He could not have told for whom his heart bled most, for himself, or for Corydon. Here she was, with her grim problems and her bitter necessities; needing advice and comfort, needing companionship--needing a husband! And she had married an artist--a reed that would grow “nevermore again as a reed with the reeds by the river!” That could not grow, even if it had wanted to! For it was quite in vain that the world cried out to him to settle down and become as other men; he could not. The thing that was tearing at his vitals would continue to tear; the only choice he had was between self-expression and madness. So, wrung as his heart was, he had to go away and as he could. If he yielded to his desire and stayed by her, then the book would not be written in time; and so all their hopes would be gone--they would never win their freedom then! And he would explain this to her; with their relentless devotion to the truth, they would talk it all out between them. They would trace every cord and knot of the Snare. And Corydon would grant that he was right, and that she must submit. He must stay away all day--and all night, if need be--till the book was done. Not that they were always able to settle their problems in the cold light of reason. Sometimes Thyrsis, with his artist’s ups and downs, would be nervous and irritable; he would manifest impatience over trifles, and this would give rise to tragedies. There was a vast amount of fetching and emptying of water to be done for their little establishment; and sometimes a man who was carrying the destinies of the human race in his consciousness was not as prompt as he might have been in attending to these humble tasks. And moreover, the water all had to be dipped up from the lake; and sometimes, when it was stormy, it was a difficult matter to get it as free from specks as was needed for the ablutions of a fastidious young lady like Corydon. “If you’d only take a little trouble!” she would say. “Trouble!” he would exclaim. “Do you think I enjoy hearing you complain about it?” “But Thyrsis, this is dirtier than ever!” “I know it. The wind is blowing harder.” “But if you’d only reach out a little ways---” “I reached out till I nearly fell into the water!” “But Thyrsis, how can I ever wash my face?” And so it would go. Thyrsis would be absorbed in some especially important mental operation, and it would be a torment to him to have such things forced upon his attention. Corydon, it seemed to him, was always at the mercy of externals; and she was forever dragging him out of himself, and making him aware of them. The frying-pan was not clean enough, or his hair was unkempt; his trousers were ragged or his coat was too small for him. Was life always to consist of such impertinences as this?