I see how I fall into blindness of the high things at home. How
almost impossible it is for me to do anything, while I have the
earthly ties of love! I study--but how? How is it possible to live
the physical life of other people--to be sympathetic and agreeable
and conciliatory, and gain anything for your own soul? How is such a
creature as myself to get what it wants, unless it goes away where
there are no contrary and disturbing influences--where it has no
ties, no obligations? The souls that have won, how did they do it--
did they go alone, or did they stay in the parlor and serve tea?

Such thoughts as these would make me grovel at your feet, if need
be, in an agony of prayer. The means, I cry--and you are the means!
What is there for me, then, but to beseech you to have faith in me?
I suppose, as yet, you have little or no cause--though once or twice
I have risen to you, even though perhaps you did not know it. I am
almost happy now--for I feel that this _useless_ strife is at an
end, this craving and wondering if you wish to leave me. And for all
that, I despise you, too--for your blind and wanton cruelty in
wishing to crush what you have created! How do you expect God to
value your soul, when you so lightly value mine?

But after all, will it help me to beseech you? The thing I honor in
you is your desire to be right--and I know that you will act toward
me as your sense of right prompts you. You will act toward me as you
feel you _must_ do, to be true. Yes, be true to yourself, please; I
am happy to trust in yourself so. If you believe that I will mar
your life, I do not wish to go I with you. I do not know why, but I
feel that something has come to me to prevent my despair from
returning; I shall take care of my soul--there _must_ be something
for me in this life. I have a feeling that perhaps you will think I
am writing this last mute acceptance of your will, without knowing
what I am doing. But I _know_ that I shall struggle without you, I
shall not die.

And I wish that you would do one thing--see me as soon as you can;
let it be early in the morning, and it shall be decided _on_ _that_
_day_ whether I am to marry you or not. I shall leave you, not to
see you again--or knowing that I am to be your wife. I am sick unto
death of fuming and sighing, tears and fears.

What will you do, Thyrsis? I cannot write any more.

I unfold the letter again. _What, in the name of God, are you going
to do?_






BOOK IV

THE VICTIM APPROACHES





_A silence had fallen upon them. She sat watching where the light of
the sun flickered among the birches; and he had the book in his
hand, and was turning the pages idly. He read--

   "I know these slopes; who knows them if not I?"

And she smiled, and quoted in return--

   "Here cam'st thou in thy jocund youthful time,
    Here was thine height of strength, thy golden prime!
    And still the haunt beloved a virtue yields."

Section 1. It was early one November afternoon, in his cabin in the
forest, that Thyrsis wrote the last of his minstrel's songs. He had
not been able to tell when it would come to him, so he had made no
preparations; but when the last word was on the paper, he sprang to
his feet, and strode through the snow-clad forest to the nearest
farm-house. The farmer came with a wagon, and Thyrsis bundled all
his belongings into his trunk, and took the night-train for the
city.

He came like a young god, radiant and clothed in glory. All the
creatures of his dreams were awake within him, all his demons and
his muses; he had but to call them and they answered. There was a
sound of trumpets and harps in his soul all day; he was like a man
half walking, half running, in the midst of a great storm of wind.

He had fought the good fight, and he had conquered. The world was at
his feet, and he had no longer any fear of it. The jangling of the
street-cars was music to him, the roar and rush of the city stirred
his pulses--this was the life he had come to shape to his will!

And so he came to Corydon, glorious and irresistible. His mind was
quite made up--he would take her; he was master now, he had no
longer any doubts or fears. He was thrilled all through him with the
thought of her; how wonderful it was at such an hour to have some
one to communicate with--some one in whose features he could see a
reflection of his own exaltation! He recollected the words of the
old German poet--

   "Der ist selig zu begrussen Der ein treues Herze weiss!"

He went to Corydon's home. In the parlor he came upon her
unannounced; and she started and stared at him as at a ghost. She
did not make a sound, but he saw the pallor sweep over her face, he
saw her tremble and sway. She was like a reed shaken by the wind--
so fragile and so sensitive! He got a sudden sense of the storm of
emotion that was shaking her; and it frightened him, while at the
same time it thrilled him strangely.

He came and took her hands in his, and gently touched her cheek with
his lips. She stared at him dumbly.

"It's all right, sweetheart," he whispered. "It's all right." And
she closed her eyes, and it seemed as if to breathe was all she
could do.

"Come, dearest," he said. "Let us go out."

And half in a daze she put on her hat and coat, and they went out on
the street. He took her arm to steady her.

"Well?" she asked.

"It's all right, dearest," he said.

"You got my letter?"

"Yes, I got it. And it was a wonderful letter. It couldn't have been
better."

"Ah!"

"And there's no more to be said. There's no refusing such a
challenge. You shall come with me."

"But Thyrsis! Do you _want_ me to come?"

"Yes," he said, "I want you."

And he felt a tremor pass through her arm. He pressed it tightly to
his side. "I love you!" he whispered.

"Ah Thyrsis!" she exclaimed. "How you have tortured me!"

"Hush, dear!" he replied. "Let's not think of that. It's all past
now. We are going on! You have proven your grit. You are wonderful!"

They went into the park, and sat upon a bench in the sun.

"I've finished the book!" he said. "And in a couple more days it'll
be copied. I've a letter of introduction to a publisher, and he
wrote me he'd read it at once."

