"What is it?" he asked.

Her voice thrilled as she whispered, "Thyrsis! It moved!"

"Moved?" he echoed.

"I felt the child move!" she cried.

And so he came and put his hands upon her body, and together they
stood waiting, breathless, as if listening for a far-off sound.

"There! There!" she cried. "Did you feel it?"

Yes, he had felt it. And in all his life had he ever felt anything
stranger? The first sign of the new life that was to be--the first
hail out of the darkness of nonentity! And truly, to hear that hail
was to be rapt into regions of wonder unspeakable!

It was to be a new human soul; a creature like themselves, with a
mind of its own, and a sense of responsibility--It would be a man
or a woman, independent, self-creating, and knowing naught about
this strange inception. And yet, it would be their life also; they
had caused it--but for them it would never have been! Blindly,
unwittingly, following the guidance of some power greater than
themselves, they had called it into being. And in some mysterious
and incredible way it would share their qualities; it would be a
blending of their natures, a symbol of their union, of the strange
fire that had blazed up in them and fused them together. Truly, had
they not come here to the essence of love, that great blind force
which had ruled and guided all things from Time's beginning?

They had come to the very making of life, it seemed. And yet, they
wondered--were they really there? This new soul that was to be--had
they in truth created it? Or had it existed before this? And whence
did it come? If it was really the dignified and divine thing that it
would someday imagine itself to be, was it not uncanny that it
should have come thus--a nameless, half-human, half-animal thing,
kicking inside the body of a woman?

It was Being, in all its ineffable mystery, its monstrous and
unendurable strangeness. They lived face to face with it, they saw a
thousand aspects of it. Sometimes Corydon would be obsessed with the
sense of the sheer weight she carried; a burden fastened upon her
and not to be got rid of--an imposition and torment to her. Then
again, she would see herself in grotesque and even comical
lights--as akin to all the animals, a cousin of the patient cow. And
then would come a moment of sudden wonder, when she would be
transfigured, a being divine, conferring the boon of life upon
another.

It was in this last way that Thyrsis thought of her. There was about
her a sense of brooding mystery, as of one who walks in the midst of
supernatural presences. She would sit for hours gazing before her,
like Joan of Arc listening to her voices; and he would be touched
with awe, and would kiss her tenderly and with reverence.

This brought new meanings into their love, new meanings into his
life; he would clench his hands and vow afresh his battle with the
world. How hideous a thing it was that at this time she should be
tormented by fears of want and failure! That she should have to go
without comforts, that she should even fear to ask for necessities
--because she knew how fast his little store of money was going!
Other women had children, and they did not have to be haunted by the
doubt if it was right to have them, if there would be any place for
them in the world. And some of these were selfish and idle women,
too--and yet they had everything they needed! And here was Corydon,
beautiful and noble, the very soul of devotion--Corydon must be
harrowed and tortured! He did not really mind the world's treatment
of himself, but for this treatment of her--ah, someday the world
should pay for that! Someday it should do penance for its mockery
and its blindness, that had been a blasphemy against the holy spirit
itself!

At such times as this he would put his arms about her, and try to
whisper something of the pity and grief that filled his heart. He
would try to tell her how much he really loved her, how utterly he
was devoted to her. Some day she should have her rights, some day he
would repay her for all that she had dared for him. And then the
tears would come into Corydon's eyes, and she would answer that she
feared nothing and cared about nothing, so long as she had his love.

Section 10. After these things, Thyrsis would go at his book again.
He would go at it doggedly, desperately. He had scarcely taken time
to get settled in the tent and to get their housekeeping rГ©gime
under way, before he had heard the call of the book and wandered
away to wrestle with it. The writing of it was a matter of life and
death with him now--of life and death, not only for himself, and for
Corydon, but for the unborn soul as well. His money would last him
only six or eight weeks, and then he would have to take to
pot-boiling again. So every hour was precious; this time there could
be no blundering permitted.

Thyrsis was not writing now about minstrels and princesses; he was
not painting enraptured pictures of joy and love. The pain of life
had become too real to him. His six months of contact with the world
had filled him with bitterness; and he was forging a sharp spear,
that he could drive into the heart of folly and stupidity.

It was the story of Hathawi, the dreamer, which he had come upon in
a Hindoo legend. "The Hearer of Truth," was to be the title of the
book; and for it Thyrsis was working out a new style. In the
original it had been a fanciful tale; but he meant to take it over
to the world of everyday reality, to give it the atmosphere of utter
verihood. He meant to use a style of biblical simplicity, bare of
all ornament, dealing with the most elemental things. And this might
seem easy, but in reality it was the hardest thing in the world--it
was like blank verse. One might toil all day for a single phrase
into which to pack one's meaning.

