He paid a call at the professor's home, and they had a long talk.
There was nothing said about their former interview. Evidently the
other recognized that Thyrsis had succeeded in making good his claim
to be allowed to hew his own way; and Thyrsis was content with that
tacit surrender.

They talked about the book. The professor first assured him that it
would not sell, and then went on to explain to him why; and so they
came to a grapple.

"The thing is sincere, perhaps even exalted," said Prof. Osborne;
"but it's overstrained and exaggerated."

"But isn't it alive?" asked Thyrsis.

The other pondered; he always spoke deliberately, choosing his words
with precision. "Some people might think so," he said. "For myself,
I have never known any such life."

"But what's that got to do with it?" cried Thyrsis.

"It has much to do with it--for me. One has to judge by what one
knows--"

"But can't one be taught?"

The professor meditated again. "I have lived forty-five years," he
said, "and you have lived less than half that. I imagine that I have
read more, studied more, thought more than you. Yet you ask me to
submit myself to your teaching!"

"No, no!" cried Thyrsis, eagerly. "It is not as if it were a matter
of learning--of scholarship--of knowledge of the world. There is an
intensity of experience that is not dependent upon time; in the
things of the imagination--in matters of inspiration--surely one
does not have to be old or learned."

"That might be true," admitted the other, hesitatingly.

"You read the poetry of Keats or Shelley, for instance. They were as
young as I am when they wrote it, and yet you do not refuse to
acknowledge its worth. Is it just because they are dead, and their
poems are classics?"

So these two wrestled it out. Thyrsis could bring the other to the
point of acknowledging that there might be genius in his work, but
he could not bring him to the point of _doing_ anything about it.
The poet went away, seeing the situation quite clearly. Prof.
Osborne was an instructor; it was his business to know; and if he
should abdicate before one of his pupils, then what would become of
authority? He had certain models, which he set before his class;
these models constituted literature. If anyone might disregard them
and proceed to create new models according to his own lawless
impulse--then what anarchy would reign in a classroom! Under such
circumstances, it was remarkable that the professor had even been
willing to admit of doubts; as Thyrsis walked home he clenched his
hands and whispered to himself, "I'll get that man some day!"

Section 2. The road now lay clear before Thyrsis, and accordingly he
set grimly to work. He had his document printed upon a long slip of
paper, and got several packages for Corydon to address. And one
evening they took them out and dropped them into the mailbox. "And
now we'll see!" he said.

They soon saw. When he came in for lunch the next day, Corydon came
to the door, in great excitement. "S-sh!" she whispered. "There's a
reporter here!"

"A reporter!" he echoed.

"Yes--a woman."

"What does she want?"

"She wants an interview about the book."

"Where is she from?"

"She's from the 'Morning Howl'. She's read the circular."

"But I never sent it there!"

"I know; but she says a friend gave it to her. She knows all about
it."

So Thyrsis went in, like a lamb to the slaughter. He was new to
interviews, and he yielded to the graces of the friendly and
sympathetic lady. Yes, he would be glad to tell about his book; and
about where and how he had written it, and all the hopes he had
based upon it.

"And your wife tells me you've just been married!" said the lady,
with a winning smile, and she proceeded to question him about this.
They had become good friends by that time, and Thyrsis told her many
things that he would not have told save to a charming lady. And then
she asked for his picture, explaining that she could give so much
more space to the "story" if she had one. And then she begged for a
picture of Corydon, and was deeply hurt that she could not have it.

She prolonged the interview for an hour or so, and came back again
and again in the effort to get this picture of Corydon. Finally she
rose to go; but out in the hall, as she was bidding them good-bye,
she suddenly exclaimed that she had left her gloves, and went back
and got them, and then hurried away. And it was not until an hour or
two later that Thyrsis made the horrible discovery that the
photograph of Corydon which had stood upon his bureau was standing
upon his bureau no longer!

So next morning, there were their two photographs upon the second
page of the 'Morning Howl', and a, two-column headline:

   "YOUTHFUL GENIUS OFFERS HIMSELF FOR SALE!"

Thyrsis rushed through this article, writhing with horror and
dismay. The woman had made him into what they called a "human
interest" feature. There was very little about his book, but there
was much about the picturesque circumstances under which he had
written it. There was a description of their personal appearance--
of Corydon's sweet face and soulful black eyes, and of his broad
forehead and sensitive lips. There was also a complete description
of their domestic _mГ©nage_, including the chafing-dish and the odor
of lamb-chops. There was a highly diverting account of how they had
"eloped" with only eight dollars in the world; together with all the
agonies of their parents, as imagined by the sympathetic lady.

They had been butchered to make a holiday for the readers of a
yellow journal! "This is a wonderfully interesting world," the paper
seemed to say--"well worth the penny it costs to read about it! Here
on the first page is Antonio Petronelli, who cut up his sweetheart
with a butcher-knife, and packed her in a trunk. And here are seven
people burned in a tenement-house; and an interview with Shrike, the
plunger, who made three millions out of the wheat-corner. But most
diverting of all are these two little cherubs who ran away and got
married, and now want the world to support them while they write
masterpieces of literature!"

And could not one see the great public devouring the tale--the Wall
Street clerks in the cars, and the shop-girls over their sandwiches
and coffee, and the loungers in the cafes of the Tenderloin! Could
not one picture their smiles--not contemptuous, but genial, as of
people who have learned that it is indeed an interesting world, and
well worth the penny it costs to read about it!

