was intensified at this time by the fact that their sex-life had to be
suppressed. This was a problem which they had talked out between them
before they came away. Thyrsis, who was groping for the truth about
these matters, had come to the conclusion that the factor which gave
dignity and meaning to intercourse between a man and woman was the
desire, or at any rate the willingness, to create a child. Corydon was
not sure that she agreed with him in this; but so far as their own
case was concerned, it was quite clear that they could take no remotest
chance of any accident--another child would mean certain destruction for
all three of them. And so they had gone back to the “brother and sister”
arrangement with which they had begun life. This was a simple matter for
Thyrsis, who was utterly wrapped up in his book; it was not so simple
for Corydon, though neither of them realized it, nor could have been
brought to admit it. As usual, Corydon desired to be what he was, and
to feel what he felt; and so Thyrsis did not realize how another side
of her was being blighted. Hers was predominantly a love-nature; it was
intolerable to her that any one she loved should not love her in return,
and love her in the same way, and to the same extent; and now, when her
entire being went out to him, she found herself obliged to suppress her
emotions.
Sometimes the thing would break out in spite of her.
“Thyrsis,” she would cry, “aren’t you going to kiss me good-night?”
“Didn’t I kiss you, dearest?” he would answer.
“Oh, but such a cold and perfunctory kiss!”
And so he would come and put his arms about her; but even while she held
him thus, she would feel the life go out of his caresses, and see his
eyes with a far-off expression. She would know that his thoughts were
away upon some battle-field.
“Tell me, Thyrsis,” she would exclaim. “Do you really love me?”
“Yes, dear,” he would reply. “I love you.”
“But how _much_ do you love me?”
And then he would be dumb. What a question to ask him! As if he had
the time and the energy to climb to those heights, to speak again that
difficult language! Had he not told her a thousand times how much he
loved her! and could she not believe it and understand it?
“But why should it be so hard to tell me?” she would protest.
And he would answer that to him it was a denial of love to explain or to
make promises. He was as unchangeable as the laws of nature--he could no
more be faithless to her soul than he could to his own.
“I want you to take that for granted,” he would say; “to know it as you
know that the sun will rise to-morrow morning.”
“But, Thyrsis,” she would answer, when he used this metaphor, “don’t
people sometimes like to go out and see the sun rise?”