He wished to show Hathawi from the beginning; the solitary child,
the seer of life's mystery, who went away into a lonely place to
brood. He dwelt in the high mountains, where the lightning played
and the storm-winds shook him; he disciplined his will by fasting
and prayer, so that the self in him died, and he could perceive
eternal things, and aspects of being that are hidden. He went into
the forests and dwelt with the wild things, and learned to
understand their language--not only their beauty and their power,
which are plain; not only their fears and their hatreds, which are
painful to discover; but also their love, which is deepest of all.
He learned to know the life which is in lifeless things--in water
and air and fire; the joys and sorrows of the flowers, and the
venerable wisdom of great trees, and the worship which is in the
floods of sunlight. And having learned these things, Hathawi came
back into the world.

He found that he was able to read the souls of men, but at first he
could not believe what he read--it was so terrible, and so far from
nature. He preferred to stay among the poor, because they were
closer to the heart of things, and their falsehoods were simple. But
he discovered that the evil and misery of men's life came from
above, and so he went into the "great world" to dwell.

And everywhere he went, men's innermost thoughts were revealed to
him, and to themselves through him. He acted upon men and women like
wine--an impulse seized them to speak the truth, the truth that they
had hidden even from their own hearts. Afterwards, when they
realized what they had done, they hated Hathawi and feared him; but
they said nothing, because each thought that the secret was his own.

But then, as his power grew, Hathawi began to reveal men in more
public ways, and a scandal arose. There was whispered a story of a
great statesman who had declared at a banquet what was his real work
in the world; and one day a bishop arose in his cathedral and said
that he taught the dogmas of his church, because they were necessary
to keep the people in subjection. Then came the famous episode of a
policeman who bade the prisoner go free and arrested the judge
instead. Other policemen were called upon to hinder their comrade,
but they declared that he was right; and then newspaper reporters,
when ordered to write about it, avowed that they would write only
what they believed. After which came a convention of one of the
great political parties; and the presidential candidate made a
speech, outlining his actual beliefs, and so destroyed his party.
This, of course, was a national calamity, for all statesmen declared
that the people could not be deceived by one party; and then, too,
it was reported that Hathawi meant to attend the convention of the
other party!

Because of this they shut him up in jail, charging him with being a
vagrant, which he undoubtedly was. But he won over all the jailers
and the prisoners to his doctrine, and so the jail was emptied.
Moreover, it was found that some of those who loved him most truly
had come to share his power of hearing truth. The madness was
spreading everywhere; agitators were busy among the people, and
public safety was threatened. So a certain very rich man, who in
Hathawi's presence had vowed himself a wolf, engaged an assassin to
strike him down in broad daylight upon the street.

Then in order to suppress the disturbance, they spirited the body
away and burned it, and scattered the ashes. But this was a bad
thing for them to do, for the ashes became seeds of the new
contagion, and all through the great city, in the strangest and most
unaccountable way, men would suddenly begin to speak the truth. And,
of course this made business impossible--the merchants and traders
had to move away; and how was it possible to preserve authority,
when sooner or later all the lawyers and the judges and the
politicians would speak truth? So the people arose and declared that
they were weary of lies, and they erected a statue of Hathawi at one
of the places where his ashes had fallen, and declared that every
candidate for office must make his speeches there. After that it was
a long time before there were any officials elected--because no man
could be found to whom prominence and power were not more precious
than public welfare. But meanwhile the people thrived exceedingly.

Finally, however--the climax of the story--the news of all this had
spread to other nations, and the rulers of these nations perceived
that it was anarchy, and could by no means be permitted--their own
people were threatening to rise. It must be clearly shown that a
state without a government would be plundered by enemies; and so
they prepared to plunder it. And so arose a great agitation in
Hathawi's home-state, and men called for a dictator, and for
preparations of defence. But the followers of Hathawi cried out,
saying, "Let us submit! Let us open our city to these men, and let
them do their will--for the power of the truth is greater than even
they." And so it was decided.

When the hostile rulers heard of this a great fear took possession
of them. They remembered the fate of certain famous diplomatists
they had already sent over; and they dared not trust themselves near
the statue of the Hearer of Truth. So their plans of invasion came
to naught; and among their own people there was laughter and bitter
mockery; and behold, one morning, a statue of Hathawi which some one
had set up in a public-square! Here the lovers of truth gathered by
thousands, and the soldiers who were sent to shoot them laid down
their arms and joined them; and so, all over the world, was the end
of the dominion of the lie.

Section 11. Such was the outline of Thyrsis' story. He judged that
it might be a very great story, or a comparatively commonplace
one--it all depended upon the power with which it was visioned. He
must get into himself and wrestle the thing out. This was to be his
act of creation--his baby!

It was the first time since his marriage that Thyrsis had tried
really to do what he called work. All things else had been mere
echoes of the work he had done the previous summer; but now he had
to do something new, something that was an echo of nothing else.
Every day that he faced the task, his agony and despair of soul grew
greater; for he found that he _could_ not do the work. He could not
even begin to do it--he could not even try to do it! He was
helpless, bound hand and foot!

It was not his fault, it was not Corydon's fault; it was a tragedy
inherent in the very nature of things--in the two natures that were
in himself. There was the man, who loved a woman, and hungered to
see her happy; and there was the artist, to whom solitude was the
very breath of life. To write this book--to write it really--he
would have to spend weeks of brooding over it, thinking about
nothing else day and night; he would have to shape his whole
existence to that end to be free from every distracting
circumstance, from everything that called him out of himself. And
how could he hope for such a thing, while he was living in a tent
with another person?

