King Midas by Upton Sinclair

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Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com).

KING MIDAS

A ROMANCE

By UPTON SINCLAIR

I dreamed that Soul might dare the pain,
Unlike the prince of old,
And wrest from heaven the fiery touch
That turns all things to gold.

New York and London

1901

NOTE

In the course of this story, the author has had occasion to refer to
Beethoven's Sonata Appassionata as containing a suggestion of the
opening theme of the Fifth Symphony. He has often seen this stated,
and believed that the statement was generally accepted as true.
Since writing, however, he has heard the opinion expressed, by a
musician who is qualified to speak as an authority, that the two
themes have nothing to do with each other. The author himself is not
competent to have an opinion on the subject, but because the
statement as first made is closely bound up with the story, he has
allowed it to stand unaltered.

The two extracts from MacDowell's "Woodland Sketches," on pages 214
and 291, are reprinted with the kind permission of Professor
MacDowell and of Arthur P. Schmidt, publisher.

PART I

In the merry month of May.

KING MIDAS

CHAPTER I

"O Madchen, Madchen,
Wie lieb' ich dich!"

It was that time of year when all the world belongs to poets, for
their harvest of joy; when those who seek the country not for
beauty, but for coolness, have as yet thought nothing about it, and
when those who dwell in it all the time are too busy planting for
another harvest to have any thought of poets; so that the latter,
and the few others who keep something in their hearts to chime with
the great spring-music, have the woods and waters all for their own
for two joyful months, from the time that the first snowy bloodroot
has blossomed, until the wild rose has faded and nature has no more
to say. In those two months there are two weeks, the ones that usher
in the May, that bear the prize of all the year for glory; the
commonest trees wear green and silver then that would outshine a
coronation robe, and if a man has any of that prodigality of spirit
which makes imagination, he may hear the song of all the world.

It was on such a May morning in the midst of a great forest of pine
trees, one of those forests whose floors are moss-covered ruins that
give to them the solemnity of age and demand humility from those who
walk within their silences. There was not much there to tell of the
springtime, for the pines are unsympathetic, but it seemed as if all
the more wealth had been flung about on the carpeting beneath. Where
the moss was not were flowing beds of fern, and the ground was
dotted with slender harebells and the dusty, half-blossomed
corydalis, while from all the rocks the bright red lanterns of the
columbine were dangling.

Of the beauty so wonderfully squandered there was but one witness, a
young man who was walking slowly along, stepping as it seemed where
there were no flowers; and who, whenever he stopped to gaze at a
group of them, left them unmolested in their happiness. He was tall
and slenderly built, with a pale face shadowed by dark hair; he was
clad in black, and carried in one hand a half-open book, which,
however, he seemed to have forgotten.

A short distance ahead was a path, scarcely marked except where the
half-rotted trees were trodden through. Down this the young man
turned, and a while later, as his ear was caught by the sound of
falling water, he quickened his steps a trifle, until he came to a
little streamlet which flowed through the forest, taking for its bed
the fairest spot in that wonderland of beauty. It fled from rock to
rock covered with the brightest of bright green moss and with tender
fern that was but half uncurled, and it flashed in the sunlit places
and tinkled from the deep black shadows, ever racing faster as if to
see what more the forest had to show. The young man's look had been
anxious before, but he brightened in spite of himself in the company
of the streamlet.

Not far beyond was a place where a tiny rill flowed down from the
high rocks above, and where the path broadened out considerably. It
was a darkly shadowed spot, and the little rill was gathered in a
sunken barrel, which the genius of the place had made haste to cover
with the green uniform worn by all else that was to be seen. Beside
the spring thus formed the young man seated himself, and after
glancing impatiently at his watch, turned his gaze upon the beauty
that was about him. Upon the neighboring rocks the columbine and
harebell held high revel, but he did not notice them so much as a
new sight that flashed upon his eye; for the pool where the two
streamlets joined was like a nest which the marsh-marigold had taken
for its home. The water was covered with its bright green and
yellow, and the young man gazed at the blossoms with eager delight,
until finally he knelt and plucked a few of them, which he laid,
cool and gleaming, upon the seat by the spring.

