"Because—she's told me so."
"And if it was otherwise—do you think she'd tell you that?"
"Why, of course she would."
"My boy," said the man, "she'd die first!"
Thyrsis was staring at him, amazed. "Let me tell you a little about a good woman," said the other. "I've been married for thirty years—really married, I mean; we've got five children. And in all those thirty years my wife has never made an advance of that sort to me!"
After which the doctor went on to expound his philosophy of sex. "Love is just a little thing to you," he said; "you've got your books and your career. And you want it to be the same with Corydon—you've succeeded in persuading her that that's what she wants also. You're going to make her a copy of yourself! But you simply can't do it, boy—she's a woman. And a woman's one interest in the world is love—it's everything in life to her, the thing she's made for. And if you deprive her of love, whole love, I mean, you wreck her entirely. ' Just now is the time when she ought to be having her children, if she's ever to have any—and you're trying to satisfy her with music and philosophy!"
"But," cried Thyrsis, horrified, "I know she doesn't feel that way at all!"
"Maybe not," said the other. "Her eyes are not opened. It's your business to open them. What are you a man for?"
"But—she's all right as she is "
"Isn't she nervous?"
"Why, yes—perhaps "
"Isn't she sometimes melancholy? And doesn't she like you to kiss her? Doesn't she show she's happy when you hold her in your arms."
Thyrsis sat mute.
"You see!" said the other, laughing. "The girl is in love with you, and you haven't sense enough to know it."
Again Thyrsis could find no words. "But if we had a child it would ruin us!" he cried, wildly. "I've not a cent, and my whole career's at stake!"
"Well," said the other, "if it's as bad as that, don't have any children yet."
"But—but how can we?"
"Don't you know how to control it?"
Thyrsis was staring at him, open-eyed. "Why, no!" he said.
"Good lord!" laughed the other. "Where have you been keeping yourself?"
And then the doctor proceeded to explain to him the "artificial sterilization of marriage." No whisper of such a thing had ever come to the boy before, and he could hardly credit his ears. But the doctor spoke of it as a man of the world, to whom it was a matter of course; he went into detail as to the various methods that people used. And when finally Thyrsis rose to leave he patted him indulgently on the shoulder, and laughed, "Go home to your wife, my boy!"
§ 7. THE effect of this conversation upon Thyrsis was alarming to him. At first he tried to put the thing aside, as being something utterly inconceivable between him and Corydon. But it would not be put aside.
The doctor had planted his seed with cunning. If he had told Thyrsis that he was doing harm to himself, Thyrsis would have said that it was not true, and stood by it; for he knew about himself. But the man had made his statements about Corydon—and how could he be sure about Corydon?
The crucial point was that it set him to thinking about her in this new way; a way which he had not dreamed of previously. And when once he had begun
to think about her so, he found he could not stop. For hitherto in his life, whenever he had thought of passion, it had been as a temptation; he had known that it was wrong, and all that was best in him had risen up to oppose it. But now all that was changed—the image of Corydon the doctor had called up was one that broke down all resistance, and left him at the mercy of his impulses.
These impulses awoke—and with a suddenness and force that terrified him. He thought of her as his wife, and this thought was like a rush of flame upon him. His manhood leaped up, and cried aloud for its rights. He discovered, almost instantly, that he loved her thus, that he desired her completely. This was true now, and it had been true from the beginning; he had been a fool to try to persuade himself otherwise. What else had been the meaning of the passionate protests in his letters to her? Of the images he had used— of carrying her away in his arms, of breaking her to his will? And she loved him, too—she desired him completely! Why else had it been that those passages were precisely the ones that satisfied her? Why was it that she was always most filled with joy when he was aggressive and masterful?
Ah God, what an inhuman life it was they had been living all these months! In that inevitable proximity— shut up in a little room! And with the most intimate details of her life about him—with her kisses always upon his lips, her arms always about him, the subtle perfume of her presence always in his senses! Was it any wonder that they were nervous and restless— always sinking into tenderness, and exchanging endearments, and then starting up to scourge themselves?
He went home, and there was Corydon preparing
supper. He went to her and caught her in his arms and kissed her. "I love you, sweetheart!" he whispered. And as she yielded to his embraces, he kissed her again and again, upon her lips and upon her cheeks and upon her neck. Ah, she loved him—else how could she let him kiss her like that!
But it was not so quickly that the inhibitions of a lifetime could be overcome. A sudden fear took hold of Thyrsis. What was he doing? No, she must have no idea of this—at least not until he had reasoned it out, until he had made up his mind that it was right.
So he drew back—and as he did so he noticed in her eyes a look of surprise. He did not often greet her in that way!
"I'm hungry as a bear," he said, to change the subject; and so they sat down to their supper.
Thyrsis had important writing to do that evening, and he tried his best, but he could not put his mind upon anything. He was all in a ferment. He pleaded that he had to think about his work, and went out for a long walk.
A storm was raging, and the icy gale beat upon him. It buffeted him, it flung him here and there; and he set himself to fight it, he drove his way through it, lusty and exultant. And music surged within him, lusty and exultant music. All the pent-up passion of his lifetime awoke in him, the blood ran hot in his veins; from some hidden portion of his being came wave after wave of emotion, sweeping him away—and he spread his wings to it, he rose to the heights upon it, he laughed and sang aloud in the glory of it. He had known such hours in his own soul's life, but never anything like it with Corydon. He cried out, what a child he had been! He had taken her, he had sought
to shape her to his will; and he had failed, she was not yet his—and all because he had left unused the one great power he had over her, the one great hold he had upon her. But now it would be changed—she should have him! And as he battled on with the elements there came to him Goethe's poem of passion:
"Dem Schnee, dem Regen, Dem Wind entgegen!"
§ 8. So for hours he went. But when he had come home, and stood in the vestibule, stamping the snow from him, there came a reaction. It was Corydon he had been thinking of—Corydon, the gentle and innocent ! How could he say such things to her? How could he hint of them? Why, he would fill her with terror! It was not to be thought of!
He went upstairs, and found that she was asleep. So he crept into his little bunk; but sleep would not come to him. The image of her haunted him. He listened to her breathing—he was as close to her as that, and still she was not his!
It w r as nearly day before he slept, and so he awoke tired and restless. And then came rage at himself— he went out and walked again, and stormed and scolded. He would not permit this, he had work to do. And he made up his mind that he would not allow himself to think about the matter for three days. By that time the truth would be clearer to him; and he meant to settle this question with his reason, and not with his blind desire.
He adhered to his resolution firmly. But when the three days were past, and he tried to think about it, it was only to be swept away in another storm of emo-