Thyrsis had his artist's standard of perfection. Of course, he could
never actually be satisfied with what he did; but at least he could
feel that it was the best he was equal to--he could get a real and
honest sense of exhaustion for himself. But now, the moment that he
faced the problem fairly, he saw he could never get that real and
honest sense of exhaustion again. He was dragged up to the issue and
forced to face it instantly. The pressure of circumstances upon him
was overwhelming; and he had to make up his mind to do something he
had never done before--instead of really writing his books, to do
the best he could with them!

Yet, inevitable as this was, and clearly as he saw it, he could not
make up his mind to it. In reality, he never did make up his mind to
it. He did it, and in his inmost heart he knew that he was doing it;
but all the time he was trying to deny it, was wrestling with agony
and despair in his soul in the effort to do something else.

He would go away in the morning and try to think about the book; and
just when he would get started, it would be time for dinner, and
there would be the image of Corydon waiting for him. And so he would
go home, and go back in the afternoon--and when he had got started
again, it would be dark. The next day, having explained his trouble,
he would take his lunch away with him; but in the forenoon there
would come a drenching thunder-storm, and he would have to go back
again. Or he would try to work in the tent at night; and the wind
would howl and blow the lamp so that he could not put his mind on
anything. Nor did it avail him to rail at himself, to tell himself
that he was a fool for being at the mercy of such mishaps. It was
none the less a fact that he was at the mercy of them, and that he
could no longer give himself up to the sway of his imagination.

And always there was Corydon, yearning for his companionship. It had
always been their idea that they should do the work together; so
completely would they be fused in the fire of love, that she would
share his soul states and write parts of his books. But now that
idea had to be abandoned; and this was _her_ tragedy.

"I have to sit and think of my health!" she would exclaim.

"It isn't your health, dear," he would plead; "it's the health of
the child!"

"I know that. But then, am I always to sit at home and be placid,
while you go away to wrestle with the angels?"

"Not always, Corydon," he said. "This will pass--"

"If I do," she cried, "I only stay to wrestle with the demons. And
is that so very good for a pregnant woman?"

"My dear!" he protested.

"It's just as I said!" she went on. "I ought not to have had the
child! I'm only a school-girl, with a school-girl's tasks. And I try
and try, but I can't help it--everything within me rebels at the
cares of mother-hood."

"That's one mood, dear," he said. "But you know that's not true
always."

"It's all the clearer to me," she insisted, "since we've had to give
up our music. I can't work at the piano any more--I may never be
able to."

"But even if you could, Corydon, I couldn't afford to get you one
now."

"No, of course not. And you have to give up your violin!"

"Much time I have to practice it in our present plight!"

"I know--I know! But don't you see, we lose our last hope of growing
together? I've a vision that haunts me all the time--you going away
to do your work, and staying for longer and longer periods--and I
sitting at home to mind the baby!"

Day after day he would come back, and she would ask him how the book
was going; and he would have to answer that it was not going at all.
Then, in his desperation, he would make up his mind to write what he
could--to be content with this glimpse of one scene, and with that
feeble echo of what he knew the next scene ought to be; and he would
bring the result to Corydon, and would discover with a secret pang
that she did not know the difference. But then he would ask
himself--how could she know the difference? The difference did not
exist! His vision of the thing had existed in himself, and in
himself alone; if he never uttered it, the world would never know
what it might have been--and would never care. Ah, what a future was
that to look forward to--to filling the ears of the world with
lamentations concerning the books that he might have written! And
all the time knowing that the ears of the world were deaf to every
sound he made!

Section 12. He thought that he realized the bitterness of this
tragedy all at once; but the real bitterness was that he had to
realize more and more of it every day. It was a tragedy he had to
live in the house with. He had to watch it working itself out in all
the little affairs of life; he had to see it manifesting itself in
his own soul, and in the soul of Corydon, and even in the soul of
the child. Worst of all to him, the artist, he had to see it working
itself out in what he wrote--in book after book that went out to
represent him to the world, and that did not represent him at all,
but only represented the Snare in which he had been caught! It was
one of the facts about this Snare, that there was no merciful Keeper
to come and put the victim out of his misery with a blow upon the
head; that he was left alone, to writhe and twist and tear himself
to pieces, and to perish of slow exhaustion. It was not a murder
--it was a crucifixion!

He could not have told for whom his heart bled most, for himself, or
for Corydon. Here she was, with her grim problems and her bitter
necessities; needing advice and comfort, needing companionship--needing
a husband! And she had married an artist--a reed that would grow
"nevermore again as a reed with the reeds by the river!" That could
not grow, even if it had wanted to! For it was quite in vain that the
world cried out to him to settle down and become as other men; he
could not. The thing that was tearing at his vitals would continue
to tear; the only choice he had was between self-expression and
madness.