"It seems like a dream to me," she whispered.

"We won't have to wait long after that," he said. "Everything will
be clear before us."

"And what will you do in the meantime?" she asked.

"Mother wants me to stay with her," he said. "I've only got ten
dollars left. But I'll get some from the publisher."

"Are you sure you can?" she asked.

"Oh, Corydon!" he cried, "you've no idea how wonderful it is--the
book, I mean. You'll be amazed! It kept growing on me all the
time--I got new visions of it. That was why it took me so long. I
didn't dare to appreciate it, while I was doing it--I had to keep
myself at work, you know; but now that it's done, I can realize it.
And oh, it's a book the world will heed!"

"When can I see it, Thyrsis?"

"As soon as it's copied--the manuscript is all a scrawl. But you know
the minstrel's song at the end? My Gethsemane, I called it! I found
a new form for it--it's all in free verse. I didn't mean it to be
that way, but it just wrote itself; it broke through the bars and
ran away with me. Oh, it marches like the thunder!"

He pulled some papers from his coat-pocket. "I was going over it on
the train this morning," he said. "Listen!"

He read her the song, thrilling anew with the joy of its effect upon
her. "Oh, Thyrsis!" she cried, in awe. "That is marvellous!
Marvellous! How could you do it?"

And yet, for all the delight she expressed, Thyrsis was conscious of
a chill of disappointment, of a doubt lurking in the background of
his mind. It was inevitable, in the nature of things--how could the
book mean to any human creature what it had meant to him? Seven long
months he had toiled with it, he had been through the agonies of a
child-birth for it. And another person would read it all in one
day!--It was the old, old agony of the artist, who can communicate
so small a part of what has been in his soul.

Section 2. He wanted to talk about his book, but Corydon wanted to
talk about him. She had waited so long, and suffered so much--and
now at last he was here! "Oh, Thyrsis!" she cried. "There's just no
use in my trying--I can't do anything at all without you!"

"You won't have to do it any more," he said. "We shall not part
again."

"And you are sure you want me? You have no more doubts?"

"How could I have any doubts--after that letter. Ah, that was a
brave letter, Corydon! It made me think of you as some old Viking's
daughter! That is the way to go at the task!"

"And then I may feel certain!" she said.

"You may stop thinking all about it," he replied. "We'll waste no
more of our time--we'll put it aside and get to work."

They spent the day wandering about in the park and talking over
their plans. "I suppose it'll be all right now that I'm with you,"
said Thyrsis. "I mean, there's no great hurry about getting
married."

"Oh, no!" she answered. "We dare not think of that, until you have
money."

"How I wish we didn't have to get married!" he exclaimed.

"Why?" she asked.

"Because-why should we have to get anybody else's permission to live
our lives? I've thought about it a good deal, and it's a
slave-custom, and it makes me ashamed of myself."

"But don't you believe in marriage, dear?"

"I do, and I don't. I believe that a man who exposes a woman to the
possibility of having a child, ought to guarantee to support the
woman for a time, and to support the child. That's obvious
enough--no one but a scoundrel would want to avoid it. But marriage
means so much more than that! You bind yourself to stay together,
whether love continues or whether it stops; you can't part, except
on some terms that other people set down. You have to make all sorts
of promises you don't intend to keep, and to go through forms you
don't believe in, and it seems to me a cowardly thing to do."

"But what else can one do?" asked Corydon.

"It's quite obvious what _we_ could do. We don't intend to be
husband and wife; and so we could simply go away and go on with our
work."

"But think of our parents, Thyrsis!"

"Yes, I know--I've thought of them. But if every one thought of his
parents, how would the world ever move?"

"But, dearest!" exclaimed Corydon, "if we didn't marry, they'd
simply go out of their senses!"

"I know. But then, they might threaten to go out of their senses if
we _did_ marry? And would that work also?"

"We must be sensible," said the girl. "It means so much to them, and
so little to us."

"Yes, I suppose so," he answered. "But all the same, I hate it; when
you once begin conforming, you never know where you'll stop."

"_We_ shall know," declared the other. "Whatever we may have to do
to get married, we shall both of us know that neither would ever
dream of wishing to hold the other for a moment after love had
ceased. And that is the essential thing, is it not?"

"Yes," assented Thyrsis. "I suppose so."

"Well, then, we'll make that bargain between us; that will be _our_
marriage."

"That suits me better," he replied.

She thought for a moment, and then said, with a laugh, "Let us have
a little ceremony of our own."

"Very well," said he.

"Are you ready for it now?" she inquired. "Your mind is quite made
up?"

"Quite made up."

She looked about her, to make sure that no one was in sight; and
then she put her hand in his. "I have been to weddings," she said.
"And so I know how they do it.--I take thee, Thyrsis, to be the
companion of my soul. I give myself to thee freely, for the sake of
love, and I will stay so long as thy soul is better with me than
without. But if ever this should cease to be, I will leave thee; for
if my soul is weaker than thine, I have no right to be thy mate."

She paused. "Is that right?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, "that is right."

"Very well then," she said; "and now, you say it!"

And she made him repeat the words--"I take thee, Corydon, to be the
companion of my soul. I give myself to thee freely, for the sake of
love, and I will stay so long as thy soul is better with me than
without. But if ever this should cease to be, I will leave thee; for
if my soul is weaker than thine, I have no right to be thy mate."