Section 3. Corydon shed tears of rage over this humiliation, and she
wrote a letter full of bitter scorn to the newspaper woman. In reply
to it came a friendly note to the effect that she had done the best
thing in the world for them--that when they knew more about life and
the literary game, they would recognize this!

The tangible results of the adventure were three. First there came a
letter, written on scented note-paper, from a lady who commended
their noble ideals and wished them success--but who did not sign her
name. Second, there came a visit from a brother poet--a man about
forty years of age, shabby and pitiful, with watery, light blue eyes
and a feeble straggly moustache, and a manner of agonized
diffidence. He stood in the doorway and shifted from one foot to the
other, and explained that he had read the article, and had come
because he, too, was an unrecognized genius. He had written two
volumes of poetry, which were the greatest poetry ever produced in
English--Milton and Shakespeare would be forgotten when the world
had read these volumes. For ten years he had been trying to find
some publisher or literary man to recognize him; and perhaps Thyrsis
would be the man.

He came in and sat on the bed and unwrapped his two volumes--several
hundred typewritten pages, elaborately bound up in covers of faded
pink silk. And Thyrsis read one and Corydon the other, while the
poet sat by and watched them and twisted his hands nervously. His
poetry was all about stars and blue-bells and moonlight, about
springtime and sighing lovers, about cold, rain-beaten graves and
faded leaves of autumn--the subjects and the images which have been
the stock in trade of minor poets for two thousand years and more.
Thyrsis, as he read, could have marked fifty phrases which were
feeble imitations of things in Tennyson and Longfellow and Keats;
and he read for half an hour, in the vain hope of finding a single
vigorous line.

This interview was a very painful one. He could not bear to hurt the
poor creature's feelings, and he did not know how to get rid of him.
The matter was made still more difficult by the presence of Corydon,
who did not know the models, and therefore thought the poetry was
good. She let the visitor go on to pour out his heart; until at last
came a climax that Thyrsis had been expecting all along. The man
explained that he was a bookkeeper, out of work, and with a wife and
three children on the verge of starvation; and then he tried to
borrow some money from them!

The third result was the important one. It was a letter from a
publishing-house.

"We are on the lookout for vital and worth-while books," it read,
"and we are not afraid to venture. We have been much interested in
the account of your work, and we should be very glad if you would
give us a chance to read it immediately."

Thyrsis had never heard of this publishing-house, but that did not
chill his delight. He hurried downtown with the manuscript, and came
back to report. The concern was lodged in two small rooms in an
obscure office-building. The manager, a Mr. Taylor, was a man not
particularly prepossessing in appearance, but he was a person of
intelligence, and was evidently interested in the book. Moreover he
had promised to read it at once.

And that same week came the reply--a reply which set the two almost
beside themselves with happiness. "I have read your manuscript,"
wrote Mr. Taylor. "And I have no hesitation in pronouncing it a work
of genius. In fact, I am not sure but what it is the greatest piece
of literature it has ever been my fortune as a publisher to come
upon. It is vital, and passionately sincere, and I will stake my
reputation upon the prophecy that it will be an instantaneous
success. I hope that we may become the publishers of it, and will be
glad if you will come to see me at once and talk over terms."

Thyrsis read this aloud; and then he caught Corydon in his arms, and
tears of joy and relief ran down her cheeks.

He went to see the publisher, and for ten or fifteen nunutes he
listened to such a panegyric upon his book as made his cheeks burn.
Visions of freedom and triumph rose before him--he had come into his
own at last. An then Mr. Taylor proceeded to outline his business
proposition--and as Thyrsis realized the nature of it, it was as if
he had been suddenly plunged into an Arctic sea. The man wanted him
to pay one-half the cost of the plates of his book, and in addition
to guarantee to take one hundred copies at the wholesale price of
ninety cents per copy!

"Is that--is that customary in publishing?" asked the other.

"Not always," Mr. Taylor replied; "but it is our custom. You see, we
are an unusual sort of publishing-house. We do not run after the
best-sellers and the trash--we publish real books, books with a
mission and a message for the world. And we advertise them widely
--we make the world heed them; and so we feel justified in asking
the author to help us with a part of the expense. We pay ten per
cent. royalty, of course, and in addition the author has the hundred
copies of his book, which he can sell to friends and others if he
wishes."

"What would it cost for my book?" Thyrsis asked.

And the man figured it up and told him it could be done for about
two hundred and fifty dollars. "I'll make it two hundred and
twenty-five to you," he said--"just because of my interest in your
future."

But Thyrsis only shook his head sadly. "I wish I could do it," he
said, "but I simply haven't the money--that's all."

And so he took his departure, and carried his manuscript to another
publisher, and then went home, crushed and sick.

Section 4. But the more Thyrsis thought of this plan, the more it
came to possess him. If he could only get that book printed, it
could not fail to make its impression! He had thought many times in
his desperation of trying to publish it himself; and if he did that,
he would have to pay the cost of the plates, of the printing and
everything; whereas by this method he could get it for much less,
and would have a hundred copies which he could send to critics and
men of letters, in order to make certain of the book's being read.

When the manuscript came back from the next publisher, with a formal
note of rejection, Thyrsis made up his mind that he would
concentrate his efforts upon this plan. So he got down to another
pot-boiler.

