Love's Pilgrimage Part 58

"It isn't easy for them to understand," said Thyrsis. "They have never been poor--"

"That woman talks about the Greek love of beauty! What sacrifice has she ever made for beauty--what agony has she ever dared for it? And yet she can prattle about it--the phrases roll from her! She's been educated--polished--finished! She's been taught just what to say! And I haven't been taught, and so she despises me!"

"It's deeper than that, my dear," he said. "You have something in you that she would hate instinctively."

"What do you mean?"

"I've told you before, dearest. It's genius, I think.

"Genius! But what use is it to me, if it is? It only unfits me for life.

It eats me up, it destroys me!"

"Some day," he said, "you will find a way to express it. It will come, never fear.--But now, dear, be sensible. The ground is wet, and if you sit there, you will surely be laid up with rheumatism."

He lifted her up; but she was not to be diverted. Suddenly she turned, and caught him by the arms. "Thyrsis!" she cried. "Tell me! Do you blame me as she does? Do you think I'm weak and incompetent?"

Whatever answer he might have been inclined to make, he saw in her wild eyes that only one answer was to be thought of. "Certainly not, my dear!" he said, quickly. "How could you ask me such a question?"

"Oh, tell me! tell me!" she exclaimed. And so he had to go on, and sing the song of their love to her, and pour out balm upon her wounded spirit.

But afterwards he went alone; and then it was not so simple. Little demons of doubt came and tormented him. Might it not be that there was something in the point of view of the Channings? He took Corydon at her own estimate--at the face value of her emotions; but might it not be that he was deluding himself, that he was a victim of his own infatuation?

He would ponder this; he tried to have it out with himself for once.

What did he really think about it? What would he have told Corydon if he had told her the bald truth? But such doubts could not stay with him for long. They brought shame to him. He was like a man travelling across the plains, who comes upon the woman he loves, being tortured by a band of Apaches; and who is caught and bound fast, to watch the proceedings.

Would such a man spend his time asking whether the woman was weak and incompetent? No--his energies would be given to getting his arms loose, and finding out where the guns were. He would set her free, and give her a chance; and then it would be time enough to measure her powers and pa.s.s judgment upon her.

Section 6. It was a long time before the family got over that visitation. Corydon burned all Channing's books and she wrote a long and indignant letter to Mrs. Channing, and then burned the letter. Thyrsis never told her about his conversation with the husband, for he knew she would never get over that insult. For himself, he concluded that the Channings were lucky in having got into a quarrel with them, as otherwise he would surely have compelled them to lend him some money.

In truth, the advent of some fairy-G.o.dmother or Lady Bountiful was badly needed just then. They had struggled desperately to keep within the thirty-dollar limit, but it could no longer be done. Illnesses were expensive luxuries; and there was the typwriting of the book--some twenty dollars so far; also, there were many things that happened when one was running a household--a tooth-ache, or a telegram, or a hot-water bottle that got a hole in it, or a horse that ran away and broke a shaft. Little by little the bills they had been obliged to run up at the grocer's and the butcher's and the doctor's had been getting beyond the limits of their monthly check; and to cap the climax, there came a letter from Henry Darrell, saying that the next two checks would be the last he could possibly send.

So Thyrsis set to work once more at the sh.e.l.l of that tough old oyster, the world. He made out a "scenario" of the rest of his new book, and sent it with the part he had already done to his friend Mr. Ardsley.

Then for three weeks he waited in dread suspense; until at last came a letter asking him to call and talk over his proposition.

Mr. Ardsley had been reading all Thyrsis' ma.n.u.scripts, nor had he failed to note the triumph of "The Genius" abroad. It became at once apparent to Thyrsis that the new book had scored with him; it was a book that could hardly fail, he said--if only it were finished as it had been begun. Thyrsis made it clear that he intended to finish it; no man could gaze into his wild eyes, and hear him talk of it in breathless excitement, without realizing that he would die, if need be, rather than fail.

So then the author went in to have a talk with the head of the firm.

