"Please tell me, Thyrsis!"

"He said my book wouldn't sell, because the public had got tired of that sort of thing."

"That sort of thing!"

"It seems that people used to buy 'historical romances', and now they've stopped. The man actually thought my book was one of that kind!"

"I see. But then--couldn't you tell him?"

"I told him. I said, 'Can't you see that this book is original--that it's come out of a man's heart?' 'Yes,' he said, 'perhaps. But you can't expect the public to see it.' And so there you are!"

Thyrsis sat with his nails dug into his palms. "It's just like the book-reviews!" he cried. "He knows better, but that doesn't count--he's thinking about the public! And he's got to the point where he doesn't really care--he's a fat man!"

"And so he'll not publish the book?"

"He'll not have anything more to do with me. He hates me."

"_Hates_ you?"

"Yes. Because I have faith, and he hasn't! Because I wouldn't stoop to the indignity he offered!"

"What did he offer?"

"He says that what the public's reading now is society novels--stories about up-to-date people who are handsome and successful and rich. They want automobiles and theatre-parties and country-clubs in their novels."

"But Thyrsis! You don't know anything about such things!"

"I know. But he said I could find out. And so I could. The point he made was that I've got pa.s.sion and color--I could write a moving love-story!

In other words, I could use my ecstasy to describe two society-people mating!"

There was a pause. "And what did you do with the ma.n.u.script?" asked Corydon, in a low voice.

"I took it to another publisher," he answered.

"And what are you going to do now?"

"I've been to see the editor of the 'Treasure Chest.'"

The "Treasure Chest" was a popular magazine of fiction, a copy of which Thyrsis had seen lying upon the table of their landlady. He had glanced through the first story, and had declared to Corydon that if he had a stenographer he could talk such a story at the rate of twenty thousand words a day.

"And did the editor see you?"

"Yes. He's a big husky 'advertising man'--he looks like a prize-fighter.

He said if I could write, to go ahead and prove it. He pays a cent for five words--a hundred dollars for a complete serial. He pays on acceptance; and he said he'd read a scenario for me. So I'm going to try it."

"What's it to be about?" asked Corydon.

"I'm going to try what they call a 'Zenda' story," said Thyrsis. "The editor says the readers of the 'Treasure Chest' haven't got tired of 'Zenda' stories."

And so Thyrsis spent the afternoon and evening wandering about in the park; and sometime after midnight he wrote out his scenario. The advantage of a "Zenda" story was that, as the adventures happened in an imaginary kingdom, there would be no need to study up "local color". As for the conventional artificial dialect, he could get it from any of the "romances" in the nearby circulating library. He did not dare to take the scenario the next day, but waited a decent interval; and when he returned it was to report that the story was considered to be promising, and that he was to write twenty thousand words for a test.

Section 9. So Thyrsis shut himself up and went to work. Sometimes he wrote with rage seething in his heart, and sometimes with laughter on his lips. This latter was the case when he did the love-scenes--because of the "pa.s.sion and color" he bestowed upon the fascinating countess and the clever young American engineer. He could have written the twenty thousand words in three days; but he waited ten days, so that the editor might not think that he was careless. And three days later he went back for the verdict.

The editor said it was good, and that if the rest was like it he would accept the story. So Thyrsis went to work again, and finished the ma.n.u.script, and put it away until time enough had elapsed. And meanwhile came a letter from the literary head of the third publishing-house, regretting that he could not accept the book.

It was such a friendly letter that Thyrsis went to call there, and met a pleasant and rather fine-souled gentleman, Mr. Ardsley by name, who told him a little about the problems he faced in life.

"You have a fine talent," he said--"you may even have genius. Your book is obviously sincere--it's _vecu,_ as the French say. I suspect you must have been in love when you wrote it."

"In a way," said Thyrsis, flushing slightly. He had not intended that to show.

The other smiled. "It's overwrought in places," he went on, "and it tends to incoherency. But the main trouble is that it's entirely over the heads of the public. They don't know anything about the kind of love you're interested in, and they'd laugh at it."

"But then, what am I to do?" cried Thyrsis.

"You'll simply have to keep on trying, till you happen to strike it."

"But--how am I to live?"

"Ah," said Mr. Ardsley, "that is the problem." He smiled, rather sadly, as he sat watching the lad. "You see how _I've_ solved it," he went on.

"I was young once myself, and I tried to write novels. And in those days I blamed the publishers--I thought they stood in my way. But now, I see how it is; a publisher is engaged in a highly compet.i.tive business, and he barely makes interest on his capital; he can't afford to publish books that won't pay their way. Here am I, for instance--it's my business to advise this house; and if I advise them wrongly, what becomes of me? If I take them your ma.n.u.script and say, 'It's a real piece of work,' they'll ask me, 'Will it pay its way?' And I have to answer them, 'I don't think it will.'"

"But such things as they publish!" exclaimed the boy, wildly.

And Mr. Ardsley smiled again. "Yes," he said. "But they pay their way.

In fact, they save the business."

So Thyrsis went out. He saw quite clearly now the simple truth--it was not a matter of art at all, but a matter of business. It was a business-world, and not an art-world; and he--poor fool--was trying to be an artist!

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 n.o.ble, 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.