So, wrung as his heart was, he had to go away and as he could. If he
yielded to his desire and stayed by her, then the book would not be
written in time; and so all their hopes would be gone--they would
never win their freedom then! And he would explain this to her; with
their relentless devotion to the truth, they would talk it all out
between them. They would trace every cord and knot of the Snare. And
Corydon would grant that he was right, and that she must submit. He
must stay away all day--and all night, if need be--till the book
was done.

Not that they were always able to settle their problems in the cold
light of reason. Sometimes Thyrsis, with his artist's ups and downs,
would be nervous and irritable; he would manifest impatience over
trifles, and this would give rise to tragedies. There was a vast
amount of fetching and emptying of water to be done for their little
establishment; and sometimes a man who was carrying the destinies of
the human race in his consciousness was not as prompt as he might
have been in attending to these humble tasks. And moreover, the
water all had to be dipped up from the lake; and sometimes, when it
was stormy, it was a difficult matter to get it as free from specks
as was needed for the ablutions of a fastidious young lady like
Corydon.

"If you'd only take a little trouble!" she would say.

"Trouble!" he would exclaim. "Do you think I enjoy hearing you
complain about it?"

"But Thyrsis, this is dirtier than ever!"

"I know it. The wind is blowing harder."

"But if you'd only reach out a little ways---"

"I reached out till I nearly fell into the water!"

"But Thyrsis, how can I ever wash my face?"

And so it would go. Thyrsis would be absorbed in some especially
important mental operation, and it would be a torment to him to have
such things forced upon his attention. Corydon, it seemed to him,
was always at the mercy of externals; and she was forever dragging
him out of himself, and making him aware of them. The frying-pan was
not clean enough, or his hair was unkempt; his trousers were ragged
or his coat was too small for him. Was life always to consist of
such impertinences as this?

And so Thyrsis, in a sudden burst of rage, gave the water-bucket a
kick which sent it rolling down the bank, and then strode away to
his work. But unfortunately his work was not of a sort which he
could do with angry emotions in his soul. And so very soon remorse
overcame him. He returned, to find that Corydon had rushed out to
the end of the point, and flung herself down upon the rocks in
hysterics. And this, of course, was not a good thing for a pregnant
woman, and so he had to set to work to soothe her.

But alas, to soothe her was never an easy task, because of her
sensitiveness, and her exalted ideals of him. However humbly he
might apologize and beg forgiveness, there would remain her grief
that it had been possible for a quarrel to occur between them. She
would drive him nearly wild by debating the event, and rehearsing it
again and again, trying to justify herself to him, and him to
himself. Thyrsis was robust, he wanted to let the past take care of
itself; he would tell her of all the worries that were harassing
him, and would plead with her to grant him the privilege of any
ordinary human creature, to manifest annoyance now and then. And
Corydon would promise it--she would promise him anything he asked
for; but this was a boon it did not lie within the possibility of
her temperament to grant. He could be angry at fate and at the
world, and could rage and storm at them all he pleased; but he could
never be harsh with Corydon without inflicting upon her pain that
wrecked her, and wrecked him into the bargain.

Perhaps, he thought, it was her condition that accounted for this
morbidness. She was liable to fits of depression, and to mysterious
illness--nausea and faintness and what not. Also, she had been told
weird tales about prenatal influences; and he, not having been
educated in such matters, could not be sure what were the facts. So,
whenever she had been unhappy, there was the possibility that she
had done some irreparable harm to the child! And that made more
problems for an over-worked and sensitive artist.

He soon saw that he had to suppress forever the side of him that was
stern and exacting. Such things had a place in his own life, but no
longer in Corydon's. Instead, he would see how she suffered, and his
heart would be wrung, and he would come back again and again to
comfort her, and to tell her how he loved her, how he longed to do
what was right. He would set before her the logic of the situation,
so that if things went wrong she might realize that it was neither
his fault nor hers--that it was the world, which kept them in this
misery, and shut them up to suffer together. So it was, all through
their lives, that their remorseless reason saved them; they would
find in the analysis and exposition of the causes of their own
unhappiness the one common satisfaction they had in life.

Section 13. These were the circumstances of the writing of "The
Hearer of Truth". It was completed in six weeks, and it did not
satisfy its author, the finishing of it brought him no joy. But
that, though he did not realize it, was the one circumstance in its
favor--the less it satisfied him, the more chance there was that
the world would know what it was about.

He had the manuscript copied, and then he sent it off to a magazine
in Boston, whose editor had been one of his hundred great men, and
had promised to read the new manuscript at once. Meantime Thyrsis
sent for some books to review, and got to work at another plot to be
submitted to the editor of the "Treasure Chest". For their own
treasure-chest was now all but empty, and one could not live forever
upon blueberries and fish.

Day by day they waited; and at last, one fateful afternoon, the
farmer came with some provisions and their mail. There was a letter
from Boston, and Thyrsis opened it and read as follows:

"I have read your manuscript, 'The Hearer of Truth', and I wish to
tell you of the very great pleasure it has given me. It is noble and
fine, and amazingly clever as well. I must say frankly that I was
astonished at the qualities of maturity and restraint it shows. I
think it quite certain that we shall wish to use it as a serial; but
before I can say anything definite, the manuscript will have to be
read by my associates. In the meantime I wished to tell you
personally how highly I think of your work."