He spread out the treasures of his soul before this merchant, and the merchant sat and appraised them with a cold and critical eye. But Thyrsis, too, had learned something about trade by this time, and was watching the merchant; he made a desperate effort and summoned up the courage to state his demands--he wanted five hundred dollars advance, in installments, and he wanted fifteen per cent. royalty upon the book. To his wonder and amazement the merchant never turned a hair at this; and before they parted company, the incredible bargain had been made, and waited only the signing of the contracts!

Thyrsis went out from the building like a blind man who had suddenly received his sight. It seemed to him at that moment as if the last problem of his life had been solved. He sent off a telegram to Corydon to tell her of the victory, and a letter to Darrell, saying that he need send no more money--that the path was clear before his feet at last!

Section 7. This marked a new stage in the family's financial progress; and as usual it was signalized by a grand debauch in bill-paying. Also there was a real table-cover for Corydon, and a vase in which she might put spring-flowers; there were new dresses for the baby, and more important yet, a new addition to the house. This was to be a sort of lean-to at the rear, sixteen feet wide and eight feet deep, and divided into two apartments, one of which was to be the kitchen, and the other an extra bed-room. For they were going to keep a servant!

This was a new decision, to which they had come after much hesitation and discussion. It would be a frightful expense--including the cost of the extra food it would add over thirty dollars a month to their expenses; but it was the only way they could see the least hope of freedom, of any respite from household drudgery. It had been just a year now since they had set out upon their adventure in domesticity; and in that time Corydon figured that she had prepared two thousand meals for the baby. She had fed each one of them, spoonful by spoonful, into his mouth; and also she had washed two thousand spoons and dishes, and brushed off two thousand tables, and swept two thousand floors. And with every day of such drudgery the heights of music and literature seemed further away and more unattainable.

Thyrsis had seen something of servants in earlier days--he had memories of strange figures that during intervals of prosperity had flitted through his mother's home. There had been the frail, anaemic Swedish woman, who lived on tea and sugar, and afterwards had gone away and borne nine children, more frail and anaemic than herself; there had been the stout personage with the Irish brogue who had dropped the Christmas turkey out of the window and had not taken the trouble to go down after it; there had been the little old negress who had gone insane, and hurled the salt-box at his mother's head. But Thyrsis was hoping that they might avoid such troubles themselves; he had an idea that by watching at Castle Garden they might lay hold upon some young peasant-girl from Germany, who would be untouched by any of the corruptions of civilization. "A sort of Dorothea", he suggested to Corydon; and they agreed that they would search diligently and find such a "_treffliches Madchen_", who would be trusting and affectionate, and would talk in German with the baby.

So now he spent several days hunting in strange places; and at last, in a dingy East-side employment-office, he came upon his _Schatz_. She was buxom and hearty, and fairly oozed good-nature at every pore; she had only been a week in the country, and was evidently nave enough for any purpose whatever. She had no golden hair like Dorothea, but was swarthy--her German was complicated with a Hungarian accent, and with strange words that one had not come upon in Goethe and Freitag, and could not find in any dictionary.

Thyrsis helped to gather up her various bags and bundles, and transported her out to the country. On the train he set to work to gain her confidence, and was forthwith entertained with the tale of all her heart-troubles. Back in the Hungarian village she had fallen in love with the son of a rich farmer, quite in Hermann and Dorothea fas.h.i.+on; but alas, in this case there had been no "_gute verstandige Mutter_" and no "_wurdiger Pfarrer_"--instead there had been a hateful step-mother, and so the "_treffliches Madchen_" had had to come away.

They reached the little cottage at last; and then what a house-cleaning there was, what scrubbing of floors; and brus.h.i.+ng out the cobwebs, and scouring of lamp-chimneys and sc.r.a.ping of kettles and sauce-pans! And what a relief it was for Corydon and Thyrsis to be able to go off for a walk together, without first having to carry the baby up to the farm-house! And how very poetical it was to come back and discover Dorothea with the baby in her lap, feeding it a supper of _b.u.t.ter-brod_ with a slice of raw bacon!