An old sea-captain had told him a story of some American college
boys who had stolen a sacred idol in China. Thyrsis saw a plot in
that, and the editor of the "Treasure Chest" considered it a "bully"
idea. So he toiled day and night for a couple more weeks, and earned
another hundred dollars. And then he did something he had never done
in his life before--he went to some relatives to beg. He pleaded how
hard he had worked, and what a chance he had; he would pay back the
money out of the first royalties from the book--which could not
possibly fail to earn the hundred dollars he asked for.

Besides this, he had some money left from his first story; and so he
went to Mr. Taylor, who was affable and enthusiastic as ever, and
paid his money and signed the contracts. He was told that his book
would be ready for the spring-trade; which meant that he would have
to possess his soul in patience for three months. Meantime he had
forty dollars left--upon which he figured that he could have eight
weeks of uninterrupted study.

But alas, for the best-laid plans of men! It was on a Tuesday
morning that he paid out his precious two hundred and twenty-five
dollars; and on the next Thursday morning, as he was glancing
through the newspapers, he gave a cry of dismay.

"Corydon," he called. "What's the name of that lawyer, your
trustee?"

"John C. Hammond," she replied.

"He shot himself in his office yesterday!" exclaimed Thyrsis; and he
read her the account, which stated that Hammond had been
speculating, and was believed to have lost heavily in the recent
slump in cotton.

Corydon was staring at him with terror in her eyes. "What does it
mean?" she cried.

"I don't know," said Thyrsis. "We'll have to inquire!"

They went out and telephoned to Corydon's father, and Thyrsis got
hold of a college friend, a lawyer, and the four went to the office
of the dead man. It was weeks before they became sure of the whole
sickening truth, but they learned enough on that first day to make
them fairly certain. John C. Hammond had got rid of everything--not
only his own funds, but the funds belonging to the eight or ten
heirs of the estate. The house in which he lived and everything in
it was held in the name of his wife; and so there was not a penny to
pay Corydon her four thousand dollars!

The girl was almost prostrated with misery; she vowed that she would
go back to her parents, that she would go to work in an office. And
poor Thyrsis could only hold her in his arms and whisper, "It
doesn't matter, dear--it doesn't matter! The book will be out in the
spring, and I can do pot-boilers for two!"

Section 5. But in the small hours of the night Thyrsis lay awake in
his little room, and the soul within him was sick with horror. He
was trapped--there was no use trying to dodge the fact, he was
trapped! His powers were waning hour by hour, his vision was dying
within him; every day he knew that he was weaker, that the grip of
circumstance was tighter upon him. Ah, the hideous cruelty of the
thing--it was like a murder in the night-time, like a torturing in
some secret dungeon! He was burning up with his inward fires--there
was a new book coming to ripeness within him, a book that would be
greater even than his first one. And he could not write it, he could
not even think about it! And there was the soul of Corydon calling
to him, there were all the heights of music and poetry--and instead
of climbing, he must torture his brain with hack-writing! He must go
down to the editors, and fawn and cringe, and try to get books to
review; he must study the imbecilities of the magazines and watch
out for topics for articles; he must rack his brains for jokes and
jingles--he, the master of life, the bearer of a new religion, the
proud, high-soaring eagle, whose foot had never known a chain!

When such thoughts came to him, he would dig his nails into the
palms of his hands, he would grit his teeth and curse the world. No,
they should not conquer him! They should never bend him to their
will! They might starve him, they might kill him--they might kill
Corydon, also, but he would never give up! He would fight, and fight
again, he would struggle to the last gasp--he would do his work,
though all the powers of hell rose up to stop him!

One thing became clear to him that night, they could not afford two
rooms. They must get along with one, and with the dollar and a half
one at that. The steam-radiator had proved a farce, anyway--there
was never any steam, and they had had to use gas-heaters. And now,
what things Corydon could not get into his room, she would have to
send back to her parents. The cost of the other room was the price
of a book-review, and that sometimes meant a whole day of his
precious time.

He talked it over with his wife, and she agreed with him. And so
they underwent the humiliation of telling their landlady, and they
obtained permission to keep Corydon's trunk in the hall, as there
was no place for it in the tiny room. Such things as would not go
upon the little dressing-stand, or hang behind the door, they put
into boxes and shoved under the bed. And now, when midnight came,
Thyrsis would go out for a walk while Corydon went to bed; and then
he would come in and make his own bed upon the floor, with a quilt
which the landlady had given them, and a pair of blankets they had
borrowed from home, and his overcoat and some of Corydon's skirts
when it was cold. Sometimes it would be very cold, and then he would
have to sleep in his clothing; for there was no room save directly
under the window, and they would not sleep with the window down. In
the morning Corydon would turn her face to the wall while Thyrsis
washed and dressed; and then he would go out and walk, while she
took her turn.

And so he parted with the last shred of his isolation. He had to do
all his work now with his wife in the room with him. And though she
would sit as still as a mouse for hours, still he could not think as
before; also, when she was worn out at night, he had to stop work
and let her sleep. Under such circumstances it was small wonder that
he was sometimes nervous and irritable; and, of course, there could
be nothing hid between them, and when he was out of sorts, Corydon
would be plunged into a bottomless pit of melancholy.