Thyrsis read this, and then, without a word, he passed it on to
Corydon. As soon as the farmer's back was turned, the two fell into
each other's arms, and all but wept. It was victory, beyond all
question. The magazine might pay as much as five hundred dollars for
the serial rights--and with that start, they would surely be safe.
Besides that, it would mean recognition for Thyrsis--the world would
have to discuss his work!

Doing pot-boilers was easy after such a triumph as that. They even
treated themselves to holidays--they purchased a quart of ice-cream
on one day, and hired a boat and went picnicking on another. Thyrsis
got out his fiddle once again, and even became so reckless as to
inquire about the price of a "practice-clavier" for Corydon. Also he
began inquiring as to the cost of houses; when they got the money
they would build themselves a little cabin here--a cabin just the
size of the tent, but with a room upstairs where Thyrsis could do
his work. After that they would be free from all the world--they
would never go back to be haunted by the sight of

       "Sorrow barricadoed evermore
    Within the walls of cities."

Section 14. So a month passed by; and Thyrsis wrote again to the
editor, and was told that they were still discussing the story. And
then, after two more weeks, there came another letter; and this was
the way it read:

"I am sorry to have to tell you that the decision has been adverse
to using your story. My own opinion of it has not changed in the
least; but I have been unable to induce my associates to view it in
the same light. They seem to be unanimous in the opinion that your
work is too radical for us to put to the front. We have a very
conservative, fastidious, and sophisticated constituency; and this
is one of the limitations by which we are bound. I am more than
sorry that things have turned out so, and I trust I need hardly say
that I shall be glad to read anything else that you may have to
submit to us."

And there it was! "A conservative, fastidious, and sophisticated
constituency!" Thyrsis believed that he would never forget that
phrase while he lived. Could one get up a thing like that anywhere
in the world save in Boston?

It was a bitter and cruel disappointment--the more so because it had
taken six weeks of his precious time. But there was nothing to be
done about it save to send off the manuscript to another magazine.
And when it had come back from there he sent it to another, and to
yet another--paying each time a total of eighty cents to the
express-company, a sum which was very hard for him to spare. To make
an ending at once to the painful episode, he continued to send it
from one place to another, until "The Hearer of Truth" had had the
honor of being declined by a total of fifteen magazines and
twenty-two publishing-houses. The pilgrimage occupied a period of
nineteen months--after which, to Thyrsis' great surprise, the
thirty-eighth concern offered to publish it. And so the book was
brought out, with something of a flourish, and met with its thirty-
eighth rejection--at the hands of the public!






BOOK VII

THE CAPTURE IS COMPLETED





_The shadow of a dark cloud had fallen upon the woods, and the
voices of the birds were strangely hushed.

"There is a spell about this place for me," she said, and quoted--

   "Here came I often, often in old days--
    Thyrsis and I, we still had Thyrsis then!"

"Where is Thyrsis now?" she asked; and he smiled sadly, and
responded:

   "Ah me! this many a year
    My pipe is lost, my shepherd's holiday!
    Needs must I lose them, needs with heavy heart
    Into the world and wave of men depart!"_

Section 1. They returned to the city early in October--not so much
because they minded the cold in the tent, as because their money was
gone, and it was not easy to do hack-work at a distance. One had to
be on the spot, to interview the editors, to study their whims and
keep one's self in their minds; otherwise some one else got the
work.

So Thyrsis came back to his "world"; and he found this world up in
arms against him. All the opposition that he had ever had to face
was nothing to what he faced now. Society seemed to have made up its
collective mind that he should give in; and every force it could use
was brought to bear upon him--every person he knew joined in the
assault upon him.

He was bound to admit that they had all the arguments on their side.
He had gone his own obstinate way, in defiance of all advice and of
all precedent; and now he saw what had come of it--exactly what
every common-sense person had foreseen. He and Corydon had tried
their "living as brother and sister"--and here she was with child!
And that was all right, no one proposed to blame him for it; it was
what people had predicted, and they were rather pleased to have
their predictions come true--to see the bubble of his pretenses
burst, and to be able to point out to him that he was like all other
men. What they wanted now was simply that he should recognize his
responsibility, and look out for Corydon's welfare. Living in
tenement-rooms and in tents, like gypsies and savages, was all right
by way of a lark; it was all very picturesque and romantic in a
novel; but it would not do for a woman who was about to become a
mother. Corydon had been delicately reared. She was used to the
comforts and decencies of life; and to get her in her present plight
and then not provide these things for her would be the act of a
scoundrel.

All through his life the world had had but one message for Thyrsis:
"Go to work!" From the world's point of view his languages and
literatures, his music and writing were all play; to "work" was to
get a "position". And now this word was dinned into his ears day and
night, the very stones in the street seemed to cry it at him--"Get a
position! Get a position!"