As time went on, alas, it came more and more to seem that the Dorothea idyl had not been meant to be taken as a work of realism. The "_treffliches_ _Maedchen_" was perhaps _too_ kind-hearted; her emotions were too voluminous for so small a house, her personality seemed to spread all over it. She would sing Hungarian love-ditties at her work; and somehow calling these "folksongs" did not help matters. Also, alas, she distributed about the house strange odors--of raw onions, boiled cabbage and perspiration. So, after three weeks, poor Dorothea had to be sent away--weeping copiously, and bewildered over this cruel misfortune.

Corydon and Thyrsis went back again to was.h.i.+ng their own dishes; being glad to pay the price for quietness and privacy, and vowing that they would never again try, to "keep a servant".

Section 8. The spring-time had come; not so much the spring-time of poets and song-birds, as the spring-time of cold rains and wind. But still, little by little, the sun was getting the better of his enemies; and so with infinite caution they reduced the quant.i.ty of the baby's apparel, and got him and his "bongie cowtoos" out upon the piazza.

Meantime Thyrsis was over at his own place, wrestling with the book again. He had told himself that it would be easy, now that he was free from the money-terror. But alas, it was not easy, and nothing could make it easy. If he had more energy, it only meant that his vision reached farther, and set him a harder task. Never in his life did he write a book, the last quarter of which was not to him a nightmare labor. He would be staggering, half blind with exhaustion--like a runner at the end of a long race, with a rival close at his heels.

Also, as usual, his stomach was beginning to weaken under the strain.

He would come over sometimes, late in the afternoon, and lay his head in Corydon's lap, almost sobbing from weariness; and yet, after he had eaten a little and helped her with the hardest of her tasks, he would go away again, and work half through the night. There was nothing else he could do--there was no escaping from the thing; if he lay down to rest, or went for a walk, it would be only to think about it the whole time.

He would feel that he was not getting enough exercise, and he would drive himself to some bodily tasks; but there was never anything that he could do, that he did not have the book eating away at his mind in the meantime. It was one of the calamities of his life that there was no way for him to play; all he could do was to take a stroll with Corydon, or to tramp over the country by himself.

He finished the book in May; and he knew that it was good. He sent it off to Mr. Ardsley, and Mr. Ardsley, too, declared himself satisfied, and sent the balance of the money. So Thyrsis sank back to get his breath, and to put back some flesh upon his skeleton. He was wont to say when he was writing, one could measure his progress upon a scales; every five thousand words he finished cost him a Shylock's price.

This summer was, upon the whole, the happiest time they had yet known.

The book was scheduled to appear early in September; and they had money enough to last them meantime, with careful economy. Their little home was beautiful; they planted some sweet peas and roses, and Thyrsis even began to dig at a vegetable-garden. Also, it was strawberry-time, and cherry-time was near; nor did they overlook the fact that they lived in close proximity to a peach-orchard. These, perhaps, were prosaic considerations, and not of the sort which Thyrsis had been accustomed to a.s.sociate with spring-time. But this he hardly realized--so rapidly was the discipline of domesticity bringing his haughty spirit to terms!

He built a rustic seat in the woods, where they might sit and read; he built a table beside the house, where the dishes might be washed under the blue sky; and he perfected an elaborate set of ditches and d.y.k.es, so that the rain-storms would not sweep away their milk and b.u.t.ter in the stream. He talked of building a pen for chickens--and might have done so, only he discovered that the perverse creatures would not lay except at the time when eggs were cheap and one did not care so much about them. He even figured on the cost of a cow, and the possibility of learning to milk it; and was so much enthralled by these bucolic occupations that he wrote a magazine-article to acquaint his struggling brother and sister poets with the fact that they, too, might escape to the country and live in a home-made house!

With the article there went a picture of the house, and also one of the baby, who had been waxing enormous, and now const.i.tuted a fine advertis.e.m.e.nt. The winter had seemed to agree with him, and the summer agreed with him even better. Thyrsis would smile now and then, thinking of his ideas of martyrdom; it was made evident that one member of the family was not minded for anything of the sort. The parents might become so much absorbed in their soul-problems that they forgot the dinner-hour; but one could have set his watch by the appet.i.te of the baby. Nature had provided him, among other protections, with a truly phenomenal pair of lungs; and whenever life took a course that was not satisfactory to him, he would roar his face to a terrifying purple.

