there were too many luxuries in their own home. Not very long after it
was finished, there fell a deluge of rain; and what a delight it was to
listen to it, and know that they were safe from it! That not only did
they have a dry roof over their head--but they were able to move about,
and to reach up their hands without peril, and to sit down and read
without a lamp! They would stand by the window with their arms about
each other, watching the rain beating upon the fields, and dripping from
the elm tree, and flowing in torrents past the house; they would listen
to it pounding overhead and streaming off the roof before their faces.
They were dry, quite dry! All their belongings were dry--their shoes
were not mildewing, their books were not getting soft and shapeless,
their bed-clothing would be all right when night came!
The down-pour lasted for three whole days, yet they enjoyed it all. It
proved to be a memorable rain to Corydon, for it brought to her a great
occasion--the beginning of her poetical career. It happened late one
night, when, as usual, the cry of “hoodaloo mungie” awakened her from
a sound slumber. The day had been a particularly hard one, and the
heaviness of exhaustion was upon her. For a moment she stared up into
the darkness, listening to the rain close above her, and trying to nerve
herself to put out her arm in the cold. She shuddered at the thought;
there came to her a perfectly definite impulse of hatred--hatred of the
child, of its noise and its demands. She had felt it before--sometimes
as a dull, cold dislike, sometimes as something passionate. Why should
she have to sacrifice herself to this insatiable creature, whom she did
not love? What did it matter to her if other women loved their children?
She had wanted life--and was this life? At that moment the cry of
“hoodaloo-mungie” symbolized for her all the sordid cares and nervous
agony of her existence.
And suddenly, unexpectedly, a daring impulse seized her. “No!” she
thought, and set her teeth--“I’ll let him cry! I’ll cure him of
this--and I’ll do it to-night!” So she turned and told Cedric to go to
sleep; at which, of course, the child began to scream.
Corydon lay very still in the dark, her eyes wide and every nerve tense.
She could not feel, she could not think; it seemed as though she were
deprived of every sense except that of hearing; and in her, through her,
and around her rang a senseless din, piercing, intense, increasing in
volume every minute, and completely drowning out the beating of the
rain.
“Can I stand it?” she thought. “Or will his lungs burst? And yet, I
must, I must--this can’t go on forever!” And so she clenched her hands
and waited. But the sounds did not diminish in the slightest; ten
minutes twenty minutes must have passed, and the baby only seemed to
gain increased power with each crescendo.
It seemed to Corydon at last as though she had always lain like this,
and as though she must for endless time. She found herself getting
used to it even; her muscles relaxed. There came to her a sense of the
ludicrous side of it. “He means to conquer me!” she thought. “Can I hold
out? If I only had something to think about, then I’d be a match for
him.” And suddenly the inspiration came to her. “I’ll write a poem!”
What should it be about? The rain had been increasing in violence, and
she became conscious of the steady downpour; it fascinated her, and she
concentrated her attention upon it, and began---
“I am the rain, that comes in spring!”
So, after a while, she found herself in the throes of composition; she
was eager, excited--and marvel of marvels, utterly forgetful of the
baby! She had never tried to write verses before; but it did not seem at
all difficult to her now.
The poem was simple and optimistic--it told of the beneficent qualities
of rain, as it would appear to one whose roof did not leak. Somewhere in
the course of it there was this stanza:
“I am the rain that comes at night,
When all in slumber is folded light--
Save one by weary vigils worn
Who counteth the drops unto the morn.”
This seemed to her an impressive bit, and she wondered what Thyrsis
would think of it.
There were eight stanzas altogether, and when she finished the last of
them the dawn was breaking, and it seemed hours since she had begun.
As for the baby, he was still crying. She turned and peered at him; his
eyelids drooped, and the crying came in spasms and gasps--it sounded
very feeble, and a trifle perfunctory. Obviously he could not hold out
much longer; Corydon would win, yes, she had won already. She lay still,
and thrills of happiness went through her. Was it the poem, or the
thought of her release, and the nights of quiet sleep in the future?
When Thyrsis came in, an hour or two later, he found her huddled up in
blankets on the floor of the living-room, her cheeks bright, her hair
dishevelled. How fascinating she looked in such a guise! She was eagerly
pondering her poem; and the baby was sleeping quietly, save for a few
convulsive gasps, the last stragglers of his routed forces.
“And oh, Thyrsis,” she exclaimed, “to-morrow night he will only cry half
as long, and still less the next night. And soon he will go to sleep
quietly like any well brought-up, civilized baby. And, my dear, I
believe I’m going to be a poetess--I think that to-night I was really
inspired!”
So he made haste to build a fire, and then came and sat and listened to
the poem. How eagerly she waited for his verdict! How she hung upon his
words! And what should a man do in such a case--should he be a husband
or a critic? Should he be an amateur or a professional?
But even as he hesitated, the damage was done. “Oh, you don’t like it!”
she cried. “You don’t think it’s good at all!”
“My dear,” he argued, “poetry is such a difficult thing to write. And
there are so many standards--a thing can be good, and yet not good! The
heights are so far away--”
“But oh, how can I ever get there,” wailed Corydon, “if nobody gives me
any encouragement?”