“Too quick despairer, wherefore wilt thou go?         Soon will the high Midsummer pomps come on.”
 
“Do you remember how you used to tell me that?” she whispered. “Hoping—always hoping!”
“And always young!” he added.
“How did I keep so?” she said, with wonder in her voice; and he read—
   “Thou nearest the immortal chants—of old!—
        Putting his sickle to the perilous grain
            In the hot corn-field of the Phrygian king,
        For thee the Lityerses-song again
            Young Daphnis with his silver voice doth sing!”
 
Then a smile of mischief crossed her face, and she asked, “Which Daphnis?”
Section 1. Thyrsis came back to his home in the country, divided between satisfaction over the four hundred dollars worth of booty he had captured, and a great uneasiness concerning his novel. It had had with the critics all the success that he could have asked, but unfortunately it did not seem to be selling. Already it had been out three weeks, and the sales had been only a thousand copies. The publisher confessed himself disappointed, but said that it was too early to be certain; they must allow time for the book to make its way, for the opinions of the reviews to take effect.
And so, for week after week, Thyrsis watched and hoped against hope—the old, heart-sickening experience. In the end he came to realize that he had achieved that most cruel of all literary ironies, the succés d’estime. The critics agreed that he had written a most unusual book; but then, the critics did not really count—they had no way of making their verdict effective. What determined success or failure was the department-store public. It would take a whim for a certain novel; and when a novel had once begun to sell, it would be advertised and pushed to the front, and everything else would give way before it, quite regardless of what the critic’s had said. A book-review appeared only once, but an advertisement might appear a score of times, and be read all over the country. So the public would have pounded into its consciousness the statement that “Hearts Aflame”, by Dorothy Dimple, was a masterpiece of character-drawing, full of thrilling incident and alive with pulsing passion. The department-store public, which was not intelligent enough to distinguish between a criticism and an advertisement, would accept all these opinions at their face-value. And that was success; even the critics bowed to it in the end—as you might note by the change in their tone when they came to review the next work by this “popular” novelist.
So Thyrsis faced the ghastly truth that another year and a half of toiling and waiting had gone for nothing—the heights of opportunity were almost as far away as ever. He had to summon up his courage and nerve himself for yet another climb; and Corydon would have to face the prospect of another winter in the “soap-box in a marsh”.
It was now November, and Thyrsis had written nothing but Socialist manifestoes for six months. He was restless and chafing again; but living in distress as they were, he could not get his thoughts together at all. He must have been a trying person to live in the house with at such a time. “You ask me to take love for granted,” said Corydon to him once; “but how can I, when your every expression is contradictory to love?”
How could he explain to her his trouble? Here again was the pressure of that dreadful “economic screw”, that was crushing their love, and all beauty and joy and hope in their hearts. They might fight against it with all the power of their beings; they might fall down upon their knees together, and pledge themselves with anguish in their voices and tears in their eyes; but still the remorseless pressure would go on, day and night, week after week, without a moment’s respite.
There was this little house, for instance. It was all that Thyrsis wanted, and all that he would ever have wanted; and yet he could not be happy in it, because Corydon was not happy in it. He must be plotting and planning and worrying, straining every nerve to get to another house; he might not even think of any other possibility—that would be treason to her. So always it seemed—he had to turn his face a way that he did not wish to travel, he had to go on against every instinct of his own nature. His love for Corydon was such that he would be ashamed whenever his own instincts showed themselves. But then he would go alone, and try to do his work, and then discover the havoc this had wrought in his own being.
Just now the tension had reached the breaking point; the craving for solitude and peace was eating him up.
“What is it that you want?” asked Corydon, one day.
“I want to be where I don’t have to see anybody,” he cried. “I want to rough it in a tent, as I did once before.”
“But it’s too late to go to the Adirondacks, Thyrsis!”
“I know that,” he said. “But there are other places.”
He had heard of one in Virginia—in that very Wilderness of which he had written so eloquently, but had never seen. “Isn’t there some one who could come and stay with you?” he pleaded.
“I don’t know,” replied Corydon. But the next day, as fate would have it, there came a letter from Delia Gordon, saying that she had finished a certain stage of her study-course, and was tired out and in fear of break-down. So an invitation was sent and accepted, and Thyrsis secured the respite which he craved.