He was one overwhelming and incessant outcry for adventure. He would toddle all day about the place, getting his "mungies" into all sorts of messes. He was hard to fit into so small a place, and there were times when his parents were tempted to wish that some phenomenon a trifle less portentous had fallen to their lot. But for the most part he was a great hope--a sort of visible atonement for their sufferings. He at least was an achievement; he was something they had done. And he could not be undone, nor doubted--he put all skepticism to flight. In his vicinity there was no room for pessimistic philosophies, for _Weltschmerz_ or _Karma_.

Thyrsis would sit now and then and watch him at play, and think thoughts that went deep into the meaning of things. Here was, in its very living presence, that blind will-to-be which had seized them and flung them together. And it seemed to Thyrsis that somehow Nature, with her strange secret chemistry, had reproduced all the elements they had brought to that union. This child was immense, volcanic, as their impulse had been; he was intense, highly-strung, and exacting--and these qualities too they had furnished. Curious also it was to observe how Nature, having accomplished her purpose, now flung aside her concealments and devices.

From now on they existed to minister to this new life-phenomenon, to keep it happy and prosperous and she cared not how plain this might become to them--she feared not to taunt and humiliate them. And they accepted her sentence meekly, they no longer tried to oppose her. Her will was become an axiom which they never disputed, which they never even discussed. No matter what might happen to them in future, the Child must go on!

Section 9. Thyrsis utilized this summer of leisure to begin a course of reading in Socialism--a subject which had been stretching out its arms to him ever since he had made the acquaintance of Henry Darrell. He had held away from it on purpose, not wis.h.i.+ng to complicate his mind with too many problems. But now he had finished with history, and was free to come back to the world of the present.

There were the pamphlets that Darrell had given him, and there was Paret's magazine. Strange to say, the latter's reckless jesting with the philanthropists and reformers no longer offended Thyrsis--he had been travelling fast along the road of disillusionment. Also, there was a Socialist paper in New York--"The Worker"; and more important still, there was the "Appeal to Reason". Thyrsis came upon a chance reference to this paper, which was published in a little town in Kansas, and he was astonished to learn that it claimed a circulation of two hundred thousand copies a week. He became a subscriber, and after that the process of his "conversion" was rapid.

The Appeal was an "agitation-paper". Its business was to show that side of the capitalist process which other publications tried to conceal, or at any rate to gild and dress up and make presentable. Each week came four closely-printed newspaper-pages, picturing horrors in mills and mines, telling of oppression and injustice, of unemployment and misery, accident, disease and death. There would be accounts of political corruption--of the buying of legislatures and courts, of the rule of "machines" of graft in city and state and nation. There would be tales of the manners and morals of the idle rich, set against others of the sufferings of the poor. And week by week, as he read and pondered, Thyrsis began to realize the absurd inadequacy of the placid statement which he had made to his first Socialist acquaintance--that the solution of such problems was to be left to "evolution". It became only too clear to him that here was another war--the cla.s.s-war; and that it was being fought by the masters with every weapon that cunning and greed could lay hands upon or contrive. In that struggle Thyrsis saw clearly that his place was in the ranks of the disinherited and dispossessed.

This was not a difficult decision; for in the first place he was one of the disinherited and dispossessed himself; and in the next place, even before the "economic screw" had penetrated his consciousness, he had been a rebel in his sympathies and tastes. Jesus, Isaiah, Milton, Sh.e.l.ley--such men as these had been the friends of his soul; and he had sought in vain for their spirit in modern society--he had thought that it was dead, and that he, and a few other lonely dreamers in garrets, were the only ones who knew or cared about it. But now he came upon the amazing discovery that this spirit, driven from legislative-halls and courts of justice, from churches and schools and editorial sanctums, had flamed into life in the hearts of the working cla.s.s, and was represented in a political party which numbered some thirty millions of adherents and cast some seven million votes!