The flowers did not hold his attention very long, however; he rose
up and turned away towards where, a few steps beyond, the open
country could be seen between the tree trunks. Beyond the edge of
the woods was a field, through which the footpath and the streamlet
both ran, the former to join a road leading to a little town which
lay in the distance. The landscape was beautiful in its morning
freshness, but it was not that which the young man thought of; he
had given but one glance before he started back with a slight
exclamation, his face turning paler. He stepped into the concealment
of the thick bushes at one side, where he stood gazing out,
motionless except for a slight trembling. Down the road he had seen
a white-clad figure just coming out of the village; it was too far
away to be recognized, but it was a young girl, walking with a quick
and springing step, and he seemed to know who it was.

She had not gone very far before she came to a thick hedge which
lined the roadside and hid her from the other's view; he could not
see her again until she came to the place where the streamlet was
crossed by a bridge, and where the little path turned off towards
the forest. In the meantime he stood waiting anxiously; for when she
reached there he would see her plainly for the first time, and also
know if she were coming to the spring. She must have stopped to look
at something, for the other had almost started from his hiding place
in his eagerness when finally she swept past the bushes. She turned
down the path straight towards him, and he clasped his hands
together in delight as he gazed at her.

And truly she was a very vision of the springtime, as she passed
down the meadows that were gleaming with their first sprinkling of
buttercups. She was clad in a dress of snowy white, which the wind
swept before her as she walked; and it had stolen one strand of her
golden hair to toss about and play with. She came with all the
eagerness and spring of the brooklet that danced beside her, her
cheeks glowing with health and filled with the laughter of the
morning. Surely, of all the flowers of the May-time there is none so
fair as the maiden. And the young man thought as he stood watching
her that in all the world there was no maiden so fair as this.

She did not see him, for her eyes were lifted to a little bobolink
that had come flying down the wind. One does not hear the bobolink
at his best unless one goes to hear him; for sheer glorified
happiness there is in all our land no bird like him at the hour of
sunrise, when he is drunk with the morning breeze and the sight of
the dew-filled roses. At present a shower had just passed and the
bobolink may have thought that another dawn had come; or perhaps he
saw the maiden. At any rate, he perched himself upon the topmost
leaf of the maple tree, still half-flying, as if scorning even that
much support; and there he sang his song. First he gave his long
prelude that one does not often hear--a few notes a score of times
repeated, and growing swift and loud, and more and more strenuous
and insistent; as sometimes the orchestra builds up its climax, so
that the listener holds his breath and waits for something, he knows
not what. Then he paused a moment and turned his head to see if the
girl were watching, and filled his throat and poured out his
wonderful gushing music, with its watery and bell-like tone that
only the streamlet can echo, from its secret places underneath the
banks. Again and again he gave it forth, the white patches on his
wings flashing in the sunlight and both himself and his song one
thrill of joy.

The girl's face was lit up with delight as she tripped down the
meadow path. A gust of wind came up behind her, and bowed the grass
and the flowers before her and swung the bird upon the tree; and so
light was the girl's step that it seemed to lift her and sweep her
onward. As it grew stronger she stretched out her arms to it and
half leaned upon it and flung her head back for the very fullness of
her happiness. The wind tossed her skirts about her, and stole
another tress of hair, and swung the lily which she had plucked and
which she carried in her hand. It is only when one has heard much
music that he understands the morning wind, and knows that it is a
living thing about which he can say such things as that; one needs
only to train his ear and he can hear its footsteps upon the
meadows, and hear it calling to him from the tops of the trees.

The girl was the very spirit of the wind at that moment, and she
seemed to feel that some music was needed. She glanced up again at
the bobolink, who had ceased his song; she nodded to him once as if
for a challenge, and then, still leaning back upon the breeze, and
keeping time with the flower in her hand, she broke out into a happy
song:

"I heard a streamlet gushing
From out its rocky bed,
Far down the valley rushing,
So fresh and clear it sped."

