They stood upon the porch of the little cabin, listening to the silence of the night.
“How far away it all seems!” she said—
“How many a dingle on the loved hill-side
Hath since our day put by
The coronals of that forgotten time!”
“It makes one feel old,” he said—“like the coming of the night!”
“The night!” she repeated, and went on—
“I feel her finger light
Laid pausefully upon life’s headlong train;—
The foot less prompt to meet the morning dew,
The heart less bounding at emotion new,
And hope once crush’d less quick to spring again!”
Section 1. Throughout this long winter of discontent came to them one ray of hope from the outside world. “The Genius” was given in the little town in Germany, and Thyrsis’ correspondent sent the twenty-five dollars, and wrote that it had made a great impression, and that more performances were to be expected. Then, after an interval, Thyrsis was surprised to receive from his clipping-bureau some items to the effect that his play was to be produced in one of the leading theatres in Berlin. He wrote to his correspondent for an explanation, and learned to his dismay that his play had been “pirated”; it was, of course, not copyright in Germany, and so he had no redress, and must content himself with what his friend referred to as “the renowns which will be brought to you by these performances”.
The play came out, in the early spring, and apparently made a considerable sensation. Thyrsis read long reviews from the German papers, and there were accounts of it in several American papers. So people began to ask who this unknown poet might be. The publishers of “The Hearer of Truth” were moved to venture new advertisements of the book—whereby they sold perhaps a hundred copies more; and Thyrsis was moved to pay some badly—needed money to have more copies of the play made, so that he might try to interest some other manager. He carried on a long correspondence with a newly-organized “stage society”, which thought a great deal about trying the play at a matinée, but did nothing.
Also, Thyrsis received a letter from one of the country’s popular novelists, who had heard of the play abroad, and asked to read it. When he had read it and told what an interesting piece of work it was, Thyrsis sat down and wrote the great man about his plight, and asked for help; which led to correspondence, and to the passing round of the manuscript among a group of literary people. One of these was Haddon Channing, the critic and essayist, who was interested enough to write Thyrsis several long letters, and to read the rest of his productions, and later on to call to see him. Which, visit proved a curious experience for the family.
He arrived one day towards spring, when it chanced that Corydon was in town visiting the dentist. Thyrsis had just finished his dinner when he saw two people coming through the orchard, and he leaped up in haste to put the soiled dishes away, and make the place as presentable as possible. Mr. and Mrs. Channing had come in their car (they lived in Philadelphia), and were followed by an escort of the farmer’s children—since an automobile was a rare phenomenon in that neighborhood. The entrance to the peach-orchard proved not wide enough for the machine, so they had to get out and walk; and this they found annoying, because the ground was wet and soft. All of which seemed to emphasize the incongruity of their presence.