They sat with the twilight shadows about them. Memories too poignant assailed them, and her hand trembled as it lay upon his arm. “How strange it was!” she whispered. “Have we kept the faith?”
“Who knows?” he answered; and in a low voice he read—
   “And long the way appears, which seem’d so short
        To the less practised eye of sanguine youth;
            And high the mountain-tops, in cloudy air,
        The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth,
            Tops in life’s morning-sun so bright and bare!”
 
Section 1. This was a golden hour in Thyrsis’ life. The gates of wonder were flung open, and all things were touched with a new and mystic glow. He scarcely realized it at the time; for once he was too much moved to think about his own emotions, the artist was altogether lost in the man. Even the room in which he lodged was relieved of its sordidness; it was a thing that men had made, and so a part of the mystery of becoming. He yearned for some one to whom he could impart his great emotion; but because of the loneliness of his life he could find no one but the keeper of his lodging-house. Even she became a human thing to him, because of her interest in the great tidings. If all the world loved a lover, it loved yet more one through whom the supreme purpose of love had been accomplished.
Thyrsis went each day to the hospital, to watch the new miracle unfolding itself; to see the Child asserting its existence as a being with a life of its own. He could never tire of watching it; he watched it asleep, with the faint heaving of its body, and the soft, warm odor that clung to it; he watched its awakenings—the opening of its eyes, and the sucking movements that it made perpetually with its lips. They had dressed it up now, and hid some of its strangeness; but each morning the nurse would undress it, and give it a bath; and then he marvelled at the short crooked legs, and the tiny red hands that clutched incessantly at the air, and the strange prehensile feet, that carried one back to distant ages, hinting at the secrets of Nature’s workshop. Sometimes they would permit him to hold this mystic creature in his arms—after much exhortation, and assurance that his left arm was properly placed at the back of its head. One found out in this way what a serious business life really was.
Corydon lay back among her pillows and smiled at these things. Most wonderful it was to him to see how swiftly she recovered from her ordeal, how hourly the flush of health seemed to steal back into her cheeks. He became ashamed of the memory of his convulsive anguish and his blind rebellions. He saw now that her pain had not been as other pain; it was a constructive pain, a part of the task of her life. It was a battle in which she had fought and conquered; and now she sat, throned in her triumphal chariot, acclaimed by the plaudits of a multitude of hopes and joys unseen.
There came the miracle of the milk. Incessantly the Child’s lips moved, and its hands groped out; it was an embodied demand for new experience—for life, it knew not what. But Nature knew, and had timed the event to this hour. And Thyrsis watched the phenomenon, marvelling—as one marvels at the feat of engineers, who tunnel from opposite sides of a mountain, and meet in the centre without the error of an inch.
It was in accordance with the impression which Corydon made upon him, as a dispenser of abundance, a goddess of fruitfulness, that there should have been more milk than the Child needed. The balance had to be drawn off with a little vacuum-pump; and Thyrsis would watch the tiny jets as they sprayed upon the glass bulb. The milk was rich and golden-hued; he tasted it, with mingled wonder and shuddering.
These procedures filled the room with a warm, luscious odor, as of a dairy; they were eminently domestic procedures, such as in fancy he had been wont to tease her about. But he had few jests at present—he was in the inner chambers of the temple of life, and hushed and stilled with awe. The things that he had witnessed in that room were never to be forgotten; each hour he pledged himself anew, to the uttermost limits of his life. The voice of skeptic reason was altogether silent in him now. And also he was interested to observe that all protest was ended in Corydon; the impulses of motherhood had now undisputed sway in her.
Section 2. BUT even in such an hour of consecration, the sordid world outside would not leave him unmolested. It was as if the black clouds had parted for a moment, while the sunlight poured through; and now again they rolled together. The great surgeon, who had told Thyrsis that he would wait for his money, professed now to have forgotten his agreement. Perhaps he had really forgotten it—who could tell, with the many things he had upon his mind? At any rate, Corydon found herself suddenly confronted with a bill, which she was powerless to pay; with white cheeks and trembling lips she told Thyrsis about it—and so came more worry and humiliation. The very food that she ate became tasteless to her, because she felt she had no right to it; and in a few days she was begging Thyrsis to take her away.