Then the strain and worry, and the night and day toil, began to have
effects upon their health. Thyrsis had a strong constitution, but
now he began to have headaches, and sometimes, if he worked on
doggedly, they grew severe. He blamed this upon their heater; he
knew little about hygiene, but he had studied physics, and he knew
that a gas-heater devitalized the air. They had tried living in the
room without heat, but in mid-winter they could not stand it. So on
moderate days they would sit with the window up and their overcoats
on; and when it was too cold for this, they would burn the heater
for an hour or so, and when they began to feel the effects of the
poisons, they would go out and walk for a while and let the room
air.

But then again, Thyrsis wondered if the headaches might not be due
to the food he was eating. They were anxious to economize on food;
but they did not know just how to set about it. Thyrsis had read the
world's literature in English, French and German, in Italian, Latin
and Greek; but in none of that reading had he found anything about
the care of his own body. Such subjects had not been taught at
school or college or university, and he knew of no books about them.
Both he and Corydon had come from families which had the traditions
of luxurious living, brought down from old days when there were
plenty of negro servants, and when the ladies had been skilled in
baking and preserving, and the men with chafing-dish and punch-bowl.
At his grandfather's table Thyrsis had been wont to see a great
platter of fried chicken at one end, and a roast beef at the other,
and a cold ham on a side table; and he had hot bread three times a
day, and cake and jam and ice-cream--and he had been taught to
believe that such things were needed to keep up one's working-powers.

But now he had read how Thoreau had lived upon corn-meal mush; and
he and Corydon resolved to patronize the less expensive foods. The
price of meat and eggs and butter in the winter-time was in truth
appalling; so they would buy potatoes and rice and corn-meal and
prunes and turnips. They paid the landlady for the use of her
gas-range, and would cook a sauce-pan full of some one of these
things, and fill up with it three times a day. Then, at intervals,
some one would invite them out to dinner; and because they were
under-nourished they would gorge themselves--which was evidently
not an ideal method of procedure. So in the end Thyrsis made up his
mind to consult a physician about it; and this was a visit he never
forgot--for it led directly to the most momentous events of his
whole lifetime.

Section 6. The doctor announced that he had a little dyspepsia, and
gave him a bottle full of a red liquid that would digest his food.
Also he warned him to eat slowly, and to rest after meals. And
Thyrsis, after thanking him, had started to go; when the doctor, who
was an old friend of both families, asked the question, "How's
Corydon?"

"She's pretty well," said Thyrsis.

"And are you expecting any children yet?" asked the other, with a
smile.

Thyrsis started. "Heavens, no!" he said.

"Why not?" asked the doctor.

"We aren't going to have any."

"But why? Are you preventing it?"

Thyrsis hesitated a moment. "We're not living that way," he said.

The doctor stared at him. "Come here, boy," he said, "and sit down."

Thyrsis obeyed.

"Now tell me what you mean," said the other.

"I mean that we--we're just brother and sister," said Thyrsis.

"But--why did you get married?"

"We got married because we wanted to study."

"To study what?"

"Well, everything--music, principally."

"And how long do you expect to keep that up?"

"Oh, for a good many years--until we've accomplished something, and
until we've got some money."

And the doctor sank back and drew his breath. "I don't wonder your
stomach's out of order!" he said.

"What do you mean?" asked Thyrsis.

But the man did not answer that question. Instead he asked, "Don't
you realize what you'll do to Corydon?"

"What?"

"You'll wreck her whole life--her health, to begin with."

"But how, doctor? She's perfectly happy. It's what we both want to
do."

"But doesn't she love you?"

"Why, yes--but not that way."

The doctor smiled. "How do you know?" he asked.

"Because--she's told me so."

"And if it was otherwise--do you think she'd tell you that?"

"Why, of course she would."

"My boy," said the man, "she'd die first!"

Thyrsis was staring at him, amazed.

"Let me tell you a little about a good woman," said the other. "I've
been married for thirty years--really married, I mean; we've got
five children. And in all those thirty years my wife has never made
an advance of that sort to me!"

After which the doctor went on to expound his philosophy of sex.
"Love is just a little thing to you," he said; "you've got your
books and your career. And you want it to be the same with
Corydon--you've succeeded in persuading her that that's what she
wants also. You're going to make her a copy of yourself! But you
simply can't do it, boy--she's a woman. And a woman's one interest
in the world is love--it's everything in life to her, the thing
she's made for. And if you deprive her of love, whole love, I mean,
you wreck her entirely. Just now is the time when she ought to be
having her children, if she's ever to have any--and you're trying to
satisfy her with music and philosophy!"

"But," cried Thyrsis, horrified, "I know she doesn't feel that way
at all!"

"Maybe not," said the other. "Her eyes are not opened. It's your
business to open them. What are you a man for?"

"But--she's all right as she is---"

"Isn't she nervous?"

"Why, yes--perhaps---"

"Isn't she sometimes melancholy? And doesn't she like you to kiss
her? Doesn't she show she's happy when you hold her in your arms."

Thyrsis sat mute.

"You see!" said the other, laughing. "The girl is in love with you,
and you haven't sense enough to know it."

Again Thyrsis could find no words. "But if we had a child it would
ruin us!" he cried, wildly. "I've not a cent, and my whole career's
at stake!"

"Well," said the other, "if it's as bad as that, don't have any
children yet."

"But--but how _can_ we?"

"Don't you know how to control it?"

Thyrsis was staring at him, open-eyed. "Why, no!" he said.

"Good lord!" laughed the other. "Where have you been keeping
yourself?"

