Upton Sinclair - Love's pilgrimage

Their little fund of money was gone, and so Thyrsis went back to his hack-work. All day he sat by the

window and slaved at it, while Corydon lay upon the bed and read, or wandered about the park by herself. Thyrsis' burden was twice as heavy now, for he had to earn for two; and when in the ecstasies of love she cried out to him that she was his forever, the cruel mockery of circumstance translated this to mean that he would forever have to earn for two!

He wrote more book-reviews, and peddled them about; sometimes he was forced to exchange them for books he reviewed, and then to sell the books for twenty or thirty cents apiece. He wrote up some ideas for political cartoons, and got three dollars for one of them. He wrote a parody upon a popular poem, and got six dollars for that. He met a college friend, just returned from a trip in the Andes, and he patiently collected the material for a narrative, and sold it to a minor magazine for fifteen dollars.

And meanwhile he toiled furiously at another potboiler, a tale of Hessians and Tories and a red-cheeked and irresistible revolutionary heroine, to fill the insatiable maw of the readers of the "Treasure Chest." On one occasion, when everything went wrong, Corydon took the half-dozen solid silver coffee-spoons and the heavy gold-plated berry-spoon which had constituted her outfit of wedding-presents, and sold them to a nearby jeweler for two dollars and a quarter.

But through all this bitter struggle they looked forward to a glorious ending. In April the book would be out—and then they would be free! They would go away to the country—perhaps to the little cabin of last summer! Ah, how they dreamed of that cabin, how they hungered for it! They pictured it, covered in snow, with the ice-bound brook in front of it—both

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the cabin and the brook asleep, and dreaming of the spring-time.

Thyrsis was dreaming of it also, with tears in his eyes v and a mighty passion in his heart; for his new book was calling to him—he had to fight hard to keep it from taking possession of his thoughts and driving the pot-boilers out of the temple.

There came the joyful excitement of reading the proofs of his book; also of inspecting the cover-design, and the sample of the paper, and the "dummy". And then—it was two weeks from now! Then it was only ten days—then only one week. And finally the raptures of the first sample copy!

It was time the publishers had begun to advertise it, and Thyrsis went to see Mr. Taylor about the matter. Mr. Taylor was vague in his replies. Then came publication-day, and still no advertisements; and Thyrsis called again, and insisted and expostulated, and learned to his consternation that they were not going to advertise it; the season was a bad one, the firm had met with unexpected expenses, and so on. When Thyrsis reminded them of their promises, and threatened and stormed, Mr. Taylor informed him quietly that there was nothing in the contract about advertising.

So Thyrsis went home, and tried to forget his rage in the work of disposing of his hundred copies. He had prepared himself for the possibility of everything else failing, but here he had a plan whereby he felt that his deliverance was assured. He had made up a list of a hundred of the best-known men of letters in the country—college presidents and professors, editors and clergymen, novelists and poets and critics; and he had done more hack-work, and earned the twenty dollars it would take to send to each of them a copy of the

book, together with his manifesto, and a little typewritten note. This, he felt, would make certain of the book's being read; and once let the book be read by the real leaders of the country's thought, and his siege would be at an end!

So the packages went to the post-office, freighted with the burden of his hopes and longings. And two or three times a week Thyrsis went to see his publishers, and find out how the book was going. He was never able to ascertain just what they were doing with it, or how they expected to sell it; Mr. Taylor would tell him vaguely that it was doing fairly well—the season was "slow", and he must give the book time to "catch on".

And then came the reviews. A clipping-bureau had written, offering to furnish them at five cents apiece; and this was moderate, considering that there were only a dozen altogether. Most of these were from unimportant out-of-town papers, whose book-reviews are written by the high-school nieces and the elderly maiden-aunts of the publishers. Of the metropolitan newspapers and literary organs, only three noticed the book at all; and two of these gave perfunctory mention, evidently made up from the publisher's statement on the cover.

The third writer had connected the book with the interview in the "Morning Howl", and he wrote a burlesque review of it, in which he hailed it as the "Great American Novel". His method was to retell the story, quoting the most highly-wrought passages, with just enough comment to keep it in the vein of farce. To Thyrsis this mockery came like a blast of fire in the face; he did not know that it was the regular method of the newspaper—a method by means of which it had

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made itself known as the cleverest and most readable paper in the country.

§ 3. ALL this was the harder for him, because it came at a black and spectral hour of his life. It was not enough that the book was falling flat, and that all their hopes were collapsing; a new and most terrible calamity befell them. For three months now they had been dissolved in the bliss of their young dream of love; and now suddenly had come a thunderbolt, splitting the darkness about them, and revealing the grim hand of Fate closing down!

For several years of her life Corydon had carried a trying burden—once each month she would have to lie down for three or four days and be a semi-invalid. And last month this had not happened; the time had come and gone, and she was as well as ever. She had told Thyrsis about it, and how it disturbed her; it might mean nothing, it had happened several times before to her; but then again—it might mean that she had conceived.

The idea had been too frightful to contemplate, however, and they had put it aside. It was not possible —the doctor had told them how to prevent it; he had told them that "everybody" did it, and that they could feel safe.

But now came the second month; and Corydon, filled with a vague terror, waited for the day. And horrible beyond all telling—the day came and went once more! And two days came—three days! And so finally Corydon went to see the doctor.

When she came home again, and entered the room, Thyrsis saw it all in her face, without her uttering a

word. He went sick, all at once; and Corydon sank down upon the bed.

"Well?" he asked, in a hoarse voice.

"It's true," she said.

"And what did he say?"

"He said—he said I was in splendid shape, and that I would have a fine baby!"

And Thyrsis stared at her, and then suddenly burst into wild laughter, and hid his head in his arms. Such was their mood that she could not feel sure whether he was laughing or crying.

Now, indeed, they were facing the reality of life. All the problems with which they had ever wrestled were 'as child's play to this problem; they could sit and read the deadly terror in each other's eyes. Corydon's lip was trembling, and her face was white and drawn and old. So swiftly had fled her young dream of joy!

"Thyrsis," she said, in a low voice, "it means ruin!"

"Yes," he answered.

And she clenched her hands tightly. "I will kill myself first!" she whispered. "I will not drag you down!"

He made no reply.

"Listen, Thyrsis," she went on. "There is only one thing to be thought of. I must get rid of it."

"Get rid of it?" he echoed. "How?"