So he helped to carry her downstairs, and back to her parents’ home; and then he returned to his own lonely room, and sat for hours in the bitter cold, with his teeth set tightly, and the nails dug into the palms of his hands. It so happened that just then the editor was beginning to change his mind about “The Hearer of Truth”; and so he had new agonies of anxiety and disappointment.
Again he might not come to see Corydon; and this led to a great misfortune. For she could not do without him now, her craving for him was an obsession; and so she left her bed too soon, and climbed the stairs to his room. Again and again she did this, in spite of his protests; and when, a little later, the doctors found that she had what they called “womb-trouble”, they attributed it to this. Perhaps it was not really so, but Corydon believed it, and through all the years she laid upon it the blame for innumerable headaches and backaches. Thus an episode that might have been soon forgotten, stayed with her, as the symbol of all the agonies of which her life was made.
She would come, bringing the baby with her; and they would lay it upon the bed, and then sit and talk, for hours upon hours, wrestling with their problems. Later on, when Corydon was able, they would go to the park, craving the fresh air. But in midwinter there were few days when they could sit upon a bench for long; and so they would walk and walk, until Corydon was exhausted, and he would have to help her back to the room.
Thyrsis in these days was like a wild animal in a cage; pacing back and forth and testing every corner of his prison. But they never thought of giving up; never in all their lives did that possibility come into their discourse. And doggedly, blindly, they kept on with their studies. Corydon mastered new lists of German words, and they read Freitag’s “Verlorene Handscrift” together, and von Scheffel’s “Ekkehard”, and even attempted “Iphigenie auf Tauris”—though in truth they found it difficult to detach themselves to quite that extent from the world of every-day. It is not an easy matter to experience the pure katharsis of tragedy, with a baby in the room who has to be nursed every hour or two, and who is liable to awaken at any moment and make some demand.
He was such an intricate and complicated baby, with so many things to be understood—belly-bands and diapers and irrational length of skirts. Sometimes, when Corydon was quite exhausted, the attending to these matters fell to Thyrsis, who became for the time a most domestic poet. He once sent an editorial-room into roars of merriment by offering to review a book upon the feeding of infants. But he told himself that even the hilarious editors had been infants once upon a time; and he had divined that there were secrets about life to be learned, and great art-works to be dreamed, even amid belly-bands and diapers. Also, Thyrsis would brave a great deal of ridicule in order to be paid a dollar for the reading of a book that he really wanted to read. For books that one wanted to read came so seldom; and dollars were so difficult to earn!
It seemed as if the task grew harder every week. He went without cuffs, and wore old and frayed collars, and washed his solitary necktie until it was threadbare, and lived upon prunes and crackers, and gave up the gas-stove in his room—and still he could scarcely manage to get together the weekly rent. He studied the magazines in the libraries, and racked his wits for new ideas to interest their editors. He haunted editorial-rooms until his presence became a burden, and he brought new agonies and humiliations upon himself. He would part from Corydon in the afternoon, and shut himself in his room; and sitting in bed to keep warm, he would work until midnight at some new variety of pot-boiler. After which he would go out to walk and clear his brain—and even then, exhausted as he was, his vision would come to him again, wonderful and soul-shaking. So he would walk on, and go back to write until nearly dawn at something he really loved.
Section 3. It was so that he wrote his poem, “Caradrion”. It was out of thoughts of Corydon, and of the tears which they shed in each other’s presence, that this poem was made. Thyrsis had a fondness for burrowing into strange old books, in which one found the primitive wonder of the soul of man, first awakening to the mystery of life. Such a book was Physiologus, with his tales of strange beasts and magic jewels. “There is a bird called Caradrion”, Thyrsis had read.... “And if the sick man can be healed, Caradrion goes to him, and touches him upon the mouth, and takes his sickness from him; and so the man is made well.” And out of this hint he had fashioned the legend of the two children who had grown up together in “the little cot, fringed round with tender green”; one of them Cedric, and one Eileen—for he had given the names that Corydon preferred.
They grew “unto the days of love”, so the story ran—
   “And Cedric bent above her, stooping light,
    To press a kiss upon her tender cheek.
    And said, ‘Eileen, I love thee; yea I love,
    And loved thee ever, thou my soul’s delight.’ 
So time sped on, until there came
   “To Cedric once a strange unlovely thought,
    That haunted him and would not let him be.
    ‘Eileen,’ he said, ‘there is a thing called death,
    Of which men speak with trembling at the lips;
    And I have thought how it would be with me
    If I should never gaze upon thee more.’”
 