And then the doctor proceeded to explain to him the "artificial
sterilization of marriage." No whisper of such a thing had ever come
to the boy before, and he could hardly credit his ears. But the
doctor spoke of it as a man of the world, to whom it was a matter of
course; he went into detail as to the various methods that people
used. And when finally Thyrsis rose to leave he patted him
indulgently on the shoulder, and laughed, "Go home to your wife, my
boy!"

Section 7. The effect of this conversation upon Thyrsis was alarming
to him. At first he tried to put the thing aside, as being something
utterly inconceivable between him and Corydon. But it would not be
put aside.

The doctor had planted his seed with cunning. If he had told Thyrsis
that he was doing harm to himself, Thyrsis would have said that it
was not true, and stood by it; for he knew about himself. But the
man had made his statements about Corydon--and how could he be sure
about Corydon?

The crucial point was that it set him to thinking about her in this
new way; a way which he had not dreamed of previously. And when once
he had begun to think about her so, he found he could not stop. For
hitherto in his life, whenever he had thought of passion it had been
as a temptation; he had known that it was wrong, and all that was
best in him had risen up to oppose it. But now all that was
changed--the image of Corydon the doctor had called up was one that
broke down all resistance, and left him at the mercy of his
impulses.

These impulses awoke--and with a suddenness and force that terrified
him. He thought of her as his wife, and this thought was like a rush
of flame upon him. His manhood leaped up, and cried aloud for its
rights. He discovered, almost instantly, that he loved her thus,
that he desired her completely. This was true now, and it had been
true from the beginning; he had been a fool to try to persuade
himself otherwise. What else had been the meaning of the passionate
protests in his letters to her? Of the images he had used--of
carrying her away in his arms, of breaking her to his will? And she
loved him, too--she desired him completely! Why else had it been
that those passages were precisely the ones that satisfied her? Why
was it that she was always most filled with joy when he was
aggressive and masterful?

Ah God, what an inhuman life it was they had been living all these
months! In that inevitable proximity--shut up in a little room! And
with the most intimate details of her life about him--with her
kisses always upon his lips, her arms always about him, the subtle
perfume of her presence always in his senses! Was it any wonder that
they were nervous and restless--always sinking into tenderness, and
exchanging endearments, and then starting up to scourge themselves?

He went home, and there was Corydon preparing supper. He went to her
and caught her in his arms and kissed her. "I love you, sweetheart!"
he whispered. And as she yielded to his embraces, he kissed her
again and again, upon her lips and upon her cheeks and upon her
neck. Ah, she loved him--else how could she let him kiss her like
that!

But it was not so quickly that the inhibitions of a lifetime could
be overcome. A sudden fear took hold of Thyrsis. What was he doing?
No, she must have no idea of this--at least not until he had
reasoned it out, until he had made up his mind that it was right.

So he drew back--and as he did so he noticed in her eyes a look of
surprise. He did not often greet her in that way!

"I'm hungry as a bear," he said, to change the subject; and so they
sat down to their supper.

Thyrsis had important writing to do that evening, and he tried his
best, but he could not put his mind upon anything. He was all in a
ferment. He pleaded that he had to think about his work, and went
out for a long walk.

A storm was raging, and the icy gale beat upon him. It buffeted him,
it flung him here and there; and he set himself to fight it, he
drove his way through it, lusty and exultant. And music surged
within him, lusty and exultant music. All the pent-up passion of his
lifetime awoke in him, the blood ran hot in his veins; from some
hidden portion of his being came wave after wave of emotion,
sweeping him away--and he spread his wings to it, he rose to the
heights upon it, he laughed and sang aloud in the glory of it. He
had known such hours in his own soul's life, but never anything like
it with Corydon. He cried out, what a child he had been! He had
taken her, he had sought to shape her to his will; and he had
failed, she was not yet his--and all because he had left unused the
one great power he had over her, the one great hold he had upon her.
But now it would be changed--she should have him! And as he battled
on with the elements there came to him Goethe's poem of passion:

   "Dem Schnee, dem Regen,
    Dem Wind entgegen!"

Section 8. So for hours he went. But when he had come home, and
stood in the vestibule, stamping the snow from him, there came a
reaction. It was Corydon he had been thinking of--Corydon, the
gentle and innocent! How could he say such things to her? How could
he hint of them? Why, he would fill her with terror! It was not to
be thought of!

He went upstairs, and found that she was asleep. So he crept into
his little bunk; but sleep would not come to him. The image of her
haunted him. He listened to her breathing--he was as close to her as
that, and still she was not his!

It was nearly day before he slept, and so he awoke tired and
restless. And then came rage at himself--he went out and walked
again, and stormed and scolded. He would not permit this, he had
work to do. And he made up his mind that he would not allow himself
to think about the matter for three days. By that time the truth
would be clearer to him; and he meant to settle this question with
his reason, and not with his blind desire.

He adhered to his resolution firmly. But when the three days were
past, and he tried to think about it, it was only to be swept away
in another storm of emotion. It seemed that the more tightly he
pent this river up, the fiercer was its rush when finally it broke
loose. For always his will was paralyzed by that suggestion that he
might be doing harm to Corydon!

At last he made up his mind that he must speak to her; and one
afternoon he came and knelt beside her and put his arms about her.
"Sweetheart," he said, "I've something to ask you about."

Now to Corydon the mind of Thyrsis was like an open book. For days
she had known that something was disturbing him. But also she had
known that he was not ready to tell her. "What is it?" she asked.

"It's something very important," he said.

"Yes, dear."