"Now," she exclaimed, with an eager laugh--"now we're married!" And
as he looked he caught the glint of a tear in her eyes.

Section 3. But the world would not be content to leave it on that basis.
When they parted that afternoon, it was with a carefully-arranged
program of work--they were to visit each other on alternate days and
go on with their German and music. But in less than a week they had
run upon an obstruction; there was no quiet room for them at Corydon's
save her bedroom, and one evening when Thyrsis came, she made the
announcement that they could no longer study there.

"Why not?" he asked.

"Well," explained Corydon, "they say the maid might think it wasn't
nice."

She had expected him to fly into a rage, but he only smiled grimly.
"I had come to tell you the same sort of thing," he explained. "It
seems you can't visit me so often, and you're never to stay after
ten o'clock at night."

"Why is that?" she inquired.

"It's a question of what the hall-boy might think," said he.

They sat gazing at each other in silence. "You see," said Thyrsis,
at last, "the thing is impossible--we've got to go and get married.
The world will never give us any peace until we do."

"Nobody has any idea of what we mean!" exclaimed Corydon.

"No idea whatever," he said. "They've nothing in them in anyway to
correspond with it. You talk to them about souls, and they haven't
any. You talk to them about love, and they think you mean obscenity.
Everybody is thinking obscenity about us!"

"Everybody but our parents," put in Corydon.

To which he answered, angrily, "They are thinking of what the others
are thinking."

But everybody seemed to have to think something, and that was the
aspect of the matter that puzzled them most. Why did everybody find
it necessary to be thinking about it at all? Why did everybody
consider it his business? As Thyrsis phrased it--"Why the hell can't
they let us alone?"

"We've got to get married," said she. "That's the only way to get
the best of them."

"But is that really getting the best of them?" he objected. "Isn't
that their purpose--to make us get married?"

This was a pregnant question, but they did not follow it up just
then. They went on to the practical problem of where and when and
how to accomplish their purpose.

"We can go to a court," said he.

"Oh, no!" she exclaimed. "We'd have to meet a lot of men, and I
couldn't stand it."

"But surely you don't want to go to a church!" he said.

"Couldn't we get some clergyman to marry us quietly?"

"But then, there's a lot of rigmarole!"

"But mightn't he leave it out?" she asked.

"I don't know," he said. "They generally believe in it, you see."

He decided to make an attempt, however.

"Let's go to-morrow morning," he said. "I'm going over to have the
sound-post set in my violin, and that'll take an hour or so. Perhaps
we can finish it up in the meantime."

"A good idea," said Corydon. "It'll give me to-night to tell mother
and father."

Section 4. So behold them, the next morning, emerging from the
little shop of the violin-dealer, and seeking for some one to fasten
them in the holy bonds of matrimony! They were walking down a great
avenue, and there were many churches--but they were all rich
churches. "I never thought about it before," said Thyrsis. "But I
wonder if there are any poor churches in the city!"

They stopped in front of one brown-stone structure that looked a
trifle less elaborate. "It says Presbyterian," said Corydon, reading
the sign. "I wonder how they do it."

"I don't know," said he. "But he'd want a lot of money, I'm sure."

"But mightn't he have a curate, or something?"

"Goose," laughed Thyrsis, "there are no Presbyterian curates!"

"Well, you know what I mean," she said--"an assistant, or an
apprentice, or something."

"I don't know," said he. "Let's go and ask."

So, with much trepidation, they rang the bell of the parsonage on
the side-street. But the white-capped maid who answered told them
that the pastor was not in, and that there were no curates or
apprentices about.

They went on.

"How much do you suppose they charge, anyway?" asked Thyrsis.

"I don't know--I think you give what you can spare. How much money
have you?"

"I've got eight dollars to my name."

"Have you got it with you?"

"Yes--all of it."

"I get my twenty-five to-morrow," she added.

"Do you really get it?" he asked. "You can depend on it?"

"Oh yes--it comes the middle of each month."

"I've heard of people getting incomes from investments, and things
like that, but it always seemed hard to believe. I never thought I'd
meet with it in my own life."

"It's certainly very nice," said Corydon.

"Where does it come from?"

"There's a trustee of the estate who sends it. It's Mr. Hammond."

"That bald-headed man I met once?"

"Yes, he's the one. He's quite a well-known lawyer, and they say I'm
fortunate to have him."

"I see," said Thyrsis. "I'll have to look into it some day. You know
you have to endow me with all your worldly goods!"

They went on down the avenue, and came to a Jewish temple with a
gilded dome. "I wonder how that would do," said Corydon.

"I don't think it would do at all," said Thyrsis. "We'd surely have
to believe something there."

So they went on again. And on a corner, as they stopped to look
about them, a strange mood came suddenly to Thyrsis. It was as if a
veil was rent before him--as if a bolt of lightning had flashed.
What was he going to do? He was going to bind himself in marriage!
He was going to be trapped--he, the wild thing, the young stag of
the forest!

"What is it?" asked Corydon, seeing him standing motionless.

"I--I was just thinking," he said.

"What?"

"I was afraid, Corydon, I wondered if we were sure--if we
realized--"

"If we _realized!_" she cried.

"You know--it'll be forever--"

"Why, Thyrsis!" she exclaimed, in horror.