As chance would have it, the position was all ready. In the higher
regions they were preparing to open a branch of a great family
establishment abroad, and Thyrsis was invited to take charge of it.
He would be paid three thousand dollars a year at the start, and two
or three times as much ultimately; and what more could he want? He
knew nothing about the work, but they knew his abilities--that if he
would undertake it, and give his attention to it, he would succeed.
He would meet people of culture, they argued, and be broadened by
contact with men; as for Corydon, it would make her whole life over.
Surely, for her sake, he could not refuse!

Thyrsis had foreseen just such things. He had braced himself to meet
the shock, and the world found him with his hands clenched and his
jaws set. There was no use in arguing with him, he had but one
answer--"No! No! No!" He would not take that position, and he would
not take any other position--neither now, nor at any future time. He
was not a business-man, he was an artist; and an artist he would
remain to the end. It might as well be understood at the outset;
there was nothing that the world could do or say to him that would
move him one inch. They might starve him, they might kill him, they
might do what they could or would--but never would he give in.

"But--what are you going to do?" they cried.

He answered, "I am going to write my books."

"But you have already written two books, and nothing has come of
them!"

"Something may come of them yet," he said. "And if it doesn't, I
shall simply go on and write another, and another, and another. I
shall continue to write so long as I have the strength left in me; I
shall be trying to write when I die."

And so, while they argued and pleaded and scolded and wept, he stood
in silence. They could not understand him--he smiled bitterly as he
realized how impossible it was for them to understand even the
simplest thing about him. There was the dapper corporation lawyer
and his exquisite young wife, who came to argue about it; and
Thyrsis asked them not to tell Corydon why they had come. He saw
them look at each other significantly, and he could read their
thought--that he was afraid of his wife's importunities. And how
could he explain to them what he had really meant--that if they had
told Corydon they had come to persuade him to give up his art,
Corydon would probably have found it impossible to be even decently
polite to them!

Section 2. So Thyrsis went away, carrying the burden of the scorn
and contempt of every human soul he knew. It was in truth a dark
hour in his life. He was at his wit's end for the bare necessities.
He had reached the city with less money in his pocket than he had
had the year before; and all the ways by which he had got money
seemed to have failed him at once. All the editors who published
book-reviews seemed to have a stock on hand; or else to know of
people whose style of writing pleased their readers better. And none
of them seemed to fancy any ideas for articles that Thyrsis had to
suggest.

Worst of all, the editor of the '"Treasure Chest" turned down the
pot-boiler which he had been writing up in the country. He would not
say anything very definite about it--he just didn't like the
story--it had not come up to the promise of the scenario. He hinted
that perhaps Thyrsis was not as much interested in his work as he
had been before. It seemed to be lacking in vitality, and the style
was not so good. Thyrsis offered to rewrite parts of the story; but
no, said the editor, he did not care for the story at all. He would
be willing to have Thyrsis try another, but he was pretty well
supplied with serials just then, and could not give much
encouragement.

Corydon had yielded to her parents and gone to stay with them for a
while; and Thyrsis had got his own expenses down to less than five
dollars a week--including such items as stationery and postage on
his manuscripts. And still, he could not get this five dollars. In
his desperation he followed the cheap food idea to extremes, and
there were times when an invitation to an honest meal was something
he looked forward to for a week. And day after day he wandered about
the streets, racking his brains for new ideas, for new plans to try,
for new hopes of deliverance.

In later years he looked back upon it all--knowing then the depth of
the pit into which he had fallen, knowing the full power of the
forces that were ranged against him--and he marvelled that he had
ever had the courage to hold out. But in truth the idea of surrender
did not occur to him; the possibility of it did not lie in his
character. He had his message to deliver. That was what he was in
the world for, and for nothing else; and he must deliver what he
could of it.

He would go alone, and his vision would come to him. It would come
to him, radiant, marvellous, overwhelming; there had never been
anything like it in the world, there might never be anything like it
in the world again. And if only he could get the world to realize
it--if only he could force some hint of it into the mind of one
living person! It was impossible not to think that some day that
person would be discovered--to believe otherwise would be to give
the whole world up for damned. He would imagine that chance person
reading his first book; he would imagine the publishers and their
advisers reading "The Hearer of Truth"--might it not be that at
this very hour some living soul was in the act of finding him out?
At any rate, all that he could do was to try, and to keep on trying;
to embody his vision in just as many forms as possible, and to
scatter them just as widely as possible. It was like shooting arrows
into the air; but he would go on to shoot while there was one arrow
left in his quiver.

Section 3. Thyrsis reasoned the problem out for himself; he saw what
he wanted, and that it was a rational and honest thing for him to
want. He was a creative artist, engaged in learning his trade. When
he had completed his training, he would not work for himself, he
would work to bring joy and faith to millions of human beings,
perhaps for ages after. And meantime, while he was in the
practice-stage, he asked for the bare necessities of existence.