"You know, I went to see the doctor the other day."

"Yes."

"And he told me--he thinks we are doing each other harm by the way
we are living."

"What way, Thyrsis?"

"By not being really married. He says you are suffering because of
it."

"But Thyrsis!" she cried, in astonishment. "I'm not!"

"He says you wouldn't know it, Corydon. It would keep you nervous
and upset."

"But dear," she said, "I'm perfectly happy!"

"Are you sure of it?"

"Perfectly sure."

"And--and if it was ever otherwise--you would tell me?"

"Why, yes."

"And are you sure of _that_?"

She hesitated; and when she tried to answer, her voice was a
whisper--"I think so, dear."

There was a pause. "Thyrsis," she exclaimed, suddenly, "I would have
a child!"

"No, you needn't," he said; and he told her what the doctor had
said.

It was quite as new to her as it had been to him, and even more
startling. "I see," she said, in a low voice.

"Listen, Corydon," he whispered, "do you think you love me at all
that way?"

"I don't know," she answered. "I never thought of such a thing."

"Do you think you could learn to love me so?"

"How can I tell, Thyrsis? It's so strange to me. It--it frightens
me."

He looked up at her; and he saw that a flush was mottling her
throat, and spreading over her cheeks. He saw the wild look in her
eyes also; and he turned away.

"Very well, dearest," he said. "I don't want to disturb you."

So he tried to go back to his work. But he could not do his real
work at all. He could practice the violin or read German with
Corydon, but when he tried to plan his new book--that involved
turning his thoughts loose to graze in a certain pasture, and they
would not stay in that pasture, but jumped the fence and came back
to her. And so he found himself taking more long journeys, in which
he walked in the midst of the storm of his desire.

So, of course, all the former naturalness was gone between them. No
longer could they kiss and toy with one another as children in a
fairy-world. They had suddenly become man and woman--fighting the
age-long duel of sex. They would talk about the question; and the
more they talked about it, the more it came to dominate the thoughts
of both of them; and this broke down the barriers between
them--Thyrsis became bolder, and more open in his speech. He lost
his awe of her maidenhood and her innocence--he wooed her, he lured
her on; he rejoiced in his power to agitate her, to startle her, to
speak to her about secret things. He would clasp her in his arms and
shower his kisses upon her; and she would yield to him, almost
fainting with bliss--and then shrink from him in sudden alarm.

Then he would go out into the night and battle again with the wintry
winds. That frightened shrinking of hers puzzled him. Everything was
so strange to him; and how could he be sure what was right? He
wanted to do what was right, with all his soul he wanted it; if he
were to do wrong, or to make her think less of him, he could never
forgive himself all his life. But then would come the wild surge of
his longing, and his man's power would cry out within him. It was
his business to overcome her shrinking, to compel her to yield. The
question of the doctor rang in his ears as a taunt--"Why are you a
man?" Why _was_ he a man?

Section 9. In the end these emotions reached a point where Thyrsis
could no longer bear them. They were a torment to him, they deprived
him of all rest and sleep. One afternoon he had held her a long time
in his arms, and it hurt him; he turned away, and put his hands to
his forehead. "Dearest," he cried, "I can't stand this any longer!"

"Why?" she asked. "What do you mean?"

"I mean it's just tearing me to pieces!"

She stared at him in fright. "Thyrsis!" she exclaimed. "You are
unhappy!"

He sunk down upon the bed and hid his face in his arms. "Yes," he
whispered, "I am unhappy!"

And so, all at once, he broke down her resistance. What had swayed
him had been the thought of her suffering; and the thought of his
suffering now conquered her.

Only she did not take days to debate it. She fled to him instantly,
and wrapped her arms about him.

"Thyrsis," she whispered, "listen to me! I had no idea of that!"

"No, sweetheart," he said. "I'm sorry--I'm ashamed of myself--"

"No, no!" she cried, vehemently. "Don't say that! I love you,
Thyrsis! I love you, heart and soul!"

He turned and gazed at her with his haggard eyes.

"I will do anything for you," she rushed on. "You shall have me! I
will be your wife!"

Then, however, as he clasped her to him, there came once more the
shrinking. "Only give me a little time, dear," she whispered. "Let
me get used to it. Let it come naturally."

But the only way he could have given her time would have been to go
away. Here he was, in her room--with every reminder of her about
him, with every incitement to his desire. And he had but two things
to choose between--to go out and walk and think about her, or to
come home and sit with her and talk about their love.

They had their supper, and then again she was in his arms. He told
her about this trouble--he showed how the love of her was consuming
him. Far into the night they sat talking, and he poured out his
heart to her, he bore her with him to the mountain-tops of his
desire. He took down a book of Spenser's, and read her the
"Epithalamium"; he read her Shelley's "Epip sychidion," which they
both loved. All the power of Thyrsis' genius was turned now to
passion, and the hidden forces of him were revealed as never had
they been revealed to her before. He became eloquent; he talked to
her as he had lived with himself; he awed her and frightened her, as
he had that evening upon the hill-top. Then at last, as the tide of
his feeling swept him away again, he clasped her to him tightly, and
hid his face in her neck. "I love you! Oh, I love you!" he cried.

She had sunk back and closed her eyes. "My Thyrsis!" she whispered.

"You love me?" he asked. "You are quite sure?"

"I am quite sure!" she said.

He kissed her; again and again he kissed her, until he had made sure
of her desire. Then suddenly, he began with trembling fingers to
unfasten the neck of her dress.