But then, as if even Schubert were not equal to the fullness of her
heart, or because the language of joy has no words, she left the
song unfinished and swept on in a wild carol that rose and swelled
and made the forest echo. The bobolink listened and then flew on to
listen again, while still the girl poured out her breathless music,
a mad volley of soaring melody; it seemed fairly to lift her from
her feet, and she was half dancing as she went. There came another
gust of wind and took her in its arms; and the streamlet fled before
her; and thus the three, in one wild burst of happiness, swept into
the woodland together.

There in its shadows the girl stopped short, her song cut in half by
the sight of the old forest in its majesty. One could not have
imagined a greater contrast than the darkness and silence which
dwelt beneath the vast canopy, and she gazed about her in rapture,
first at the trees and then at the royal carpet of green, starred
with its fields of flowers. Her breast heaved, and she stretched out
her arms as if she would have clasped it all to her.

"Oh, it is so beautiful!" she cried aloud. "It is so beautiful!"

In the meantime the young man, still unseen, had been standing in
the shadow of the bushes, drinking in the sight. The landscape and
the figure and the song had all faded from his thoughts, or rather
blended themselves as a halo about one thing, the face of this girl.
For it was one of those faces that a man may see once in a lifetime
and keep as a haunting memory ever afterwards, as a vision of the
sweetness and glory of woman; at this moment it was a face
transfigured with rapture, and the man who was gazing upon it was
trembling, and scarcely aware of where he was.

For fully a minute more the girl stood motionless, gazing about at
the forest; then she chanced to look towards the spring, where she
saw the flowers upon the seat.

"Why, someone has left a nosegay!" she exclaimed, as she started
forward; but that seemed to suggest another thought to her, and she
looked around. As she did so she caught sight of the young man and
sprang towards him. "Why, Arthur! You here!" she cried.

The other started forward as if he would have clasped her in his
arms; but then recollecting himself he came forward very slowly,
half lowering his eyes before the girl's beauty.

"So you recollect me, Helen, do you?" he said, in a low voice.

"Recollect you?" was the answer. "Why, you dear, foolish boy, of
course I recollect you. But how in the world do you come to be
here?"

"I came here to see you, Helen."

"To see me?" exclaimed she. "But pray how--" and then she stopped,
and a look of delight swept across her face. "You mean that you knew
I would come here the first thing?"

"I do indeed."

"Why, that was beautiful!" she exclaimed. "I am so glad I did come."

The glance which she gave made his heart leap up; for a moment or
two they were silent, looking at each other, and then suddenly
another thought struck the girl. "Arthur," she cried, "I forgot! Do
you mean to tell me that you have come all the way from Hilltown?"

"Yes, Helen."

"And just to see me?"

"Yes, Helen."

"And this morning?"

She received the same answer again. "It is twelve miles," she
exclaimed; "who ever heard of such a thing? You must be tired to
death."

She put out her hand, which he took tremblingly.

"Let us go sit down on the bench," she said, "and then we can talk
about things. I am perfectly delighted that you came," she added
when she had seated herself, with the marigolds and the lily in her
lap. "It will seem just like old times; just think how long ago it
was that I saw you last, Arthur,--three whole years! And do you
know, as I left the town I thought of you, and that I might find you
here."

The young man's face flushed with pleasure.

"But I'd forgotten you since!" went on the girl, eyeing him
mischievously; "for oh, I was so happy, coming down the old, old
path, and seeing all the old sights! Things haven't changed a bit,
Arthur; the woods look exactly the same, and the bridge hasn't
altered a mite since the days we used to sit on the edge and let our
feet hang in. Do you remember that, Arthur?"

"Perfectly," was the answer.

"And that was over a dozen years ago! How old are you now,
Arthur,--twenty-one--no, twenty-two; and I am just nineteen. To-day
is my birthday, you know!"

"I had not forgotten it, Helen."