And so behold him as a hermit once more, settled in a deserted cabin not far from the battle-field of Spotsylvania. He had got rid of the vermin in the cabin by burning sulphur, and had stocked his establishment with a canvas-cot and a camp-stool and a lamp and an oil-can, and the usual supply of beans and bacon and rice and corn-meal and prunes. Also he had built himself a rustic table, and unpacked a trunkful of blankets and dishes and writing-pads and books. So once more his life was his own, and a thing of delight to him.
He had promised himself to live off the country, as he had before; but the principal game here was the wild turkey, and the wild turkey proved itself a shy and elusive bird. It was not occupied with meditations concerning literary masterpieces; and so it had a great advantage over Thyrsis, who would forget that he had a gun with him after the first half-hour of a “hunt”.
Section 2. It had now become clear to Thyrsis that he had nothing more to expect from his novel; it had sold less than two thousand copies, which meant that it had not earned the money which had already been advanced to him. But all that was now ancient history—the entrenchments and graveyards of the Wilderness battlefield were not more forgotten and overgrown with new life than was the war-book in Thyrsis’ mind. He had had enough of being a national chronicler which the nation did not want; he had come down to the realities of the hour, to the blazing protest of the new Revolution.
For ten years now Thyrsis had been playing at the game of professional authorship; he had studied the literary world both high and low, and had seen enough to convince him that it was an impossible thing to produce art in such a society. The modern world did not know what art was, it was incapable of forming such a concept. That which it called “art” was fraud and parasitism—its very heart was diseased.
For the essence of art was unselfishness; it was an emotion which overflowed, and which sought to communicate itself to others from an impulse of pure joy. It was of necessity a social thing; the supreme art-products of the race had been, like the Greek tragedy and the Gothic cathedral, a result of the labor of a whole community. And what could the modern man, a solitary and predatory wolf in the wilderness of laissez faire—what could he conceive of such a state of soul? What would happen to a man who gave himself up to such a state of soul, in a community where the wolf-law and the wolf-customs prevailed?
A grim purpose had been forming itself in Thyrsis’ mind. He would suppress the artist in himself for the present—he would do it, cost whatever agony it might. He would turn propagandist for a while; instead of scattering his precious seed in barren soil, he would set to work to make the soil ready. There was seething in his mind a work of revolutionary criticism, which would sweep into the rubbish-heap the idols of the leisure-class world.
It was his idea to go back to first principles; to study the bases of modern society, and show how its customs and institutions came to be, and interpret its art as a product of these. He would show what the modern artist was, and how he got his living, and how this moulded his work. He would take the previous art-periods of history and study them, showing by what stages the artist had evolved, and so gaining a stand-point from which to prophesy what he would come to be in the future. Only once had an attempt ever been made to apply to questions of art the methods of science—in Nordau’s “Degeneration”. But then Nordau’s had been pseudo-science—three-quarters impertinence and conceit. The world still waited to understand its art-products in the light of scientific Socialism.
Such was the task which Thyrsis was planning. It would mean years of study, and how he was to get the means to do it, he could not guess. But he had his mind made up to do it, though it might be the last of his labors, though everything else in his life might end in shipwreck. He went about all day, possessed with the idea; it would be a colossal work, an epoch-making work—it would be the culmination of his efforts and the vindication of his claims. It would save the men who came after him; and to save the men who came after him had now become the formula of his life.
Section 3. Thyrsis would come back from a sojourn such as this with all his impulses of affection and sympathy renewed; he would have had time to miss Corydon, and to realize how closely he was bound to her. He would be eager to tell her all his adventures, and the wonderful plans which he had formed.
But this time it was Corydon who had adventures to narrate. He realized as soon as he saw her that she had something upon her mind; and at the first occasion she led him off to his own study, and shut the door. He got a fire going, and she sat opposite him and gazed at him.
“Thyrsis,” she said, “I hardly know how to begin.”
It was all very formal and mysterious. “What is it, dear?” he asked.
“It’s something terrible,” she whispered. “I’m afraid you’re going to be angry.”
“What is it?” he repeated, more anxiously.
“I was angry myself, at first,” she said; “but I’ve got over it now. And I want you please to be reasonable.”
“Go on, dear.”
“Thyrsis,” she whispered, after a pause, “it’s Harry.”
“Harry?”
“Harry Stuart, you know.”
“Oh,” said he. He had all but forgotten the young drawing-teacher, whom he had left doing Socialist cartoons.
“Well?” he inquired.
“You see, Thyrsis, I always liked him very much. And he’s been coming up here—quite a good deal. I didn’t see why he shouldn’t come—Delia liked him too, and she was with us most of the time. Was it wrong of me to let him come?”
