Love's Pilgrimage

BOOK I. THE VICTIMIt was in a little woodland glen, with a streamlet tumbling through it. She sat with her back to a snowy birch-tree, gazing into the eddies of a pool below; and he lay beside her, upon the soft, mossy ground, reading out of a book of poems. Images of joy were passing before them; and there came four lines with a picture— “Hard by, a cottage-chimney smokes, From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, Are at their savory dinner set.” “Ah!” said she. “I always loved that. Let us be Corydon and Thyrsis!” He smiled. “They were both of them men,” he said. “Let us change it,” she responded—“just between ourselves!” “Very well—Corydon!” said he. Then, after a moment’s thought, she added, “Butwe didn’t have the cottage.” “No,” said he—“nor even the dinner!” Section 1. It was the Highway of Lost Men. They shivered, and drew their shoulders together as they walked, for it was night, and a cold, sleety rain was falling. The lights from saloons and pawn-shops fell upon their faces—faces haggard and gaunt with misery, or bloated with disease and sin. Some stared before them fixedly; some gazed about with furtive and hungry eyes as they shuffled on. Here and there a policeman stood in the shelter, swinging his club and watching them as they passed. Music called to them from dives and dance-halls, and lighted signs and flaring-colored pictures tempted them in the entrances of cheap museums and theatres; they lingered before these, glad of even a moment’s shelter. Overhead the elevated trains pounded by; and from the windows one could see men crowded about the stoves in the rooms of lodging-houses, where the steam from their garments made a blur in the air. Down this highway walked a lad, about fifteen years of age, pale of face, and with delicate and sensitive features. His overcoat was buttoned tightly about his neck, and his hands thrust into his pockets; he gazed around him swiftly as he walked. He came to this place every now and then, but he never grew used to what he saw. He eyed the men who passed him; and when he came to a saloon he would push open the door and gaze about. Sometimes he would enter, and hurry through, to peer into the compartments in the back; and then go out again, giving a wide berth to the drinkers, and shrinking from their glances. Once a girl appeared in a doorway, and smiled and nodded to him; he started and hurried out, shuddering. Her wanton black eyes haunted him, hinting unimaginable things. Then, on a corner, he stopped and spoke to a policeman. “Hello!” said the man, and shook his head—“No, not this time.” So the boy went on; there were several miles of this Highway, and each block of it the same. At last, in a dingy bar-room, with saw-dust strewn upon the floor, and theodor of stale beer and tobacco-smoke in the air—here suddenly the boy sprang forward, with a cry: “Father!” And a man who sat with bowed head in a corner gave a start, and lifted a white face and stared at him. He rose unsteadily to his feet, and staggeredto the other, and fell upon his shoulder, sobbing, “My son! My son!” How many times had Thyrsis heard those words—in how many hours of anguish! They sank into the deeps of him, waking echoes like the clang of a bell: they voiced all the terror and grief of defeated life—“My son! My son!” The man clung to him, weeping, and pouring out the flood of his shame. “I have fallen again—I am lost—I am lost!” The occupants of the place were watching the scene with dull curiosity; and the boy was trembling like awild deer trapped. “Yes, father, yes! Let us go home.” “Home—home, my son? Will you take me home? Oh, I couldn’t bear to go!” “But you must come home.” “Do you mean that you still love me, son?” “Yes, father, I still love you. I want to try to help you. Come with me.” Then the boy would gaze about and ask, “Where is your hat?” “Hat, my son? I don’t know. I have lost it.” The boy would see his torn and mud-stained clothing, and the poor old pitiful face, with the eyes blood-shot and swollen, and the skin, that had been rosy, and was now a ghastly, ashen gray. He would choke back his feelings, and grip his hands to keep himself together. “Come, father, take my hat, and let us go.” “No, my son. I don’t need any hat. Nothing can hurt me—I am lost! Lost!” So theywould go out, arm in arm; and while they made their progress up the Highway, the man would pour out his remorse, and tell the story of his weeks of horror. Then, after a mile or so, he would halt. “My son!” “What is it, father?” “I must stop here, son.” “Why, father?” “I must have something to drink.” “No, father!” “But, my boy, I can’t go on! I can’t walk! You don’t know what I’m suffering!” “No, father!” “I’ve got the money left—I’m not asking you. I’ll come right with you—on my word of honor I will!” And so they would fight it out—all the way back to the lodging-house where they lived, and where the mother sat and wept. And here they would put him to bed, and lock up his clothing to keep him in; and here, with drugs and mineral-waters, and perhaps a doctor to help, they would struggle with him, and tend him until he was on his feet again. Then, with clothing newly-brushed and face newly-shaven he would go back to the world of men; and the boy would go back to his dreams. Section 2. Such was the life of Thyrsis, from earliest childhood to maturity. His father’s was a heritage of gentle breeding and high traditions—his forefathers were cavaliers, and had served the State. And now it had come to this—to hall bedrooms in lodging-houses, and a life-and-death grapple with destruction! And when Thyrsis came to study the problem, he found that it was a struggle without hope; his father was a man in a trap. He was what people called a “drummer”. He was dependent for his living upon the favor of certain merchants—menfor the most part of low ideals, who came to the city in search of their low pleasures. One met