So Cedric went to find out about these matters; he sought a witch—“the haggard woman, held in awe.”
   “He found her crouching by a caldron fire;
    Far gleams of light fled through the vault away.
    And tongues of darkness flickered on the wall.
    Then Cedric said, ‘I seek the fate to know’.
    And the witch laughed, and gazed on him and sang:
 
   ‘Fashioned in the shadow-land,
        Out into darkness hurled;
    Trusted to the Storm-wind’s hand,
        By the Passion-tempest whirled!
            Ever straining,
            Never gaining,
            Never keeping,
                Young or old!
            Whither going
            Never knowing,
            Wherefore weeping,
                Never told!
    Rising, falling, disappearing,
    Seeking, calling, hating, fearing;
    Blasted by the lightning shock,
    Trampled in the earthquake rock;
    Were I man I would not plead
    In the roll of fate to read!’ 
 
   “Then Cedric shuddered, but he said again,
    ‘I seek the fate,’ and the witch waved her hand;
    And straight a peal of thunder shook the ground,
    And clanged and battered on the cavern walls,
    Like some huge boulder leaping down the cliff.
    And blinding light flashed out, and seething fire
    Shattered the seamy crags and heaving floor.”
 
And so in a vision of terror Cedric saw the little vale, and the cot “fringed round with tender green”; and upon the lawn he saw Eileen, lying as one dead.
   “And Cedric sprang, and cried, ‘My love! Eileen!’ 
    And on the instant came a thunder-crash
    Like to the sound of old primeval days,
    Of mountain-heaving shock and earthquake roar,
    Of whirling planets shattered in the dark.”
 
And so, half wild with grief and despair, Cedric wandered forth into the world; and after great suffering, the birds took pity upon him, and gave him advice—that he should seek Caradrion.
   “‘Caradrion?’ cried Cedric, starting up,
    ‘Speak swiftly, ere too late, where dwelleth he?’ 
    ‘Ah, that I know not,’ spake the little voice,
    ‘Yet keep thy courage, seek thou out the stork,
    The ancient stork that saw from earliest days,
    Sitting in primal contemplation lost,
    Sphinx-like, seraphic, and oracular,
    Watching the strange procession of men’s dreams.’”
 
But the stork was cruel and would not heed him, and led Cedric a weary chase through the marshes and the brakes. But Cedric pursued, and finally seized the bird by the throat, and forced the secret from him—
       “‘Fare southward still,
    Fronting the sun’s midnoon, all-piercing shaft,
    Unto the land where daylight burns as fire;
    Where the rank earth in choking vapor steams,
    And fierce luxurious vegetation reeks.
    So shalt thou come upon a seamèd rock,
    Towering to meet the sun’s fierce-flashing might,
    Baring its granite forehead to the sky.
    There on its summit, in a cavern deep,
    Dwells what thou seekest, half a bird, half man,
    Caradrion, the consecrate to pain.’”
 
Then came the long journey and the search for the seamèd rock.
   “‘Twas night; and vapors, curling, choked the ground,
    And the rock writhed like flesh of one in pain.
    But Cedric mounted up to find the cave,
    Crying aloud: ‘I seek Caradrion.’ 
    And so, till from the cavern depth a voice:
    ‘Come not, except to sorrow thou be born.’ 
    And Cedric, panting, stretched his shrunken arms:
    ‘Another’s sorrow would I change to joy,
    And mine own joy to sorrow; help thou me.’ 
    To which the voice, sunk low, replied: ‘Come thou.’ 
    And Cedric came, unfearing, in the dark,
    And saw in gloomy night a form in pain,
    With wings stretched wide, and beating faint and fast.
    ‘Art thou Caradrion?’ he murmured swift,
    And echo gave reply, ‘Caradrion’.”
 