For a moment she did not comprehend what he meant. Then she gave a
start. "Thyrsis!" she cried.

And she sprang up, staring at him with fright in her eyes.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Thyrsis!" she gasped. "What--what were you going to do?"

And at her question, shame swept over him. He was horrified at
himself. How could he find words to tell her what he had been going
to do?

He turned away with a moan, and put his hands over his face. "Oh
God, I can't stand this!" he exclaimed.

Suddenly he went to his hat and coat. "I must go out!" he said.

"What do you mean?" cried Corydon.

"I mean I've got to go somewhere!" he replied. "I can't stand it--I
can't stay here."

"Thyrsis!" she cried, wildly. And she sprang to him and flung her
arms about him. "No, no!" she cried. "No!"

"But what am I to do?"

"Wait! Wait!"

And she pressed him tightly to her. "Thyrsis!" she whispered. "Can't
you understand? Don't be so stupid, dear!"

"Stupid!"

"Yes, sweetheart--can't you see? I'm only a child! And it's so
strange! It frightens me! Try to realize how I feel!"

"But what am I to do?"

"Do? Why you must _make_ me, Thyrsis!" And as she said this she hid
her face upon his shoulder and sobbed. "You are a man, Thyrsis, you
are a man, and I am only a girl! Do what you want to! Don't pay any
attention to me!"

And those words to Thyrsis were like the crashing of a peal of
thunder. He clutched her to him, with a force that crushed her, that
made her cry out. The soul of the cave-man awoke in him--he lifted
his mate in his arms and bore her away to a secret place.

"Put down the light," she whispered, and he did this. And then again
he began to unfasten her dress.

She submitted at first, she let him have his way. But later, when
his hands touched the soft garment on her bosom, he felt a sharp
tremor pass through her.

"Thyrsis!" she whispered.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Wait dear, wait!"

"Why wait?" he cried.

"Just a moment--please, dear!"

But he answered her--"No! Not a moment! No!"

She clung to him, trembling, pleading. "Please, dearest, please! I'm
afraid, Thyrsis."

But nothing could stop him now. She was his--his to do what he
pleased with! And he would bend her to his will! The voice of his
manhood shouted aloud to him now, and it was like the clashing of
wild cymbals in his soul.

He went on with what he was doing. She shrunk away from him, but he
followed her, he held her fast.

Then she began to sob--"Oh Thyrsis, wait--spare me! I can't bear it!
No, Thyrsis--no!"

But he answered her, "Be still! I love you! You are mine." And for
every sob and every shudder and every moan of fear he had but one
response--"I love you! You are mine!"

He knew that he loved her now--and he knew what his love meant.
Before this they had been strangers; but now he would penetrate to
the secret places, to the holy of holies of her being.

Never in all his life had Thyrsis known woman. To him woman had been
the supreme mystery of life, a creature of awe and sacredness--not
to be handled, scarcely even to be thought about. Now the awful ban
was lifted, the barriers were down; what had been hidden was
revealed, what had been forbidden was permitted. So all the chained
desire of a lifetime drove him on; it was almost more than he could
bear. The touch of her warm breasts, the faint perfume of her
clothing, the pressure of her soft, white limbs--these things set
every nerve of him a-tremble, they turned a madness loose in him. A
blinding whirl of emotion seized him, he was like a leaf swept away
in a gale; his words came now in wild sobs, "I love you! I love
you!"

So with quivering fingers he stripped her before him; and she
crouched there, cowering and weeping. He took her in his arms; and
that clasp there was no misunderstanding, for all the mastery of his
will was in it. Nor did she try to resist him--she lay still, but
shaking like a leaf, and choking with sobs. And so it was that he
wreaked his will upon her.

Section 10. And then came the reaction--the most awful experience of
his life. Thyrsis was sitting upon the bed, and staring in front of
him, dazed. He was exhausted, faint, shuddering with horror. "Oh, my
God, my God!" he whispered.

What had he done? Corydon, the gentle and pure--she had trusted
herself to him, and how had he treated her? He had tortured her, he
had defiled her! Oh, it was sickening; brutal, like a butchery! He
sunk down in a heap, moaning, "My God! I can't bear it! I can't bear
it!"

And then a strange thing happened--the strangest of all strange
things! An unforeseeable, an unimaginable thing!

Corydon had started up, and was listening; and now suddenly he felt
her arms stealing about him. "Thyrsis!" she whispered. "Thyrsis!"

"Oh, what shall I do?" he sobbed.

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, it was so horrible! horrible!"

"Thyrsis!" she panted, swiftly. "Don't say that!"

"How could I have done it?" he rushed on. "What a monster I am!"

"No! no!" she cried. "You don't understand, I love you! Don't you
know that I love you?"

And she tightened her clasp about him, she stole into his arms
again. "Forgive me!" she whispered. "Please, please--forgive me,
Thyrsis!"

He stared at her, dazed. "Forgive _you_?"

"I had no right to behave like that!" she cried. "I was afraid--I
couldn't control myself. But oh, Thyrsis, I love you!"

And she pressed herself upon him convulsively; she was troubled no
longer. "Yes!" she panted. "Yes! I don't mind it any more! I am
yours! I am yours! You may do whatever you please to me, Thyrsis--I
love you!"