“I don’t know,” said he. “Tell me.”
“Perhaps it’s silly of me,” Corydon continued, hesitatingly—“but I’m always imagining things about people. And he seemed to me to have such possibilities. He has—how shall I say it—”
“I recall your saying he had soulful eyes,” put in Thyrsis.
“You’ll make fun of it all, of course,” said Corydon. “But it’s really very tragic. You see, he’s never met a woman like me before.”
“I can believe that, my dear.”
“I mean—a woman that has any real ideas. He would ask me questions by the hour; and we talked about everything. So, of course, we talked about love; and he—he asked if I was happy.”
“I see,” said Thyrsis, grimly. “Of course you said that you were miserable.”
“I didn’t say much. I told him that your work was hard, and that my courage wasn’t always equal to my task. Anyone can see that I have suffered.”
“Yes, dear,” said Thyrsis, “of course. Go on.”
“Well, one day—it was last Friday—he came up with a carriage to take us driving. And Delia had a headache, and wanted to rest, and so Harry and I went alone. I—I guess I shouldn’t have gone, but I didn’t realize it. It was a beautiful afternoon, and we both had a good time—in fact, I don’t know when I have been so contentedly happy. We stopped to gather wild flowers, and once we sat by a little stream; and of course, we talked and talked, and before I realized it, twilight was falling, and we were a long way from home.”
“Go on,” said Thyrsis, as she hesitated.
“We started out. I recollected later, though I didn’t seem to notice it at the time—that Harry’s voice seemed to grow husky, and he spoke indistinctly. He had let the horse have the reins, and his arm was on the back of my seat. I hadn’t noticed it; but then—then—fancy my horror—”
“Well?”
“It happened—all of a sudden.” Corydon stammered, her cheeks turning scarlet. “I felt his arm clasp me; and I turned and stared, and his face was close to mine, and his eyes were fairly shining.”
There was a pause. “What did you do?” asked the other.
“I just looked at him calmly, and said, ‘Oh, how could you?’ And at that he took his arm away quickly, and sat up stiff and straight, with a terribly hurt expression. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I was mad.’ And we neither of us spoke a word all the way home. And when we came to the house, I jumped out of the carriage without saying good-night.”
Corydon sat staring at her husband, with her wide-open, anxious eyes. “And was that all?” he asked.
“To-day I had a letter from him. He said he was going away, over the Christmas holidays. He said that he was very much ashamed of himself, and he hoped that I would be able to forgive him. And that’s all.”
They sat for a while in silence. “You won’t be too angry?” asked Corydon, anxiously.
“I’m not angry at all,” he said. “But naturally it’s disturbing. I don’t like to have such things happen to you.”
“It’s strange, you know,” said Corydon, “but I haven’t seemed to stay very indignant. He was so hurt, you know—and I can realize how unhappy he’s been. Curiously enough, I’ve even found myself thinking that I’d like to see him again. And that puzzled me. I felt that I ought to be quite outraged. That he should imagine he could hug me—like any shop-girl!”
They spent many hours discussing this adventure; in fact it was a week or two before they had disposed of it entirely. Thyrsis was hoping that the experience might be utilized to persuade Corydon to modify her utopian attitude towards young men with soulful eyes and waving brown hair. He was at some pains to set forth to her the psychology of the male creature—insisting that he knew more about this than she did, and that his remarks applied to drawing-teachers as well as to all other arts and professions.
The main question, of course, was as to their attitude towards Harry Stuart when he returned. Corydon, it became clear, had forgiven him; the phraseology of his letter was touching, and he was now invested in the glamor of penitence. She insisted that the episode might be overlooked, and that their friendship could go on as before. But Thyrsis argued vigorously that their relationship could never be the same again, and declared that they ought not to meet.
“But then,” Corydon protested, “he’ll be at the Jennings! And I can’t snub him!”
“What does Delia think about it?” he asked.
“Dear me!” Corydon exclaimed. “I haven’t told Delia a word of it!”
“Haven’t told her! But why not?”
“Because she’d be horrified. She’d never speak to Harry Stuart again!”
“But then you want me to speak to him! And even to be cordial to him! You want to go ahead and carry on a sentimental flirtation with him—”
“Oh, Thyrsis!” she protested.
“But that’s what it would come to. And how much peace of mind do you suppose I’d have, while I knew that was going on?”
At which Corydon sighed pathetically. “I’m a fine sort of emancipated woman!” she said. “Don’t you see you’re playing the role of the conventional jealous husband?”