So Cedric told of his errand, and pleaded for help; he heard the answer of the voice:
   “‘Yea, I can save her, if thou be a soul
    That can dare pain and face the rage of fate;
    A soul that feareth not to look on death.’ 
    ‘Speak on,’ said Cedric, shaking, and he spoke:
    ‘This is my law, that am Caradrion,
    Whose way is sorrow and whose end is death;
    That by my pain some fleeting grace I win,
    Some joy unto another I can give.
    Far through this world of woe I seek, and find
    Some soul crushed utterly, and steeped in pain;
    And when it sleeps, I stoop on silent wing,
    And with a kiss take all its woe away—
    Take it for mine, and then into this cave
    Return alone, the blessing’s price to pay.’ 
    Then up sprang Cedric. ‘Nay,’ he,’ cried, ‘then swift,
    Ere life be gone!’ But once more spake the voice:
    ‘Nay, boy, my race is run, my power is spent;
    This hope alone I give thee, as thou wilt;
    Whoso stands by and sees my heart-throb cease,
    Who tastes its blood, my power and form are his,
    And forth he fares in solitary flight,
    Caradrion, the consecrate to pain.
    And so my word is said; now hide thee far
    In the cave’s night, and wrestle there in prayer.’ 
    But Cedric said, ‘My prayer is done; I wait.’ 
    So in the cave the hours of night sped by,
    And sounds came forth as when a woman fights
    In savage pain a life from hers to free.”
 
Then in the dawn a dark shadow flew from the cave, and sped across the blue, and came to the little vale, where Eileen lay dying, as he had seen her in the vision in the “haggard woman’s” cavern.
   “Then Cedric sprang, and cried, ‘My love! Eileen!’ 
    And Eileen heard him not; nor knew he wept.—
    For mighty sorrow burst from out his heart,
    And flooded all his being, and he sunk,
    And moaned: ‘Eileen, I love thee! Yea, I love,
    And loved thee ever; and I can not think
    That I shall never gaze upon thee more.
    My life for thine—ah, that were naught to give,
    Meant not the gift to see thee nevermore!
    Never to hear thy voice. Nay, nay, Eileen,
    Gaze on me, speak to me, give me but one word,
    And I will go and never more return.’ 
    But Eileen answered not; he touched her hand,
    And she felt nothing. Then he whispered, low,
    ‘Oh, may God keep thee—for it must be done—
    Guard thee, and bless thee, thou my soul’s delight!
    And when thou waken’st, wilt thou think of me,
    Of Cedric, him that loved thee, oh so true?
    Nay, for they said thou shouldst no sorrow know,
    And that would be a sorrow, yea, it would.
    And must thou then forget me, thou my love?
    And canst not give me but one single word,
    To tell me that I do not die in vain?
    Gaze at me, Eileen, see, thy love is here,
    Here as of old, above thee stooping light,
    To press a kiss upon thy tender lips.—
    Ah, I can kiss thee—kiss thee, my Eileen,
    Kiss as of yore, with all my passion’s woe!’ 
    And as he spoke he pressed her to his heart,
    Long, long, with yearning, and he felt the leap
    Of molten metal through his throbbing veins;
    His eyes shot fire, and anguish racked his limbs,
    And he fell back, and reeled, and clutched his brow.
    An instant only gazed he on her face,
    And saw new life within her gray cheek leap,
    And her dark eyelids tremble. Then with moan,
    And fearful struggle, swift he fled away,
    That she might nothing of his strife perceive.
    And then, reminded of his gift of flight,
    He started from the earth, and beat aloft,
    Each sweep of his great wings a torture-stroke
    Upon his fainting heart. And thus away,
    With languid flight he moved, and Eileen, raised
    In new-born joy from off her couch of pain,
    Saw a strange bird into the distance fade.”
 