Beginning nearly a century ago, these workmgmen had taken the spirit of Jesus and Isaiah and Milton and Sh.e.l.ley, and had worked out a scientific basis for it, and a method whereby it could be made to count in the world of affairs. They had a.n.a.lyzed all the evils of modern society--poverty and luxury, social and political corruption, prost.i.tution, crime and war; they had not only discovered the causes of them, but had laid down with mathematical precision the remedies, and had gone on to carry the remedies into effect. In every civilized land upon the globe they were at work as a political party of protest; they were holding conventions and adopting programs; they had an enormous literature, they were publis.h.i.+ng newspapers and magazines, many of them having circulations of hundreds of thousands of copies.

The strangest thing of all was this. Thyrsis was an educated man--or was supposed to be. He had spent five years in schools, and nine years in colleges and universities; he had given the scholars of the world full opportunity to guide him to whatever was of importance. Also, he had been an omnivorous reader upon his own impulse; and here he was, at the end of it all--practically ignorant that this enormous movement existed!

In economic cla.s.ses in college there had, of course, been some mention of Socialism; but this had been of the utopian variety, the dreams of Plato and St. Simon and Fourier. There had been some account of the innumerable communities which had sprung up in America--with careful explanation, however, that they had all proven failures. Also one heard vaguely of Marx and La.s.salle, two violent men, whose ideas were still popular among the ignorant ma.s.ses of Europe, but could be of no concern to the fortunate inhabitants of a free Republic.

And then, after this, to come upon some piece of writing--such as, for instance, the "Communist Manifesto"! To read this mile-stone in the progress of civilization, this marvellous exposition of the development of human societies, and of the forces which drive and control them; and to realize that two lonely students, who had cast in their lot with the exploited toilers, had been able to predict the whole course of political and industrial evolution for sixty years, and to foresee and expound with precision the ultimate outcome of the whole process--matters of which the orthodox economists were still as ignorant as babes unborn!

Or to discover the writings of such a man as Karl Kautsky, the intellectual leader of the modern movement in Germany; such books as "The Social Revolution", and "The Road to Power"--in which one seemed to see a giant of the mind, standing in a death-duel with those forces of night and destruction that still made of the fair earth a h.e.l.l! With what accuracy he was able to measure the strength of these powers of evil, to antic.i.p.ate their every move, to plan the exact parry with which to meet them! To Thyrsis he seemed like some general commanding an army in battle, with the hopes of future ages hanging upon his skill. But this was a general who fought, not with sword and fire, but with ideas; a conqueror in the cause of "right reason and the will of G.o.d". He wrote simply, as a scientist; and yet one could feel the pa.s.sion behind the quiet words--the hourly shock of the incessant conflict, the grim persistence which pressed on in the face of obloquy and persecution, the courage which had been tested through generations of anguish and toil.

Thyrsis' mind rushed through these things like prairie-fire; and all the time that he read, his wonder grew upon him. How _could_ he have been kept ignorant of them? He was quick to pounce upon the essential fact, that this was no accident; it was something that must have been planned and brought about deliberately. He had thought that he was being educated, when in reality he was being held back and fenced off from truth. It was a world-wide conspiracy--it was that very cla.s.s-war which the established order was waging upon these men and their ideas!

Section 10. It was not difficult for any one to understand the ideas, if he really wished to. They began with the fact of "surplus value". One man employed another man for the sake of the wealth he could be made to produce, over what he was paid as wages. That seemed obvious enough; and yet, what consequences came from following it up! Throughout human history men had been setting other men to work; whether they were called slaves, or serfs, or laborers, or servants, the motive-power which had set them to work had been the desire for "surplus value". And as the process went on, those who appropriated the profits combined for mutual protection; and so out of the study of "surplus value" came the discovery of the "cla.s.s-struggle". Human history was the tale of the arising of some dominating cla.s.s, and of the struggle of some subject cla.s.s for a larger share of what it produced. Human governments were devices by which the master-cla.s.s preserved its power; and whatever may have been the original purposes of arts and religions, in the end they had always been seized by the master-cla.s.s, and used as aids in the same struggle.