"You came to welcome me! And so did everything else. Do you know, I
don't think I'd ever been so happy in my life as I was just now. For
I thought the old trees greeted me, and the bridge, and the stream!
And I'm sure that was the same bobolink! They don't have any
bobolinks in Germany, and so that one was the first I have heard in
three years. You heard him, didn't you, Arthur?"

"I did--at first," said Arthur.

"And then you heard me, you wicked boy! You heard me come in here
singing and talking to myself like a mad creature! I don't think I
ever felt so like singing before; they make hard work out of singing
and everything else in Germany, you know, so I never sang out of
business hours; but I believe I could sing all day now, because I'm
so happy."

"Go on," said the other, seriously; "I could listen."

"No; I want to talk to you just now," said Helen. "You should have
kept yourself hidden and then you'd have heard all sorts of
wonderful things that you'll never have another chance to hear. For
I was just going to make a speech to the forest, and I think I
should have kissed each one of the flowers. You might have put it
all into a poem,--for oh, father tells me you're going to be a great
poet!"

"I'm going to try," said Arthur, blushing.

"Just think how romantic that would be!" the girl laughed; "and I
could write your memoir and tell all I knew about you. Tell me about
yourself, Arthur--I don't mean for the memoir, but because I want to
know the news."

"There isn't any, Helen, except that I finished college last spring,
as I wrote you, and I'm teaching school at Hilltown."

"And you like it?"

"I hate it; but I have to keep alive, to try to be a poet. And that
is the news about myself."

"Except," added Helen, "that you walked twelve miles this glorious
Saturday morning to welcome me home, which was beautiful. And of
course you'll stay over Sunday, now you're here; I can invite you
myself, you know, for I've come home to take the reins of
government. You never saw such a sight in your life as my poor
father has made of our house; he's got the parlor all full of those
horrible theological works of his, just as if God had never made
anything beautiful! And since I've been away that dreadful Mrs. Dale
has gotten complete charge of the church, and she's one of those
creatures that wouldn't allow you to burn a candle in the organ
loft; and father never was of any use for quarreling about things."
(Helen's father, the Reverend Austin Davis, was the rector of the
little Episcopal church in the town of Oakdale just across the
fields.) "I only arrived last night," the girl prattled on, venting
her happiness in that way instead of singing; "but I hunted up two
tallow candles in the attic, and you shall see them in church
to-morrow. If there's any complaint about the smell, I'll tell Mrs.
Dale we ought to have incense, and she'll get so excited about that
that I'll carry the candles by default. I'm going to institute other
reforms also,--I'm going to make the choir sing in tune!"

"If you will only sing as you were singing just now, nobody will
hear the rest of the choir," vowed the young man, who during her
remarks had never taken his eyes off the girl's radiant face.

Helen seemed not to notice it, for she had been arranging the
marigolds; now she was drying them with her handkerchief before
fastening them upon her dress.

"You ought to learn to sing yourself," she said while she bent her
head down at that task. "Do you care for music any more than you
used to?"

"I think I shall care for it just as I did then," was the answer,
"whenever you sing it."

"Pooh!" said Helen, looking up from her marigolds; "the idea of a
dumb poet anyway, a man who cannot sing his own songs! Don't you
know that if you could sing and make yourself gloriously happy as I
was just now, and as I mean to be some more, you could write poetry
whenever you wish."

"I can believe that," said Arthur.

"Then why haven't you ever learned? Our English poets have all been
ridiculous creatures about music, any how; I don't believe there was
one in this century, except Browning, that really knew anything
about it, and all their groaning and pining for inspiration was
nothing in the world but a need of some music; I was reading the
'Palace of Art' only the other day, and there was that 'lordly
pleasure house' with all its modern improvements, and without a
sound of music. Of course the poor soul had to go back to the
suffering world, if it were only to hear a hand-organ again."

"That is certainly a novel theory," admitted the young poet. "I
shall come to you when I need inspiration."

"Come and bring me your songs," added the girl, "and I will sing
them to you. You can write me a poem about that brook, for one
thing. I was thinking just as I came down the road that if I were a
poet I should have beautiful things to say to that brook. Will you
do it for me?"

