner of the loft in which the inventor spent most of his time was furnished, in addition to a workbench, with a cot upon which he slept, a disreputable-looking chair in which he rested when he was not pacing the floor, second-hand bookcases in which he kept his inventions and his library, a basket for the monkey, and a three-legged stool upon which Ding Dong could perch himself when so minded.
But Ding Dong, day or night, seldom had time to rest; and where he slept was a question; sometimes, without doubt, on a square of carpet outside his master's door. Willing, devoted, pathetic in his resemblance to a dumb brute, Ding Dong was an extra pair of hands and feet for Emil. He could scrub and sweep and make coffee, he could lift heavy machines in his sinewy arms, he could pack boxes and run errands; but he could not drill or hammer or saw with any accuracy. Though the field of his usefulness was limited, he was invaluable to the inventor.
The atmosphere of unparalleled devotion which this humble creature threw around him was agreeable to Emil; and the same could be said of Annie's love. Whenever he observed it, his wife's faithful affection, contributing to his egotism, helped him to work the harder. And so again with Rachel Hart's intelligent and unwavering interest in his progress; her interest so stirred in him the creative impulse that he sped ahead like a fiery steed under the plaudits of the arena. On the whole, Emil received much from the people surrounding him; and yet, in the last analysis, their devotion was not essential to the "un-named, seeing, acting, produced being" that constituted his genius.
When at work, in the depths of his eye lurked the consciousness of a world; but in his mouth and chin was something less perfect and more human; they looked as if they had been slighted by the sculptor who fashioned him. For the rest, an almost supernatural serenity marked his manner, despite the often convulsive manifestations of his energy. It was as if a god drove the chariot of his forces. If allowed to emerge gently from this state, he was unfailingly good natured; but if broken in upon abruptly, "care, genius, and hell" distorted and illuminated his face. Pausing on the threshold of that narrow gateway between the world of thought and the world of materiality, Emil St. Ives was a demon. Annie, bent upon some trifling business of her own, had one day ventured so to interrupt him; the offence had never been repeated.
As has been hinted, conscience played no part in him. For Annie, for Ding Dong, even for his employers, when the mood for work was upon him, Emil showed not the slightest consideration. Nor was Rachel, in this respect, an exception. Whatever his attitude was toward her—and he bore himself in her presence at moments with a strange humility, at other times with an ill-concealed turbulent admiration that threatened to break all bounds—her influence at this period had well defined limits. His mother alone had uninterrupted power over him. At a word from her, even though he were on the eve of inspiration, he would drop everything to fulfil her slightest whim.