And so he started, and laughed uneasily. "It was just a queer fancy
that came to me," he said.

"But how _could_ you!" she cried.

"Come, dearest," he said, hurriedly--"it's nothing. It seems so
strange, that's all."

In the middle of the block they came to another church. "Unitarian!"
he exclaimed. "Oh, maybe that's just the thing!"

And so they went in, and found a friendly clergyman, Dr. Hamilton by
name, to whom they explained their plight. They answered his
questions--yes, they were both of age, and they had told their
parents. Also, with much stammering, Thyrsis explained that his
worldly goods amounted to eight dollars.

"But--how are you going to live?" asked Dr. Hamilton.

Thyrsis was tempted to mention the masterpiece, but he decided not
to. "I'm going to earn money," he said.

"Well," responded the other, "I suppose it's all right. I'll marry
you."

And so the sexton was called in for a witness, and the clergyman
stood before them and made a little speech, and said a prayer, and
then joined their hands together and pronounced the spell. The two
trembled just a little, but answered bravely, "I do," in the proper
places, and then it was over. They shook hands with the doctor, and
promised to come hear one of his sermons; and with much trepidation
they paid him two dollars, which he in turn paid to the sexton. And
then they went outside, and drew a great breath of relief. "It
wasn't half as bad as I expected," the bridegroom confessed.

Section 5. Thyris invested in a newspaper, and as they went back to
get the violin they read the advertisements of furnished rooms. In
respectable neighborhoods which they tried they found that the
prices were impossible for them; but at last, upon the edge of a
tenement district, they found a corner flat-house, with a saloon
underneath, where there were two tiny bedrooms for rent in an
apartment. The woman, who was a seamstress, was away a good deal in
the day, and Corydon learned with delight that she might use the
piano in the parlor. The rooms were the smallest they had ever seen,
but they were clean, and the price was only fifty cents a day--a
dollar and a half a week for Thyrsis' and two dollars for Corydon's,
because there was a steam-radiator in it.

There was a racket of school-children and of streetcars from the
avenue below, but they judged they would get used to this; and
having duly satisfied the landlady that they were married, and
having ascertained that she had no objection to "light housekeeping,"
they engaged the rooms and paid a week's rent in advance.

"That leaves us two and a half to start life on!" said Thyrsis, when
they were on the street again. "Our housekeeping will be light
indeed!"

They walked on, and sat down in the park to talk it over.

"It's not nearly so reckless as it would seem," he argued. "For I
have to earn money for myself any-how. And then there's the book."

"When will you hear about it?"

"I called the man up the day before yesterday. He said they were
reading it."

"Have you said anything to him about money?"

"Not yet."

"Will they pay something in advance?"

"They will, I guess, if they like the story. I don't know very much
about the business end of it."

"We mustn't let them take advantage of us!" exclaimed Corydon.

"No, of course not. But I hate to have to think about the money side
of it. It's a cruel thing that I have to sell my inspiration."

"What else could you do?" she asked.

"It's something I've thought a great deal about," said he. "It kept
forcing itself upon me all the time I was writing. Here I am with my
vision--working day and night to make something beautiful and
sacred, something without taint of self. And I have to take it to
business-men, who will go out into the market-place and sell it to
make money! It will come into competition with thousands of other
books--and the publishers shouting their virtues like so many
barkers at a fair. I can hardly bear to think of it; I'd truly
rather live in a garret all my days than see it happen. I don't want
the treasures of my soul to be hawked on the streets."

"But how else could people get them?" asked Corydon.

"I would like to have a publishing-house of my own, and to print my
books with good paper and strong bindings that would last, and then
sell them for just what they cost. So the whole thing would be
consistent, and I could tell the exact truth about what I wrote. For
I know the truth about my work; I've no vanities, I'd be as
remorseless a critic of myself as Shelley was. I'd be willing to
leave it to time for my real friends to find me out--I'd give up the
department-store public to the authors who wanted it. And then, too,
I could sell my books cheaply, so that the poor could get them. I
always shudder to think that the people who most need what I write
will have it kept away from them, because I am holding it back to
make a profit!"

"We must do that some day!" declared Corydon.

"We must live very simply," he said, "so we can begin it soon.
Perhaps we can do it with the money we get from this first book. We
could get everything we need for a thousand dollars a year, and save
the balance."

The other assented to this.

"I've got the prospectus of my publishing-house all written,"
Thyrsis went on. "And I've several other plans worked out--people
would laugh if they saw them, I guess. But before I get through, I'm
going to have a reading-room where anyone can come and get my books.
It'll be down where the poor people are; and I'm going to have
travelling libraries, so as to reach people in the country. That is
the one hope for better things, as I see it--we must get ideas to
the people!"

Thus discoursing, they strolled back to the home of Thyrsis' mother,
and he went in to get his belongings together. Corydon went with
him; and as they entered, the mother said, "There's an express
package for you."

So Thyrsis went to his room, and saw a flat package lying on the
bed. He stared at it, startled, and then picked it up and read the
label upon it. "Why--why!--" he gasped; and then he seized a pair
of scissors and cut the string and opened it. It was his manuscript!

With trembling fingers he turned it over. There was a letter with
it, and he snatched it up. "We regret," it read, "that we cannot
make you an offer for the publication of your book. Thanking you for
the privilege of examining it, we are very truly yours." And that
was all!