And so Cedric went back to the seamèd rock, and there he heard a voice calling, “I seek Caradrion!” And as before he answered,
   “Come not, except to sorrow thou be born!”
 
And again, in the cave—
       “The hours of night sped by.
    And sounds came forth as when a woman fights
    In savage pain, a life from hers to free.
 
    But Eileen dwelt within the happy vale,
    Thinking no thought of him that went away.”
 
Section 4. This had come so very easily to Thyrsis that he could not believe that it was good. “Just a little story,” he said to Corydon, when he read it to her, and he was surprised to see how it affected her—how the tears welled into her eyes, and she clung to him sobbing. It meant more to her than any other thing that he had written; it was the very voice of their tenderness and their grief.
Then Thyrsis took it to the one editor he knew who was a lover of poetry, and was surprised again, at this man’s delight. But he smiled sadly as he realized that the editor did not use poetry—they did not praise so recklessly when it was a question of something to be purchased!
“The poem is too long for any magazine,” was the verdict, “and it’s not long enough for a book. And besides, poetry doesn’t sell.” But none the less Thyrsis, who would never take a defeat, began to offer it about; and so “Caradrion” was added to the list of stamp-consuming manuscripts, and set out to see the world at the expense of its creator’s stomach.
So there was one more wasted vision, one more futile effort—and one more grapple with despair, in the hours when he and his wife sat wrapped in a blanket in the tenement-room. Corydon was growing more nervous and unhappy every day, it seemed to him. There were, apparently, endless humiliations to be experienced by a woman “whose husband did not support her”. Some zealous relative had suggested to her the idea that the “hall-boys” might think she was not really married; and so now she was impelled to speculate upon the psychology of these Ethiopian functionaries, and look for slights and disapproval from them!
Thyrsis, from much work and little sleep, was haggard and wild of aspect; the cry of the world, “Take a position!” rang in his ears day and night. The springs of book-reviews had dried up entirely, and by sheer starvation he was forced to a stage lower yet. A former college friend was editing a work of “contemporary biography”, and offered Thyrsis some hack-writing. It meant the carrying home of huge bundles of correspondence from the world’s most brightly-shining lights, and the making up of biographical sketches from their eulogies of themselves. With every light there came a portrait, showing what manner of light it was. As for Thyrsis, he did his writing with the feeling that he would like to explore with a poniard the interiors of each one of these people.
For nearly three months now an eminent editor had been trying to summon up the courage to accept “The Hearer of Truth”. He had written several letters to tell the author how good a work it was; and now that it was to be definitely rejected, he soothed his conscience by inviting the author to lunch. The function came off at one of the most august and stately of the city’s clubs, a marble building near Fifth Avenue, where Thyrsis, with a new clean collar, and his worn shoes newly shined, passed under the suspicious eyes of the liveried menials, and was ushered before the eminent editor. About the vast room were portraits of bygone dignitaries; and there were great leather-upholstered arm-chairs in which one might see the dignitaries of the present—some of them with little tables at their sides, and decanters and soda and cracked ice. They went into the dining-room, where everyone spoke and ate in whispers, and the waiters flitted about like black and white ghosts; and while Thyrsis consumed a cupful of cold bouillon, and a squab en casserole, and a plate of what might be described as an honorific salad, he listened to the soft-voiced editor discussing the problem of his future career.
The editor’s theme was what the public wanted. The world had existed for a long time, it seemed, and was not easily to be changed; it was necessary for an author to take its prejudices into consideration—especially if he was young, and unknown, and—er—dependent upon his own resources. It seemed to Thyrsis, as he listened, that the great man must have arranged this luncheon as a stage-setting for his remarks—planning it on purpose to light a blaze of bitterness in the soul of the hungry poet. “Look at me,” he seemed to say—“this is the way the job is done. Once I was poor and unknown like you—actually, though you might not credit it, a raw boy from the country. But I had taste and talent, and I was judicious; and so now for thirty years I have been at the head of one of the country’s leading magazines. And see—by my mere word I am able to bring you here into the very citadel of power! For these men about you are the masters of the metropolis. There is a rich publisher—his name is a household word—and you saw how he touched me on the shoulder. There is an ex-mayor of the city—you saw how he nodded to me! Yonder is the head of one of the oldest and most exclusive of the city’s landed families—even with him I am acquainted! And this is power! You may know it by all these signs of mahogany furniture, and leather upholstery, and waiters of reverential deportment. You may know it by the signs of respectability and awesomeness and chaste abundance. Make haste to pay homage to it, and enroll yourself in its service!”