them by waiting about in the lobbies of hotels, and in the bar-rooms which they frequented; and always the first sign of fellowship with them was to have a drink. And this was the field on which the battle had to be fought! He would hold out for months—half a year, perhaps—drinking lemonade and putting up with their raillery. And then he would begin with ginger-ale; and then it would come to beer; and then to whiskey. He was always devising new plans to control himself; always persuading himself that he had solved the problem. He would not drink in the morning; he would not drink until after dinner; he would not drink alone—and so on without end. His whole life was drink, and all his thoughts were of drink—the odor of it always in his nostrils, the image of it always before his eyes. And the grimness of his fate lay here—that it was by his best qualities that he was betrayed. If he had been hard and mercenary, like some of those who preyed upon him, there might have been hope. But he was generous and free-hearted, a slave to his impulses of friendship. And this was what made the struggle such a cruel one to Thyrsis; it was like the sight of some noble animal baselysnared. From his earliest days the boy had watched these forces working themselves out. The gentleman and the “drummer” fought for supremacy, and step by step the soul of the man was fashioned to the work he did. To succeed with his customers he must share their ideas and their tastes; and so he was bitter against reformers, who interfered with the gaieties ofthe city, with no consideration for the tastes of “buyers.” But then, on the other hand, would come a time of renunciation, when he would be all enthusiasm for temperance. He was full of old-fashioned ideas, which would take the quaintest turns of reactionism; his politics were summed up in the phrase that he “would rather vote for a n****r than a Republican”; but then, in the same breath, he would announce some fine and noble sentiment, out of the traditions of a forgotten past. He was the soul of courtesy to women, and of loyalty to friends. He worshipped General Lee and the old time “Virginia gentleman”; and those with whom he lived, and for whose unclean profits he sold himself, never guessed the depths of his contempt for all they stood for. They had the dollars, they were on top; but some day the nemesis of Good-breeding would smite them—the army of the ghosts of Gentility would rise, and with “Marse Robert” and “Jeb” Stuart at their head, would sweep away the hordes of commercialdom. Thyrsis saw a great deal of this forgotten chivalry. His nursery had been haunted by such musty phantoms; and when he first came to the Northern city, he stayed at ahotel which was frequented by people who lived in this past—old ladies who were proud and prim, and old gentlemen who were quixotic and humorous, young ladies who were “belles,” and young gentlemen who aspired to be “blades”. It was a world that would havemade happy the soul of any writer of romances; but to Thyrsis in earliest childhood the fates had given the gift of seeing beneath the shams of things, and to him this dead Aristocracy cried out loudly for burial. There was an incredible amount of drunkenness, and of debauchery scarcely hidden; there was pretense strutting like a peacock, and avarice skulking like a hound; there were jealousy, and base snobbery, and raging spite, and a breath of suspicion and scandal hanging like a poisonous cloud over everything. These people came and went, an endless procession of them; they laughed and danced and gossiped and drank their way through the boy’s life, and unconsciously he judged them, and hated them and feared them. It was not by such that his destiny was to be shaped. Most of them were poor; not an honest poverty, but a sham and artificial poverty—the inability to dress as others did, and to lose money at “bridge” and “poker”, and to pay the costs of their self-indulgences. As for Thyrsis and his parents, they always paid what they owed; but they were not always able to pay it when they owed it, and they suffered all the agonies and humiliations of those who did not pay at all. There was scarcely ever a week when this canker of want did not gnaw at them; their life was one endless and sordid struggle to make last year’s clothing look like new, and to find some boarding-house that was cheaper and yet respectable. There was endless wrangling and strife and worry over money; and every year the task was harder, the standards lower, the case more hopeless. There were rich relatives, a world of real luxury up above—the thing that called itself “Society”. And Thyrsis was a student and a bright lad, and he was welcome there; he might have spread his wings and flown away from this sordidness. But duty held him, and love and memory held him still tighter. For his father worshipped him, and craved his help; to the last hour of his dreadful battle, he fought to keep his son’s regard—he prayed for it, with tears in his eyesand anguish in his voice. And so the boy had to stand by. And that meant that he grew up in a torture-house, he drank a cup of poison to its bitter dregs. To others his father was merely a gross little man, with sordid ideas and low tastes; but toThyrsishe was a man with the terror of the hunted creatures in his soul, and the furies of madness cracking their whips about his ears. There was only one ending possible—it worked itself out with the remorseless precision of a machine. The soul that fought wassmothered and stifled, its voice grew fainter and feebler; the agony and the shame grew hotter, the suffering more cruel, the despair more black. Until at last they found him in a delirium, and took him to a private hospital; and thither went Thyrsis, nowgrown to be a man, and sat in a dingy reception-room, and a dingy doctor came to him and said, “Do you wish to see the body?” And Thyrsis answered, in a low voice, “No.”