Upton Sinclair - Love's pilgrimage

People were quite clear in their views upon this question ; a man must earn his own way in the world. And that was all right, if a man were in the world for himself. But what if he were working for humanity, and had no time to think about himself? Was that truly a disgraceful thing? Take Jesus, for instance; ought he to have kept at his carpenter's trade, instead of preaching the Sermon on the Mount? Or was it that his right to preach the Sermon was determined by the size of the collection he could take among the audience ?

And then, while he pondered this problem of "earning one's own way," Thyrsis was noting the lives of the people who were preaching it. What were they doing to earn the luxuries they enjoyed? Even granting that one recognized their futile benevolence as justifying them personally—what about the tens of thousands of others who lived in utter idleness, squandering in self-indulgence and ostentation huge fortunes of which they

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had never earned a penny? The boy could not go upon the streets of the city without having this monstrous fact flaunted in his face in a thousand forms. So many millions for folly and vice, and not one cent for his art! This was the thing upon which he was brooding day and night—and filling his soul with an awful bitterness which was to horrify the world in. later years.

§ 4. HE might not come to see Corydon in her home; but she would meet him in the street, and they would walk in the park, a pitiful and mournful pair. They had to walk slowly, and often he would have to help her, for her burden had now become great. She had altered all her dresses, and she wore a long cape, and even then was not able to hide the disfigurement of her person. They would sit upon a bench in the cold, and talk about the latest aspects of his struggle, what he was doing and what he hoped to do. Corydon would bring him the opinions of a few more members of the bourgeois world, and they would curse this world and these people together. For there was no more thought of giving up on Corydon's side than there was on his; it was not for nothing that he had talked to her upon the hill-top in the moonlight.

Meanwhile, however, time was passing, and the prospect of her approaching confinement hung over them like a black thunder-cloud. It came on remorselessly, menacingly. The event was due about Christmas time, and there must be some money then—there must be some money then! But where was it to be found ?

Thyrsis had tried another story for the "Treasure Chest," but the editor had not liked his plot. Also he was taking "The Hearer of Truth" from one place to another; but with less and less hope, as he learned from

various editors and publishers how radical and subversive they considered it. He took it now mechanically, as a matter of form—making it his rule always to count upon rejection, so that he might never be disappointed.

One of Corydon's rich friends had told her of a certain famous surgeon, and Cory don. had gone to see him. He had a beautiful private hospital, and his prices were unthinkable; but he had seemed to be interested in her, and when she told him her circumstances, he had said that he would try to "meet her halfway." But even with the reductions he quoted, it would cost them nearly a hundred and fifty dollars; and how could Thyrsis get such a sum? Even if the surgeon were willing to wait—what prospect was there that he could ever get it?

This again was the curse of their leisure-class upbringing. They did not know how poor women had their babies, and they shrunk from the thought of finding it out. Corydon had met this man, and had been im-

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pressed by him; and Thyrsis realized, even if she did not, that she had got her heart set upon the plan. And if he did not make it possible, and then anything were to go wrong with her, how would he ever be able to forgive himself? This event would come but once, and might mean so much to them.

So he said to himself that he would "raise the money". But the days passed and became weeks, and the weeks became months, and there was no sign of the raising. And then suddenly came one of those shafts of sunlight through the clouds—one of those will-o'-the-wisps that were forever luring Thyrsis into the swamps. Another editor liked "The Hearer of Truth" ; another editor said that it was a great piece of litera-

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ture, and that he would surely use it! So Thyrsis went to the great surgeon and told him that he would be able to pay him in a little while; and the arrangement was made for Corydon to come. And then the editor put the "great piece of literature" away in his desk, and forgot all about it for a month—while Thyrsis waited, day by day, in an agony of suspense.

The appointed time had come—the day when Corydon must go to the hospital; and still the editor had not reported, and there was only fifteen or twenty dollars, earned by weeks of verse-writing and reviewing. So in desperation Thyrsis made up his mind to give up his violin. He had paid ninety dollars for it three years before; and now, after taking it round among the dealers, he sold it for thirty-five dollars.

So, to the very gateway of life itself, Thyrsis was hounded by these spectres of want; even to the hospital they came, and followed him inside. Here was a beautiful place, a revelation to him of the possibilities of civilization and science. But it was all for the rich and prosperous, it was not for him; he felt that he had no business to be there.

What a contrast it all made with the tenement-room in which he had to house! Here were glimpses to be had of rich women, soft-skinned and fair, clad in morning-gowns of gorgeous hue; here were baskets of expensive fruits and armfuls of sweet-scented flowers; and here was he with his worn clothing and his haggard face, his hungry stomach and still hungrier heart! Must not all these people know that he had had to ask for special rates, and then for credit on top of that? Must they not all know that he was a failure—that most worthless of all worthless creatures, the man who cannot support his family? What did it mean to them

if he had written masterpieces of literature—what would it avail with them that he was the bearer of a new religion! Thyrsis had heard too much of the world's opinion of him; he shrunk from contact with his fellow-creatures, reading an insult into every glance. He was like a dog that has been too much beaten, and cringes even before it is struck.

§ 5. BUT these thoughts were for himself; he did not whisper them to Corydon. However people might despise him, they did not blame her, and there was no need of this bitterness in her cup. Corydon was beautiful—ah God, how beautiful she looked, lying there in the snowy bed, with the snowy lace about her neck and arms! How like the very goddess of motherhood she looked, a halo of light about her forehead. She, too, must have flowers, to whisper to her of hope and joy; and so he had brought her three pitiful little pinks, which he had purchased from a lame girl upon the corner. The tears started into Corydon's eyes as she saw these—for she knew that he had gone without a part of his dinner in order to bring them to her.

Everybody had come to love her already, he could see. How gentle and kind they were to her; atid how skillfully they did everything for her! His heart was full of thankfulness that he had been able to bring her to this haven of refuge. And resolutely he put aside all thoughts of his own humiliation—he swept his mind clear of everything else, and went with her to face this new and supreme experience of her life.

"You will stay with me?" she had pleaded; and he had promised that he would stay. She could not bear to have him out of her sight at all, and so they made him a bed upon the couch, and he spent the night there; and