Thyrsis held himself in, and parted from the editor with all courtesy; but then, as he walked down Fifth Avenue, his fury burst into flame. Here, too, was power—here, too, the signs of it! Palaces of granite and marble, arid towering apartment-hotels; an endless vista of carriages and automobiles, with rich women lolling in them, or descending into shops whose windows blazed with jewels and silver and gold. Here were the masters of the metropolis, the masters of life; the dispensers of patronage—that “public” which he had to please. He would bring his vision and lay it at their feet, and they would give him or deny him opportunity! And what was it that they wanted? Was it worship and consecration and love? One could read the answer in their purse-proud glances; in the barriers of steel and bronze with which they protected the gates of their palaces; in the aspects of their flunkeys, whose casual glances were like blows in the face. One could read the answer in the pitiful features of the little errand-girl who went past, carrying some bit of their splendor to them; or of the ragged beggar, who hovered in the shelter of a side-street, fearing their displeasure. No, they were not lovers of life, and protectors; they were parasites and destroyers, devourers of the hopes of humanity! Their splendors were the distilled essence of the tears and agonies of millions of defeated people—their jewels were drops of blood from the heart of the human race!
Section 5. So, with rage and bitterness, Thyrsis was gnawing out his soul in the night-time; distilling those fierce poisons which he was to pour into the next of his works—the most terrible of them all, and the one which the world would never forgive him.
There came another episode, to bring matters to a crisis. In the far Northwest lived another branch of Thyrsis’ family, the head of which had become what the papers called a “lumber-king”. One of this great man’s radiant daughters was to be married, and the family made the selecting of her trousseau the occasion for a flying visit to the metropolis. So there were family reunions, and Thyrsis was invited to bring his wife and call.
Corydon voiced her perplexity.
“What do they want to see us for?” she asked.
“I belong to their line,” he said.
“But—you are poor!” she exclaimed.
“I know,” he said, “but the family’s the family, and they are too proud to be snobbish.”
“But—why do they ask me?”
Thyrsis pondered. “They know we have published a book,” he said. “It must be their tribute to literature.”
“Are they people of culture?” she asked.
“Not unless they’ve tried very hard,” he answered. “But they have old traditions—and they want to be aristocratic.”
“I won’t go,” said Corydon. “I couldn’t stand them.”
And so Thyrsis went alone—to that same temple of luxury where he had called upon the college-professor. And there he met the lumber-king, who was tall and imposing of aspect; and the lumber-queen, who was verging on stoutness; and the three lumber-princesses, who were disturbing creatures for a poet to gaze upon. It seemed to Thyrsis that he had been dwelling in the slums all his life—so sharp was the shock which came to him at the meeting with these young girls. They were exquisite beyond telling: the graceful lines of their figures, the perfect features, the radiant complexions; the soft, filmy gowns they wore, the faint, intoxicating perfumes that clung to them, the atmosphere of serenity which they radiated. There was that in Thyrsis which thrilled at their presence—he had been born into such a world, and might have had such a woman for his mate.
But he put such thoughts from him—he had made his choice long ago, and it was not the primrose-path. Perhaps he was over-sensitive, acutely aware of himself as a strange creature with no cuffs, and with hardly any soles to his shoes. And all the time of these women was taken up by the arrival of packages of gowns and millinery; their conversation was of diamonds and automobiles, and the forthcoming honeymoon upon the Riviera. So it was hard for him not to feel bitterness; hard for him to keep his thoughts from going back to the lonely child-wife wandering about in the park—to all her deprivations, her blasted hopes and dying glories of soul.
The family was going to the matin&............