But as she thought over the matter in the privacy of her own mind she was filled with perplexity, and wondered at herself. She found herself actually longing to see Harry Stuart. She asked herself, “Can it really be I, Corydon, who am capable of being interested in any other man besides my husband?” She could not bring herself to face the fact that it was true.
Section 4. Thyrsis went away, and took to wandering about the country, wrestling with his new book. After the fashion of every work that came to possess him, it seemed to possess him as no other work had ever done before. His mind was in a turmoil with it, his thoughts racing from one part to another; he would stop in the midst of pumping a bucket of water or bringing in a supply of wood, to jot down some notes that came to him. Each day he realized more fully the nature of the task. Seated alone at night in his tiny cabin, his spirit would cry out in terror at the burden that had been heaped upon it.
He had decided upon the title of the book—“Art and Money: an Essay in the Economic Interpretation of Literature”. And then, late one night, as he was pondering it, there had flashed over him the form into which he should cast the work; he would make it, not only an exposition of his philosophy, but the story of his life, the cry of his soul. There had come to him an introductory statement; it was a smashing thing—a thing that would arrest and stun! Disraeli had said that a critic was a man who had failed as a creative writer; and Thyrsis would take that taunt and make it into his battle-cry. “I who write this,” he would say—“I am a failure; I am a murdered artist! I sit by the corpse of my dead dreams, I dip my pen into the heart’s blood of my strangled vision!” So he would indict the forces that had murdered him, and through the rest of the book he would pursue them—he would track them to their lair and corner them, and slay them with a sharp sword.
Meantime Delia Gordon had gone back to her studies, and Corydon had settled down to her lonely task. She washed and dressed and fed the baby, and satisfied what she could of his insatiable demands for play. Thyrsis would come and help to get the meals and wash the dishes; but even then he was poor company—he was either tired out, or lost in thought, and his nerves were in such a state that he could not bear to be criticized. It was getting to be harder for him to endure the strain of hearing complaints; and so Corydon shrunk more and more into herself, and took to pouring out her soul in long letters and journals.
“Is it possible,” she wrote to Delia, “that to some people life is a continuous expiation—an expiation of submerged hereditary sins, as well as of conscious ones? A great deal of the time life seems to me a hopeless puzzle; I am so utterly unfitted for the roles I labor to play. Is it that I am too low for my environment? Or can it be that I am too high? Surely there must some day be other things that women can do in the world besides training children. I try to love my task, but I have no talent for it, and it is a frightful strain upon me. After one hour of blocks and choo-choo cars, I am perfectly prostrated. I have been cheated out of the joys of motherhood, that is the truth—the spring was poisoned for me at the very beginning.
“You must not mind my lamentations, dear Delia,” she wrote in another letter. “You can’t imagine how lonely my life is—no, for it is different when you are here. Oh, I am so weary! so weary! It didn’t use to be like this. Every moment of leisure I had I would run and try to study; I would read something—I was always eager and hungry. But now I am dull—I do not follow my inspirations. If only Thyrsis and I might sometimes read together! I love to be read to, but he cannot bear it—he reads three times as fast to himself, he says. He will do it if I am sick; but even then it makes him nervous, and I cannot help but know that, however he tries to hide it. It is one of our troubles, but we know each other’s states of mind intuitively.
“Oh, Delia, was there ever a tragedy in the world like that of our love? (Almost everything in our lives is pain, and so we are coming to stand for pain to each other!) I ask myself sometimes if any two people who love could stand what we have to stand. Sometimes I think they could, if their love was different; but then that thought breaks my heart! Why cannot our love be different, I ask!
“I had one of my frightful fits of unhappiness to-day. It was nothing—it was my fault, I guess. I am very sensitive. But I think it is a tendency of Thyrsis’ temperament to try instinctively to overcome mine. Apparently the only thing that will conquer him is seeing me suffer; then he will give way—he will promise anything I want, blame himself for his rigidity, scourge himself for his blindness, do anything at all I ask. So I tell myself, everything will be different now; the last problem is solved! I see how good and kind he is, how noble his impulses are; he has never failed me in the big things of life.
“I suppose Mr. Harding writes you about us. He was up here this afternoon. He was very gentle and kind to me; he talked about his religion. Did you tell him much about me? It is a singular thing, how he seems to understand without being told. I realized to-day that whenever we talk about my life, we take everything for granted. Also, it seems strange that he does not blame me; generally people who are conventional think that I am selfi............