Upton Sinclair - Love's pilgrimage

Meantime, of course, Thyrsis was hearing from these great men of letters. When he counted up at the end he found that he had received replies from sixteen of them; whether the other eighty-four received his book, or what they did with it, he never knew. Of these sixteen, six wrote formal acknowledgements, and two others said that they found nothing to appeal to them in hi»

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book; so there were left eight who gave him comfort. Several of these were among the really vital men of the time, as Thyrsis found out later, when he came to read their books, and to know them as something other than newspaper names. Several of them wrote him long and really helpful criticisms of his work, recognizing the merits he knew it had, and pointing out defects which he was quick to acknowledge. Four of them even told him that he had undoubted genius, and predicted great things for him. But that was as far as any of them went. They wrote their opinions, and there they stopped, as if at a blank wall. No one among them seemed to feel that he could take any action upon his opinion, however favorable ; not one comprehended that what the boy was groping for was neither praise nor blame, but a chance for life. Not one had any advice of a practical sort to offer; nod: one had any personal or human thing to say ; not one even asked to see him ! And lest this should be due to oversight, or to false delicacy, Thyrsis wrote, in. his desperation, and reminded them that the "genius" they recognized was being killed by starvation. To this, one did not reply, and another advised him to take up newspaper work, as a means of getting in touch with the public" !

It was a ghastly thing to the boy as he came to realize it — this utter deadness and coldness of "the world". Thyrsis himself was all afire with love — with love, not only for his vision and his art, but for all humanity, and for humanity's noblest dreams. His friends were poets and sages of past time, men of generous faith and quick sympathies ; and in all the world of the living, was there not one such man to be found? Was there nothing left upon earth but critical discernment and epistolary politeness?

"

The question pursued him still more, after the one interview which resulted from all this correspondence. There was a distinguished Harvard professor who had told him that he had rare powers and must go on; and hearing that the professor was in New York, Tljvrsis asked the privilege of calling.

It was in one of the city's most expensive hotels— for the professor had married a rich wife, and was what people called "socially prominent". The other did not know this; but it seemed an awful thing to him that anyone should be sitting in a brocaded silk^covered chair in a palace of luxury like this, while possessed of the knowledge that his genius was starving.

"You tell me to go on, professor," he said. "But how

can I go on?"

The professor was fingering his gold eyeglasses and studying his visitor.

"You must get somo kind of routine work," he declared—"enough to support yovu You can't expect to live by your writing."

"But if I do that, I can't write ?' cried Thyrsis-.

"You'll have to do the best you can," said the other.

"But I can't do anything! The emotions of it eat me all up. I daren't even let myself think about my work when I have to do other things."

"I should think," commented the professor, "that you would find you are still more hindered by the uncertainties of hack-work."

"I do find that," the boy replied. "That is just what is the matter with me."

"I'm afraid you'll be forced to a compromise in the end."

"But I won't! I won't!" cried Thyrsis, wildly, "I will starve first!"

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The other said nothing.

"Or I will beg!" added Thyrsis.

The other's look clouded slightly—as the boy, with his quick sensitiveness, noted instantly. "Of course," said the professor, "if you are not ashamed to do that "

"But why should I be ashamed? Greater men than I have begged for their art."

"Yes, I know that. And naturally—I honor that feeling in you. If you have that much fervor—why, of course, you will do it. But I'm a/raid you'll find it a humiliating experience."

"I wouldn't expect to find it a picnic," answered Thyrsis, and took his departure—having perceived that the professor's leading thought was a fear lest he should begin his begging that day.

So there it was! There was the eminent critic, the writer of exquisite appreciations of literature! The darling of the salons of Boston—which called itself the Athens of America and the hub of the universe! A man with a brain full of all the culture of the ages—and with the heart of a mummy and the soul of a snob! He had approved of Thyrsis' consecration with his lips —because he did not dare to disapprove it, because the ghosts of a thousand paupers of genius had stood over him and awed him into silence. But in his secret heart he had despised this wan and haggard boy who threatened to beg; and the boy went out of the palace of luxury, feeling like an outcast rat.

§ 7. FROM this interview Thyrsis went to meet Cory-don in the park; and after he had told her what had happened, they began one more discussion of their great

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problem. This had to be the final one; for the month of respite had passed, and the time for action was come!

Through their long arguments, Thyrsis had gradually come to realize that the decision rested with him. Corydon was in his hands; she had become •& burden upon him, and she would rather she were dead; fend so he had to take the responsibility and issue the command. So through many an hour while Corydon slept he had marshalled the facts and tested them, hungering with all his soul for knowledge of the right.

To bring a child into the world would shatter every plan they had formed. And yet, again and again, he forced himself to face the idea. They had always meant to have children ultimately; and now the gift was offered—and suppose they rejected it, and it should never be offered again ! However unpropitious the hour might be, still the hour was here 5 —the task was already one-third done. And if there were cares and responsibilities, expenses and pains of child-birth—at least they would be for a child; whereas, in the other case, there were also cares and responsibilities, expenses and pains —and for naught!

Throughout all this long pilgrimage of love, Thyrsis had been struck by the part which blind chance had played. It was blind chance that had brought Corydon to the country where he had gone. It was blind chance that he had read his book to her. And then—the chance that he had gone to see a doctor about diet! And that dark accident in the night, that had opened the gates of life to a new human soul! And now, strangest of all—the chance by which this last issue was to be decided ! By a walk in the park, and a casual meeting with a nurse-maid!

"God knows I want to do what is right!" Thyrsis

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had said. "But I just don't know what to say!"— And then they sat down upon a bench, and the nursemaid came and sat beside them.

It was five or ten minutes before Thyrsis noted what was going on. He was lost in his sombre brooding, his eyes fixed upon vacancy; when suddenly he heard Corydon exclaim: "Isn't he a little love!" He turned to look.

The nurse-maid was in charge of a carriage, and in the carriage was a baby; and the baby was smiling at Corydon, and Corydon was smiling back. She was poking her finger at it, and it was catching at the finger with its chubby paws. "Isn't he a little love!" Corydon repeated.

Thyrsis stared at her. But then, quickly, he hid his thought. He even pretended to be interested.

"Isn't he pretty?" she asked him.