For three days more he toiled at his pot-boiler; and then, late at night, he went out to get some fresh air, and to try to shake off the load of despair that was upon him. And so came the explosion.
Perhaps it was because the wind was blowing, and Thyrsis loved the wind; it was a mirror of his own soul to him, incessant and irresistible and mysterious. And so his demons awoke again. He had gone through all that labor, he had built up all that glory in his spirit—and it was all for naught! He had made himself a flame of desire—and now it was to be smothered and stifled!
He had written his book, and it was a great book, and they knew it. But all they told him was to go and write another book—and to do pot-boilers in the meantime! But that was impossible, he could not do it. He would win with the book he had written! He would make them hear him—he would make them read that book!
He began to compose a manifesto to the world; and towards morning he came home and shut himself in and wrote it. He called it “Business and Art;” and in it he told about his book, and how he had worked over it. He told, quite frankly, what the book was; and he asked if there was anywhere in the United States a publisher who published books because they were noble, and not because they sold; or if there was a critic, or booklover, or philanthropist, or a person of any sort, who would stand by a true artist. “This artist will work all day and nearly all night,” he wrote, “and he wants less than the wages of a day-laborer. All else that ever comes to him in his life he will give for a chance to follow his career!”
Then Corydon awoke, and he read it to her. She listened, thrilling with amazement.
“Oh, Thyrsis!” she cried. “What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to have it printed,” he said, “and send it to all the publishers; and also to literary men and to magazines.”
“And are you going to sign your name to it?” she cried.
“I’ve already signed my name to it,” he answered.
“And when are you going to do it?”