She covered him with kisses--his face, his neck, his body. She drew
him down to her again, whispering in ecstasy, "_My husband!_"

He was lost in amazement. Could this be Corydon, the gentle and
shrinking? No, she was gone; and in her stead this creature of
desire--tumultuous and abandoned! She was like some passion-goddess
out of the East, shameless and terrible and destroying! She was like
a tigress of the jungle, calling in the night for its mate. She
locked him fast in her arms--she was swept away in a whirlwind of
emotion, as he had been swept before. And all her being rose up in
one song of exultation--"Mine! Mine! Mine! Mine!"

"Ah, Thyrsis!" she cried. "My Thyrsis! I belong to you now! You can
never escape me now! You can never leave me--my love, my love!"

And as Thyrsis listened to this song, his passion died. Reason awoke
again, and a cold fear struck into his heart! What was the meaning
of _this?_

Long hours afterward, as she lay, half-asleep, in his arms, she felt
him give a sudden start and shudder.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Nothing," he said--"I just happened to think of something.
Something that frightened me."

"What was it?"

"I was thinking, dear--_suppose I should become domestic!_"






BOOK VI

THE CORDS ARE TIGHTENED





_She had been reading in the little cabin, and a hush had fallen
upon them.

"Yes, thou art gone! And round me too the night In ever-nearing
circle weaves her shade."

"Gone!" she said, and smiled sadly. "Where is he gone?"

And she turned the page and read again--

   "But Thyrsis nevermore we swains shall see;
      See him come back, and cut a smoother reed,
      And blow a strain the world at last shall heed--
    For Time, not Corydon, hath conquer'd thee!"

Then, after a pause, she added, "How often I have remembered those
words! And how pitiful they are, when I remember them!"_

Section 1. It was a tiny cupboard of a room in a tenement. They sat
upon their bed to eat, and they hid their soiled dishes beneath it.
Dirty children screamed upon the avenue in front, and frowsy-headed
women and wolfish men caroused in the saloon below. Yet here there
came to them the angel with the flame-tipped wings, and here they
dreamed their dream of wonder.

In the glory of their new-found passion all life became transfigured
to them; they discovered new meaning in the most trivial actions.
There was no corner so obscure that they might not come upon the
young god hidden; they might touch his warm, tender flesh, and hear
his silvery laughter, and thrill with the wonder of his presence.
They spoke a new language, full of fire and color; they read new
meanings in each other's eyes. The slightest touch of hand upon
hand, or of lips to lips, was enough to dissolve them in tenderness
and delight.

They rejoiced in the marvel of each other's being--in the glory of
their bodies, newly revealed. To Thyrsis especially this was life's
last miracle, a discovery so fraught with bliss as to be a continual
torment. The incitements that were hidden in the softness and the
odor of unbound and tumbled hair; the exquisiteness of maiden
breasts, moulded of marble, rosy-tipped; the soft contour of snowy
limbs, the rhythmic play of moving muscles--to dwell amid these
things, to possess them, was suddenly to discover in reality what
before had only existed in the realm of painting and sculpture.

Corydon also, in the glow of his delight, of his rapture and his
ravening desire, discovered anew the wonder of herself, and came to
a new consciousness of her beauty. She would stand and gaze before
her, with her hands upon her breasts, and her head flung back and
her eyes closed in ecstasy, so that he might come to her and kiss
her--might kiss her again and again, might touch her with his
lover's hands and clasp her with his lover's arms.

In most of these things she was his teacher. For Corydon was one
person, in body, mind and soul; in her there were no disharmonies,
no warring elements. His friend the doctor had set forth his idea of
"a good woman"; but Corydon's goodness proved to be after no such
pattern. Now that she was his, she was his; she belonged to him, she
was a part of him, and there could be no thought of a secret shame,
of any reserves or hesitations. Her body was herself, and it was joy
to her; it was joy the more, because she could give it for love; and
she sought for new ways to utter the completeness of her giving.

She was like a little child about it--so free, so spontaneous, so
genuine; Thyrsis marvelled at her utter naturalness. For himself, in
the midst of these things, there was always a sense of the strange
and the terrible, a sense of penetrating to forbidden mysteries; but
Corydon laughed in the sunlight of utter bliss--and she laughed most
at him, when she found that her simple language had startled him.

For the maiden out of ancient Greece was now become a lover! And so
she was revealed to Thyrsis--she who might have marched in the
Panathenaic processions, with one of the sacred vessels in her
hands, or run in the Attic games, bare-limbed and fearless. So he
learned to think of her, singing in the myrtle groves Of Mount
Hymettus, or walking naked in the moonlight in Arcadian meadows.

So he thought of her all through her life, whenever a moment of joy came
to her--whenever, for instance, she found her way to the water. They
had dressed her in long skirts and put her in a drawing-room--but Corydon
had got to the water in spite of them; and all that any Nereid had ever
known, that she had known from the time the waves first kissed her feet.

And so it was also with love; she was born to be a priestess of
love's religion. She had waited for this hour--that she might take
his hand, and lead him into the temple, and teach him the ritual. It
was a ministry that she entered upon with the joy of all her being.
"Ah, let me teach you how to love!" she would cry. "Ah, let me teach
you how to love!"

Love was to her an utter blending of two selves, the losing of one's
personality in another's; it meant the forgetting of one's self, and
all the ends of self. And Thyrsis marvelled at the glory that came
upon her, at each new rapture she discovered. All the language of
lovers was known to her, all the songs of lovers were upon her lips: