And so Cedric went back to the seamèd rock, and there he heard a voice calling, “I seek Caradrion!” And as before he answered,
“Come not, except to sorrow thou be born!”
And again, in the cave—
“The hours of night sped by.
And sounds came forth as when a woman fights
In savage pain, a life from hers to free.
But Eileen dwelt within the happy vale,
Thinking no thought of him that went away.”
Section 4. This had come so very easily to Thyrsis that he could not believe that it was good. “Just a little story,” he said to Corydon, when he read it to her, and he was surprised to see how it affected her—how the tears welled into her eyes, and she clung to him sobbing. It meant more to her than any other thing that he had written; it was the very voice of their tenderness and their grief.
Then Thyrsis took it to the one editor he knew who was a lover of poetry, and was surprised again, at this man’s delight. But he smiled sadly as he realized that the editor did not use poetry—they did not praise so recklessly when it was a question of something to be purchased!
“The poem is too long for any magazine,” was the verdict, “and it’s not long enough for a book. And besides, poetry doesn’t sell.” But none the less Thyrsis, who would never take a defeat, began to offer it about; and so “Caradrion” was added to the list of stamp-consuming manuscripts, and set out to see the world at the expense of its creator’s stomach.
So there was one more wasted vision, one more futile effort—and one more grapple with despair, in the hours when he and his wife sat wrapped in a blanket in the tenement-room. Corydon was growing more nervous and unhappy every day, it seemed to him. There were, apparently, endless humiliations to be experienced by a woman “whose husband did not support her”. Some zealous relative had suggested to her the idea that the “hall-boys” might think she was not really married; and so now she was impelled to speculate upon the psychology of these Ethiopian functionaries, and look for slights and disapproval from them!
Thyrsis, from much work and little sleep, was haggard and wild of aspect; the cry of the world, “Take a position!” rang in his ears day and night. The springs of book-reviews had dried up entirely, and by sheer starvation he was forced to a stage lower yet. A former college friend was editing a work of “contemporary biography”, and offered Thyrsis some hack-writing. It meant the carrying home of huge bundles of correspondence from the world’s most brightly-shining lights, and the making up of biographical sketches from their eulogies of themselves. With every light there came a portrait, showing what manner of light it was. As for Thyrsis, he did his writing with the feeling that he would like to explore with a poniard the interiors of each one of these people.
For nearly three months now an eminent editor had been trying to summon up the courage to accept “The Hearer of Truth”. He had written several letters to tell the author how good a work it was; and now that it was to be definitely rejected, he soothed his conscience by inviting the author to lunch. The function came off at one of the most august and stately of the city’s clubs, a marble building near Fifth Avenue, where Thyrsis, with a new clean collar, and his worn shoes newly shined, passed under the suspicious eyes of the liveried menials, and was ushered before the eminent editor. About the vast room were portraits of bygone dignitaries; and there were great leather-upholstered arm-chairs in which one might see the dignitaries of the present—some of them with little tables at their sides, and decanters and soda and cracked ice. They went into the dining-room, where everyone spoke and ate in whispers, and the waiters flitted about like black and white ghosts; and while Thyrsis consumed a cupful of cold bouillon, and a squab en casserole, and a plate of what might be described as an honorific salad, he listened to the soft-voiced editor discussing the problem of his future career.