"They've rejected the book!" gasped Thyrsis; and the two stared at
each other with consternation and horror in their eyes.

That was a possibility that had never occurred to Thyrsis in his
wildest moment. That anyone in his senses could reject that book!
That anyone could read a single chapter of it and not see what it
was!

"They only had it five days!" he exclaimed; and instantly an
explanation flashed across his mind. "I don't believe they read it!"
he cried. "I don't believe they ever looked at it!"

But, read or unread, there was the manuscript--rejected. There was
no appeal from the decision; there was no explanation, no
apology--they had simply rejected it! It was like a blow in the face
to Thyrsis; he felt like a woman whose love is spurned.

"Oh the fools! The miserable fools!" he cried.

But he could not bring much comfort to his soul by that method. The
seriousness of it remained. The publishing-house was one of the
largest and most prosperous in the country; and if they were fools,
how many more fools might there not be among those who stood between
him and the public? And if so, what would he do?

Section 6. So these two began their life under the shadow of a
cloud. At the very first hour, when they should have been all
rapture, there had come into the chamber of their hearts this grisly
spectre--that was to haunt them for so many years!

But they clenched their hands grimly, and put the thought aside, and
moved their worldly goods to the two tiny rooms. When they had got
their trunks in, there was no place to sit save on the beds; and
though Corydon had cast away all superfluities for this pilgrimage,
still it was a puzzle to know where to put things.

But what of that--they were together at last! What an ecstasy it was
to be actually unpacking, and to be mingling their effects! A kind
of symbol it was of their spiritual union, so that the most
commonplace things became touched with meaning. Thyrsis thrilled
when the other brought in an armful of books to him--all this wealth
was to be added to his store! He owned no books himself, save a few
text-books, and some volumes of poetry that he knew by heart. Other
books he had borrowed all his life from libraries; and he often
thought with wonder that there were people who would pay a dollar or
two for a book which they did not mean to read but once!

Also there were a hundred trifles which came from Corydon's trunk,
and which whispered of the intimacies of her life; the pictures she
put upon her bureau, the sachet-bags that went into the drawer, the
clothing she hung behind the door. It disturbed him strangely to
realize how close she was to be to him from now on.

And then, the excursion to the corner-grocery, and the delight of
the plunge into housekeeping! A pound of butter, and some salt and
pepper, and a bunch of celery; a box of "chipped beef", and a dozen
eggs, and a quart of potatoes; and then to the baker's, for rolls
and sponge-cakes--did ever a grocer and a baker sell such ecstasies
before? They carried it all home, and while Corydon scrubbed the
celery in the bath-room, Thyrsis got out his chafing-dish and set
the beef and eggs to sizzling, and they sat and sniffed the
delicious odors, and meantime munched at rolls and butter, because
they were so hungry they could not wait.

What an Elysian festivity they made of it! And then to think that
they would have three such picnics every day! To be sure, the
purchases had taken one half of Thyrsis' remaining capital; but
then, was it not just that spice of danger that gave the keen edge
to their delight? What was it that made the sense of snugness and
intimacy in their little retreat, save the knowledge of a cold and
hostile world outside?

The next morning Thyrsis took his manuscript to another publisher,
and then they went at their work. Corydon laughed aloud with delight
as they began the German--for what were all its terrors now, when
she had Thyrsis for a dictionary! They fairly romped through the
books. In the weeks that followed they read "Werther" and "Wilhelm
Meister" and "Wahlverwandschaften"; they read "Undine" and "Peter
Schlemil" and the "Leben eines Taugenichts"; they read Heine's
poems, and Auerbach's and Freitag's novels, and Wieland's
"Oberon"--is there anybody in Germany who still reads Wieland's
"Oberon?" Surely there must somewhere be young couples who delight
in "Der Trompeter von Sekkingen," and laugh with delight over "der
Kater Hidigeigei!"

Also they went at music. Corydon had been taught to play as many
"pieces" as the average American young lady; but Thyrsis had tried
to persuade her to a new and desperate emprise--he insisted that
there was nothing to music until one had learned to read it at
sight. So now, every day when their landlady had gone out, he moved
his music-stand into the little parlor, and they went at the task.
Thyrsis proposed to achieve it by a _tour_ _de_ _force_--the way to
read German was to read it, and the way to read music was to read
music. He would set up a piece they had never seen before, and they
would begin; and he would pound out the time with his foot, and make
Corydon keep up with him--even though she was only able to get one
or two notes in each bar, still she must keep up with him. At first
this was agony to her--she wanted to linger and get some semblance
of the music; but Thyrsis would scold and exhort and shout, and
pound out the time.

And so, to Corydon's own amazement, it was not many weeks before she
found that she was actually reading music, that they were playing
it together. In this way they learned Haydn's and Mozart's sonatas,
they even adventured Beethoven's trios, with the second violin left
out. Then Thyrsis subscribed to a music-library, and would come home
twice a week with an armful of new stuff, good and bad. And whenever
in all their struggles with it they were able to achieve anything
that really moved them as music, what a rapture it brought them!

Section 7. This was indeed the nearest they could ever come to creative
achievement together; this was the one field in which their abilities
were equal. In all other things there were disharmonies--they came
upon many reefs and shoals in these uncharted matrimonial seas.

