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Updated: May 13, 2025
Harding, but Corydon found "something in him", and would go at him hammer and tongs whenever he appeared. It must have been a novel experience for the clergyman; it seemed to fascinate him, for he came again and again, and soon quite a friendship sprang up between the two. She would tell Thyrsis about it at great length, and so, of course, he had to change his ideas about Mr. Harding.
And as he battled on with the elements there came to him Goethe's poem of passion: "Dem Schnee, dem Regen, Dem Wind entgegen!" Section 8. So for hours he went. But when he had come home, and stood in the vestibule, stamping the snow from him, there came a reaction. It was Corydon he had been thinking of Corydon, the gentle and innocent! How could he say such things to her?
He would labor with Corydon to induce her to share this joy; but alas, he would only succeed in losing his own joy, without increasing hers. On many occasions he attempted such things as this; it was only after long years that he came to realize that Corydon's temperament was the one fixed fact in the universe with which he had to deal.
But in midwinter there were few days when they could sit upon a bench for long; and so they would walk and walk, until Corydon was exhausted, and he would have to help her back to the room. Thyrsis in these days was like a wild animal in a cage; pacing back and forth and testing every corner of his prison.
Then he called, "Are you there, dearest?" "Yes," said Corydon; and he went out upon the piazza. He saw her standing, white and tense. "Are you still talking?" he said, with forced carelessness. And as Mrs. Channing answered "Yes," Corydon said, quickly, "Excuse me a moment," and went into the house.
I saw a neighbor of mine, tall Jack Pride, who lived twelve miles above me, blush and stammer, and bow again and again to a milliner's apprentice of a girl, not five feet high and all eyes, who dropped a curtsy at each bow. When I had passed them fifty yards or more, and looked back, they were still bobbing and bowing. And I heard a dialogue between Phyllis and Corydon.
I'd been Second of the old Corydon a good while, when the Callisto, a cattle-boat, came in from the Argentine. The chief had taken sick and been buried at sea. The owners telegraphed I was to take the post, and they would send out another Second. It was very exciting, of course, getting in charge at last. It is extraordinary, the weight of responsibility that settles down on you all at once.
I get six meals a day for him, I get three meals for us, and clean up everything. And the rest of the day I'm so exhausted I can hardly stand up, and a good part of the time I'm sick besides. And then, if I think about my troubles, it's because I've nothing to do!" "My dear," Thyrsis replied, "you should not have put yourself at her mercy." "How I hate her!" cried Corydon. "How I hate her!"
And then "Perhaps she would be more comfortable with another pillow," said the doctor, and the spell was broken. Corydon shook her head with swift impatience. This was her conflict, the gesture seemed to say. They had only to let her alone she had no words to spare for them. "How long does this last?" Thyrsis asked, his voice trembling.
If he had told Thyrsis that he was doing harm to himself, Thyrsis would have said that it was not true, and stood by it; for he knew about himself. But the man had made his statements about Corydon and how could he be sure about Corydon? The crucial point was that it set him to thinking about her in this new way; a way which he had not dreamed of previously.
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