Nor was it as if he were an utter tyro; he had given proof of his
power. He had written two books, which some of the best critics in
the country had praised. To this people made answer that it was no
one's business to look out for genius and give it a chance to live.
But with Thyrsis it was never any argument to show that a thing did
not exist, if it was a thing which he knew _ought_ to exist. He
looked back over the history of art, and saw the old hideous state
of affairs--saw genius perishing of starvation and misery, and men
erecting monuments to it when it was dead. He saw empty-headed rich
people paying fortunes for the manuscripts of poems which all the
world had once rejected; he saw the seven towns contending for Homer
dead, through which the living Homer begged his bread. And Thyrsis
could not bring himself to believe that a thing so monstrous could
continue to exist forever.

There was no other department of human activity of which it was
true. If a man wanted to be a preacher, he would find that people
had set up divinity-schools and established scholarships for which
he could contend. And the same was true if he wished to be an
engineer, or an architect, or a historian, or a biologist; it was
only the creative artist of whom no one had a thought--the creative
artist, who needed it most of all! For his was the most exacting
work, his was the longest and severest apprenticeship.

Brooding over this, Thyrsis hit upon another plan. He drew up a
letter, in which he set forth what he wanted, and stated what he had
so far done; he quoted the opinions of his work that had been
written by men-of-letters, and offered to submit the books and
manuscripts about which these opinions had been written. He sent a
copy of this letter to the president of each of the leading
universities in the country, to find out if there was in a single
one of them any fellowship or scholarship or prize of any sort,
which could be won by such creative literary work. Of those who
replied to him, many admitted that his point was well taken, that
there should have been such provision; but one and all they agreed
that none existed. There were rewards for studying the work of the
past, but never for producing new work, no matter how good it might
be.

Then another plan occurred to him. He wrote an anonymous article,
setting forth some of his amusing experiences, and contrasting the
credit side of the "pot-boiling" ledger with the debit side of the
"real art" ledger. This article was picturesque, and a magazine
published it, paying twenty-five dollars for it, and so giving him
another month's lease of life. But that was all that came of
it--there was no rich man who wrote to the magazine to ask who this
tormented genius might be.

Then Thyrsis, in his desperation, joined the ranks of the begging
letter-writers. He would send long accounts of his plight to eminent
philanthropists--having no idea that the secretaries of eminent
philanthropists throw out basketsful of such letters every day. He
would read in the papers of some public-spirited enterprise--he
would hear of this man or that woman who was famous for his or her
interest in helpful things--and he would sit down and write these
people that he was starving, and implore them to read his book. In
later years, when he came to know of some of these newspaper idols,
it was a comfort to him to feel certain that his letters had been
thrown away unread.

Also he begged from everybody he met, under whatever circumstances
he met them. If by any chance the person might be imagined to
possess money, sooner or later would come some hour of distress,
when Thyrsis would be driven to try to borrow. On one occasion he
counted it up, and there were forty-three individuals to whom he had
made himself a nuisance. With half a dozen of them he had actually
succeeded; but always promising to return the money when his next
check came in--and always scrupulously doing this. There was never
anyone who rose to the understanding of what he really wanted--a
free gift, for the sake of his art. There was never anyone who could
understand his utter shamelessness about it; that fervor of
consecration which made it impossible for a man to humiliate him, or
to insult him--to do anything save to write himself down a dead
soul.

People were quite clear in their views upon this question; a man
must earn his own way in the world. And that was all right, if a man
were in the world for himself. But what if he were working for
humanity, and had no time to think about himself? Was that truly a
disgraceful thing? Take Jesus, for instance; ought he to have kept
at his carpenter's trade, instead of preaching the Sermon on the
Mount? Or was it that his right to preach the Sermon was determined
by the size of the collection he could take among the audience?

And then, while he pondered this problem of "earning one's own way,"
Thyrsis was noting the lives of the people who were preaching it.
What were _they_ doing to earn the luxuries they enjoyed? Even
granting that one recognized their futile benevolence as justifying
them personally--what about the tens of thousands of others who
lived in utter idleness, squandering in self-indulgence and
ostentation huge fortunes of which they had never earned a penny?
The boy could not go upon the streets of the city without having
this monstrous fact flaunted in his face in a thousand forms. So
many millions for folly and vice, and not one cent for his art! This
was the thing upon which he was brooding day and night--and filling
his soul with an awful bitterness which was to horrify the world in
later years.

Section 4. He might not come to see Corydon in her home; but she
would meet him in the street, and they would walk in the park, a
pitiful and mournful pair. They had to walk slowly, and often he
would have to help her, for her burden had now become great. She had
altered all her dresses, and she wore a long cape, and even then was
not able to hide the disfigurement of her person. They would sit
upon a bench in the cold, and talk about the latest aspects of his
struggle, what he was doing and what he hoped to do. Corydon would
bring him the opinions of a few more members of the bourgeois world,
and they would curse this world and these people together. For there
was no more thought of giving up on Corydon's side than there was on
his; it was not for nothing that he had talked to her upon the
hill-top in the moonlight.

Meanwhile, however, time was passing, and the prospect of her
approaching confinement hung over them like a black thunder-cloud.
It came on remorselessly, menacingly. The event was due about
Christmas time, and there must be some money then--there must be
some money then! But where was it to be found?