Thyrsis was swift and impatient, and had flung away all care about
external things; and here was Corydon, a woman, with all a woman's
handicaps and disabilities. She was like a little field-mouse in her
care of her person--she must needs scrub herself minutely every
morning, and have hot water for her face every night; her hair had
to be braided and her nails had to be cared for--and oh, the time it
took her to get her clothes on, or even to get ready for the street!
She would struggle like one possessed to accomplish it more quickly,
while Thyrsis chafed and growled and agonized in the next room.
There was nothing he could do meantime--for were they not going to
do everything together?

Then there was another stumbling-block--the newspapers! Thyrsis had
to know what was going on in the world. He had learned to read the
papers and magazines like an exchange-editor; his eye would fly from
column to column, and he would rip the insides out of one in two or
three minutes. To Corydon it was agony to see him do this, for it
took her half an hour to read a newspaper. She besought him to read
it out loud--and was powerless to understand the distress that this
caused him. He stood it as long as he could, and then he took to
marking in the papers the things that she needed to know; and this
he continued to do religiously, until he had come to realize that
Corydon never remembered anything that she read in the papers.

This was something it took him years to comprehend; there were
certain portions of the ordinary human brain which simply did not
exist in his wife. She had lived eighteen years in the world, and it
had never occurred to her to ask how steam made an engine go, or
what was the use of the little glass knobs on the telegraph-poles.
And it was the same with politics and business, and with the
thousand and one personalities of the hour. When these things came
up, Thyrsis would patiently explain to her what she needed to know;
and he would take it for granted that she would pounce upon the
information and stow it away in her mind--just as he would have
done in a similar case. But then, two or three weeks later, the same
topic would come up, and he would see a look of sudden terror come
into Corydon's eyes--she had forgotten every word of it!

He came, after a long time, to honor this ignorance. People had to
bring some real credentials with them to win a place in Corydon's
thoughts; it was not enough that they were conspicuous in the
papers. And it was the same with facts of all sorts; science existed
for Corydon only as it pointed to beauty, and history existed only
as it was inspiring. They read Green's "History of the English
People" in the evenings; and every now and then Corydon would have
to go and plunge her face into cold water to keep her eyes open, The
long parliamentary struggle was utter confusion to her--she had no
joy to watch how "freedom slowly broadens down from precedent to
precedent." But once in a while there would come some story, like
that Of Joan of Arc--and there would be the girl, with her hands
clenched, and hot tears in her eyes, and the fires of martyrdom
blazing in her soul!

These were the hours which revealed to Thyrsis the treasure he had
won--the creature of pure beauty whose heart was in his keeping. He
was humbled and afraid before her; but the agony of it was that he
could not dwell in those regions of joy with her--he had to know
about stupid things and vulgar people, he had to go out among them
to scramble for a living. So there had to be a side to his mind that
Corydon could not share. And it did not suffice just to tolerate the
existence of such things--he had to be actively interested in them,
and to take their point of view. How else could he hold his place in
the world, how could he win in the struggle for life?

This, he strove to persuade himself, was the one real difficulty
between them, the one thing that marred the perfection of their
bliss. But as time went on, he came to suspect that there was
something else--something even more vital and important. It seemed
to him that he had given up that which was the chief source of his
power--his isolation. The center of his consciousness had been
shifted outside of himself; and try as he would, he could never get
it back. Where now were the hours and hours of silent brooding?
Where were the long battles in his own soul? And what was to take he
place of them--could conversation do it, conversation no matter how
interesting and worth while? Thyrsis had often quoted a saying of
Emerson's, that "people descend to meet." And when one was married
did not one have to descend all the time?

He reasoned the matter out to himself. It was not Corydon's fault,
he saw clearly; it would have been the same had he married one of
the seraphim. He did not want to live the life of any seraph--he
wanted to live his own life. And was it not obvious that the mere
physical proximity of another person kept one's attention upon
external things? Was not one inevitably kept aware of trivialities
and accidents? Thyrsis had an ideal, that he should never permit an
idle word to pass his lips; and now he saw how inevitably the
common-place crept in upon them--how, for instance, their
conversation had a way of turning to personality and jesting.
Corydon was sensitive to external things, and she kept him aware of
the fact that his trousers were frayed and his hair unkempt, and
that other people were remarking these things.

Such was marriage; and it made all the more difference to an author,
he reasoned, because an author was always at home. Thyrsis had been
accustomed, when he opened his eyes in the morning, to lie still and
let images and fancies come trooping through his mind; he would plan
his whole day's work in that way, while his fancy was fresh and
there was nothing to disturb him. But now he had to get up and
dress, thus scattering these visions. In the same way, he had been
wont to walk and meditate for hours; but now he never walked alone.
That meant incidentally that he no longer got the exercise he
needed--because Corydon could never walk at his pace. And if this
was the case with such external things, how much more was it the
case with the strange impulses of his inmost soul! Thyrsis was now
like a hunter, who starts a deer, and instead of putting spurs to
his horse and following it, has to wait to summon a companion--and
meanwhile, of course, the deer is gone!

From all this there was but one deliverance for them, and that was
music. Music was their real interest, music was their religion; and
if only they could go on and grow in it--if only they could acquire
technique enough to live their lives in it! This would take years,
of course; but they did not mind that, they were willing to work
every day until they were exhausted--if only the world would give
them a chance! But alas, the world did not seem to be minded that
way.

