relentless muse had not yet permitted him to write a word. He had not
a sufficient grasp upon his mighty subject--nor for that matter had
he freedom to get by himself and wrestle it out. He shrunk from that
death-grapple, while they were in this unsettled state. They could not
stay in tents through the winter-time; and where were they to go?
Thyrsis was consumed with the desire to build a tiny house in these
woods. He had roamed the country over, without finding any place that
was habitable; and besides, he did not want to pay rent--he wanted a
home of his own, however humble. He had meant to build one with the
money from “The Hearer of Truth”; but now there came a statement from
the publisher, showing that there would be due him on the book a trifle
over eleven dollars!
He tried a new plan. He wrote out a “scenario” of his projected novel,
and sent this to his publisher, to see if he could get a contract in
advance. He asked for five hundred dollars--with that he could build
the house he wanted, and live for another six months, until the book
was done. The publisher wrote him to come to the city, where, after some
parleying, he submitted a proposition; he would advance the money and
publish the book, paying ten per cent. royalty; but he must also have
the option to publish the author’s future writings for ten years upon
the same basis.
This rather staggered Thyrsis. He was business-man enough by this time
to realize that if he ever had a real success he could get fifteen or
twenty per cent. upon his future work--there were even some authors who
got twenty-five per cent. And moreover, he did not like to tie himself
to this publisher, who was of the hard and grasping type. He went home
to think it over, and in the end he wrote to Henry Darrell. He set forth
the situation, and showed how much money it might mean to him--money
which he would otherwise be able to devote to some useful purpose. It
all depended upon what Darrell could do in the emergency.
He waited three weeks, and then came Darrell’s reply, saying that he
could not possibly do what Thyrsis wished. There were so many calls upon
him--the Socialist paper was in trouble, and so on. Thereupon Thyrsis
wrote to the publisher to say that he accepted the offer and would sign
the contract; but in a couple of days he received a curt reply, to the
effect that the publisher had changed his mind, and no longer cared to
consider the arrangement. He had, as Thyrsis found afterwards, got rid
of the enthusiastic young man who had inveigled him into “The Hearer
of Truth”; and perhaps also he had been reading the ridicule which the
critics were pouring out upon that unhappy book.
So once more Thyrsis wrote to Darrell--a letter of agonized entreaty.
He was at the most critical moment of his life; and now, at the very
culmination of his effort, to have to give up would be a calamity he
could simply not contemplate. If only he could finish the task, he would
be saved; for this was a book that would grip men and shake them--that
it should fail was simply unthinkable. He could make out with two
hundred dollars; and he besought his friend at any sacrifice to stand
by him. He asked him to cable; and when, a couple of weeks later, the
message came--“all right”--to Thyrsis it was like waking up and escaping
from the grip of some terrible dream.