Thyrsis had tried another story for the "Treasure Chest," but the
editor had not liked his plot. Also he was taking "The Hearer of
Truth" from one place to another; but with less and less hope, as he
learned from various editors and publishers how radical and
subversive they considered it. He took it now mechanically, as a
matter of form--making it his rule always to count upon rejection,
so that he might never be disappointed.

One of Corydon's rich friends had told her of a certain famous
surgeon, and Corydon had gone to see him. He had a beautiful private
hospital, and his prices were unthinkable; but he had seemed to be
interested in her, and when she told him her circumstances, he had
said that he would try to "meet her halfway." But even with the
reductions he quoted, it would cost them nearly a hundred and fifty
dollars; and how could Thyrsis get such a sum? Even if the surgeon
were willing to wait--what prospect was there that he could ever get
it?

This again was the curse of their leisure-class upbringing. They did
not know how poor women had their babies, and they shrunk from the
thought of finding it out. Corydon had met this man, and had been
impressed by him; and Thyrsis realized, even if she did not, that
she had got her heart set upon the plan. And if he did not make it
possible, and then anything were to go wrong with her, how would he
ever be able to forgive himself? This event would come but once, and
might mean so much to them.

So he said to himself that he would "raise the money". But the days
passed and became weeks, and the weeks became months, and there was
no sign of the raising. And then suddenly came one of those shafts
of sunlight through the clouds--one of those will-o'-the-wisps that
were forever luring Thyrsis into the swamps. Another editor liked
"The Hearer of Truth"; another editor said that it was a great piece
of literature, and that he would surely use it! So Thyrsis went
to the great surgeon and told him that he would be able to pay him
in a little while; and the arrangement was made for Corydon to come.
And then the editor put the "great piece of literature" away in his
desk, and forgot all about it for a month--while Thyrsis waited, day
by day, in an agony of suspense.

The appointed time had come--the day when Corydon must go to the
hospital; and still the editor had not reported, and there was only
fifteen or twenty dollars, earned by weeks of verse-writing and
reviewing. So in desperation Thyrsis made up his mind to give up his
violin. He had paid ninety dollars for it three years before; and
now, after taking it round among the dealers, he sold it for
thirty-five dollars.

So, to the very gateway of life itself, Thyrsis was hounded by these
spectres of want; even to the hospital they came, and followed him
inside. Here was a beautiful place, a revelation to him of the
possibilities of civilization and science. But it was all for the
rich and prosperous, it was not for him; he felt that he had no
business to be there.

What a contrast it all made with the tenement-room in which he had
to house! Here were glimpses to be had of rich women, soft-skinned
and fair, clad in morning-gowns of gorgeous hue; here were baskets
of expensive fruits and armfuls of sweet-scented flowers; and here
was he with his worn clothing and his haggard face, his hungry
stomach and still hungrier heart! Must not all these people know
that he had had to ask for special rates, and then for credit on top
of that? Must they not all know that he was a failure--that most
worthless of all worthless creatures, the man who cannot support his
family? What did it mean to them if he had written masterpieces of
literature--what would it avail with them that he was the bearer of
a new religion! Thyrsis had heard too much of the world's opinion of
him; he shrunk from contact with his fellow-creatures, reading an
insult into every glance. He was like a dog that has been too much
beaten, and cringes even before it is struck.

Section 5. But these thoughts were for himself; he did not whisper
them to Corydon. However people might despise him, they did not
blame her, and there was no need of this bitterness in her cup.
Corydon was beautiful--ah God, how beautiful she looked, lying there
in the snowy bed, with the snowy lace about her neck and arms! How
like the very goddess of motherhood she looked, a halo of light
about her forehead. She, too, must have flowers, to whisper to her
of hope and joy; and so he had brought her three pitiful little
pinks, which he had purchased from a lame girl upon the corner. The
tears started into Corydon's eyes as she saw these--for she knew
that he had gone without a part of his dinner in order to bring them
to her.

Everybody had come to love her already, he could see. How gentle and
kind they were to her; and how skillfully they did everything for
her! His heart was full of thankfulness that he had been able to
bring her to this haven of refuge. And resolutely he put aside all
thoughts of his own humiliation--he swept his mind clear of
everything else, and went with her to face this new and supreme
experience of her life.

"You will stay with me?" she had pleaded; and he had promised that
he would stay. She could not bear to have him out of her sight at
all, and so they made him a bed upon the couch, and he spent the
night there; and through the next day he sat with her and read to
her. But now and then he would know that her thoughts had wandered,
and he would look at her and see her eyes wide with fear. "Oh,
Thyrsis," she would whisper, "I'm only a child; and I'm not fit to
be a mother!"

He would try to comfort her and soothe her. But in truth, he too was
full of fears and anxieties. He had felt the dome-like shape within
her abdomen, which they said was the head of the child; and he could
not conceive how it was ever to be got out. But they told him that
the thing had happened before. There was nothing for either of them
to do but to wait;