Section 8. Thyrsis had waited a week, and then written the second
publisher, and received a reply to the effect that at least two
weeks were needed for the consideration of a manuscript. And
meantime his last penny was gone, and he was living on Corydon's
money. It was clear that he must earn something at once; and so he
had to leave her to study and practice in her own room, while he
cudgelled his brains and tormented his soul with hack-work.

He tried his verses again; but he found that the spring had dried up
in him. Life was now too sombre a thing, the happy spontaneous
jingles came no more. And what he did by main force of will sounded
hollow and vapid to him--and must have sounded so to the editors,
who sent them back.

Then he tried book-reviewing; but oh, the ghastly farce of
book-reviewing! To read futile writing and sham writing of a hundred
degrading varieties--and never dare to utter a truth about them! To
labor instead to put one's self in the place of the school-girl
reader and the tired shop-clerk reader and the sentimental
married-woman reader, and imagine what they would think about the
book, and what they would like to have said about it! To take these
little pieces of dishonesty to an office, and sit by trembling while
they were read, and receive two dollars apiece for them if they were
published, and nothing at all if one had been so lacking in cunning
as to let the editor think that the book was not worth the space!

However, Thyrsis had cunning enough to earn the cost of his room and
his food for two weeks more. Then one day the postman brought him a
letter, the inscription of which made his heart give a throb. He
ripped the envelope open and read a communication from the second
publisher:

"We have been interested in your manuscript, and while we do not
feel that we can undertake its publication, we should like an
opportunity to talk with you about it."

"What does _that_ mean?" asked Corydon, trembling.

"God knows," he answered. "I'll go and see them this morning."

When he came back, it was to sink into a chair and stare in front of
him with a savage frown. "Don't ask me!" he said, to Corydon. "Don't
ask!"

"Please tell me!" cried the girl. "Did you see them?"

"Yes," said Thyrsis--"I saw a fat man!"

"A fat man!"

"Yes--a fat man. A fat body, and a fat mind, and a fat soul."

"Please tell me, Thyrsis!"

"He said my book wouldn't sell, because the public had got tired of
that sort of thing."

"That sort of thing!"

"It seems that people used to buy 'historical romances', and now
they've stopped. The man actually thought my book was one of that
kind!"

"I see. But then--couldn't you tell him?"

"I told him. I said, 'Can't you see that this book is original--that
it's come out of a man's heart?' 'Yes,' he said, 'perhaps. But you
can't expect the public to see it.' And so there you are!"

Thyrsis sat with his nails dug into his palms. "It's just like the
book-reviews!" he cried. "He knows better, but that doesn't
count--he's thinking about the public! And he's got to the point
where he doesn't really care--he's a fat man!"

"And so he'll not publish the book?"

"He'll not have anything more to do with me. He hates me."

"_Hates_ you?"

"Yes. Because I have faith, and he hasn't! Because I wouldn't stoop
to the indignity he offered!"

"What did he offer?"

"He says that what the public's reading now is society
novels--stories about up-to-date people who are handsome and
successful and rich. They want automobiles and theatre-parties and
country-clubs in their novels."

"But Thyrsis! You don't know anything about such things!"

"I know. But he said I could find out. And so I could. The point he
made was that I've got passion and color--I could write a moving
love-story! In other words, I could use my ecstasy to describe two
society-people mating!"

There was a pause. "And what did you do with the manuscript?" asked
Corydon, in a low voice.

"I took it to another publisher," he answered.

"And what are you going to do now?"

"I've been to see the editor of the 'Treasure Chest.'"

The "Treasure Chest" was a popular magazine of fiction, a copy of
which Thyrsis had seen lying upon the table of their landlady. He
had glanced through the first story, and had declared to Corydon
that if he had a stenographer he could talk such a story at the rate
of twenty thousand words a day.

"And did the editor see you?"

"Yes. He's a big husky 'advertising man'--he looks like a
prize-fighter. He said if I could write, to go ahead and prove it.
He pays a cent for five words--a hundred dollars for a complete
serial. He pays on acceptance; and he said he'd read a scenario for
me. So I'm going to try it."

"What's it to be about?" asked Corydon.

"I'm going to try what they call a 'Zenda' story," said Thyrsis.
"The editor says the readers of the 'Treasure Chest' haven't got
tired of 'Zenda' stories."

And so Thyrsis spent the afternoon and evening wandering about in
the park; and sometime after midnight he wrote out his scenario. The
advantage of a "Zenda" story was that, as the adventures happened in
an imaginary kingdom, there would be no need to study up "local
color". As for the conventional artificial dialect, he could get it
from any of the "romances" in the nearby circulating library. He did
not dare to take the scenario the next day, but waited a decent
interval; and when he returned it was to report that the story was
considered to be promising, and that he was to write twenty thousand
words for a test.

Section 9. So Thyrsis shut himself up and went to work. Sometimes he
wrote with rage seething in his heart, and sometimes with laughter on
his lips. This latter was the case when he did the love-scenes--because
of the "passion and color" he bestowed upon the fascinating countess
and the clever young American engineer. He could have written the twenty
thousand words in three days; but he waited ten days, so that the editor
might not think that he was careless. And three days later he went back
for the verdict.

The editor said it was good, and that if the rest was like it he
would accept the story. So Thyrsis went to work again, and finished
the manuscript, and put it away until time enough had elapsed. And
meanwhile came a letter from the literary head of the third
publishing-house, regretting that he could not accept the book.

It was such a friendly letter that Thyrsis went to call there, and
met a pleasant and rather fine-souled gentleman, Mr. Ardsley by
name, who told him a little about the problems he faced in life.

"You have a fine talent," he said--"you may even have genius. Your
book is obviously sincere--it's _vГЄcu,_ as the French say. I suspect
you must have been in love when you wrote it."

"In a way," said Thyrsis, flushing slightly. He had not intended
that to show.

The other smiled. "It's overwrought in places," he went on, "and it
tends to incoherency. But the main trouble is that it's entirely
over the heads of the public. They don't know anything about the
kind of love you're interested in, and they'd laugh at it."

"But then, what am I to do?" cried Thyrsis.

"You'll simply have to keep on trying, till you happen to strike
it."

"But--how am I to live?"

"Ah," said Mr. Ardsley, "that is the problem." He smiled, rather
sadly, as he sat watching the lad. "You see how _I've_ solved it,"
he went on. "I was young once myself, and I tried to write novels.
And in those days I blamed the publishers--I thought they stood in
my way. But now, I see how it is; a publisher is engaged in a highly
competitive business, and he barely makes interest on his capital;
he can't afford to publish books that won't pay their way. Here am
I, for instance--it's my business to advise this house; and if I
advise them wrongly, what becomes of me? If I take them your
manuscript and say, 'It's a real piece of work,' they'll ask me,
'Will it pay its way?' And I have to answer them, 'I don't think it
will.'"

"But such things as they publish!" exclaimed the boy, wildly.

And Mr. Ardsley smiled again. "Yes," he said. "But they pay their
way. In fact, they save the business."

So Thyrsis went out. He saw quite clearly now the simple truth--it
was not a matter of art at all, but a matter of business. It was a
business-world, and not an art-world; and he--poor fool--was trying
to be an artist!

For three days more he toiled at his pot-boiler; and then, late at
night, he went out to get some fresh air, and to try to shake off
the load of despair that was upon him. And so came the explosion.

Perhaps it was because the wind was blowing, and Thyrsis loved the
wind; it was a mirror of his own soul to him, incessant and
irresistible and mysterious. And so his demons awoke again. He had
gone through all that labor, he had built up all that glory in his
spirit--and it was all for naught! He had made himself a flame of
desire--and now it was to be smothered and stifled!

He had written his book, and it was a great book, and they knew it.
But all they told him was to go and write another book--and to do
pot-boilers in the meantime! But that was impossible, he could not
do it. He would win with the book he had written! He would make them
hear him--he would make them read that book!

He began to compose a manifesto to the world; and towards morning he
came home and shut himself in and wrote it. He called it "Business
and Art;" and in it he told about his book, and how he had worked
over it. He told, quite frankly, what the book was; and he asked if
there was anywhere in the United States a publisher who published
books because they were noble, and not because they sold; or if
there was a critic, or booklover, or philanthropist, or a person of
any sort, who would stand by a true artist. "This artist will work
all day and nearly all night," he wrote, "and he wants less than the
wages of a day-laborer. All else that ever comes to him in his life
he will give for a chance to follow his career!"

Then Corydon awoke, and he read it to her. She listened, thrilling
with amazement.

"Oh, Thyrsis!" she cried. "What are you going to do with it?"

"I'm going to have it printed," he said, "and send it to all the
publishers; and also to literary men and to magazines."

"And are you going to sign your name to it?" she cried.

"I've already signed my name to it," he answered.

"And when are you going to do it?"

"As soon as the book comes back from the next publisher."

Then he sat down to breakfast; and afterwards, without resting, he
finished the pot-boiler, and took it to the editor. After a due
interval he went again, trembling and faint with anxiety. He had
sold only one book-review, and he was using Corydon's money again.
People who hated him had predicted that he would do just that, and
he had answered that he would die first!

He came home, radiant with delight. "He says he'll take it!" he
proclaimed. "Only I've got to do a new ending for the fourth
installment--he wants something more exciting. So I'm going to have
the countess caught in a burning tower!"

And he wrote that, and went yet again, and came home with a hundred
dollars buttoned tightly in his inside vest-pocket. He was like a
man who has escaped from a dungeon. The field was clear before him
at last! His manifesto was going out to the world!






BOOK V

THE BAIT IS SEIZED





_They sat, gazing down the slope of the little vale. She was turning
idly the pages of the book, and she read to him--

   "Lovely all times she lies, lovely to-night!--
      Only, methinks, some loss of habit's power
        Befalls me wandering through this upland dim.
      Once pass'd I blindfold here, at any hour;
        Now seldom come I, since I came with him."

"It was here we first read the poem," he said. "Every spot brings
back some line of it."

"Even the old oak-tree where we used to sit," she smiled--

"Hear it, O Thyrsis, still our tree is there!"_

Section 1. Thyrsis was half hoping that the next publisher would
decline the manuscript; and he was only mildly stirred when he got a
letter saying that although the publisher could not make an offer
for the book, one of his readers was so much interested in it that
he would like to have a talk with the author. Thyrsis replied that
he was willing; and to his surprise he learned that the reader was
none other than that Prof. Osborne, who in the university had
impressed upon him his ignorance of the art of writing.