"I have already tried to write one," said the young man,
hesitatingly.

"A song?" asked Helen.

"Yes."

"Oh, good! And I shall make some music for it; will you tell it to
me?"

"When?"

"Now, if you can remember it," said Helen. "Can you?"

"If you wish it," said Arthur, simply; "I wrote it two or three
months ago, when the country was different from now."

He fumbled in his pocket for some papers, and then in a low tone he
read these words to the girl:

AT MIDNIGHT

The burden of the winter
The year haa borne too long,
And oh, my heart is weary
For a springtime song!

The moonbeams shrink unwelcomed
From the frozen lake;
Of all the forest voices
There is but one awake

I seek thee, happy streamlet
That murmurest on thy way,
As a child in troubled slumber
Still dreaming of its play;

I ask thee where in thy journey
Thou seeest so fair a sight,
That thou hast joy and singing
All through the winter night.

Helen was silent for a few moments, then she said, "I think that is
beautiful, Arthur; but it is not what I want."

"Why not?" he asked.

"I should have liked it when you wrote it, but now the spring has
come, and we must be happy. You have heard the springtime song."

"Yes," said Arthur, "and the streamlet has led me to the beautiful
sight."

"It _is_ beautiful," said Helen, gazing about her with that naive
unconsciousness which "every wise man's son doth know" is one thing
he may never trust in a woman. "It could not be more beautiful," she
added, "and you must write me something about it, instead of
wandering around our pasture-pond on winter nights till your
imagination turns it into a frozen lake."

The young poet put away his papers rather suddenly at that, and
Helen, after gazing at him for a moment, and laughing to herself,
sprang up from the seat.

"Come!" she cried, "why are we sitting here, anyway, talking about
all sorts of things, and forgetting the springtime altogether? I
haven't been half as happy yet as I mean to be."

She seemed to have forgotten her friend's twelve mile walk; but he
had forgotten it too, just as he soon forgot the rather wintry
reception of his little song. It was not possible for him to remain
dull very long in the presence of the girl's glowing energy; for
once upon her feet, Helen's dancing mood seemed to come back to her,
if indeed it had ever more than half left her. The brooklet struck
up the measure again, and the wind shook the trees far above them,
to tell that it was still awake, and the girl was the very spirit of
the springtime once more.

"Oh, Arthur," she said as she led him down the path, "just think how
happy I ought to be, to welcome all the old things after so long,
and to find them all so beautiful; it is just as if the country had
put on its finest dress to give me greeting, and I feel as if I were
not half gay enough in return. Just think what this springtime is,
how all over the country everything is growing and rejoicing; _that_
is what I want you to put into the poem for me."

And so she led him on into the forest, carried on by joy herself,
and taking all things into her song. She did not notice that the
young man's forehead was flushed, or that his hand was burning when
she took it in hers as they walked; if she noticed it, she chose at
any rate to pretend not to. She sang to him about the forest and the
flowers, and some more of the merry song which she had sung before;
then she stopped to shake her head at a saucy adder's tongue that
thrust its yellow face up through the dead leaves at her feet, and
to ask that wisest-looking of all flowers what secrets it knew about
the spring-time. Later on they came to a place where the brook fled
faster, sparkling brightly in the sunlight over its shallow bed of
pebbles; it was only her runaway caroling that could keep pace with
that, and so her glee mounted higher, the young man at her side half
in a trance, watching her laughing face and drinking in the sound of
her voice.

How long that might have lasted there is no telling, had it not been
that the woods came to an end, disclosing more open fields and a
village beyond. "We'd better not go any farther," said Helen,
laughing; "if any of the earth creatures should hear us carrying on
they would not know it was 'Trunkenheit ohne Wein.'"

She stretched out her hand to her companion, and led him to a seat
upon a fallen log nearby. "Poor boy," she said, "I forgot that you
were supposed to be tired."

"It does not make any difference," was the reply; "I hadn't thought
of it."

"There's no need to walk farther," said Helen, "for I've seen all
that I wish to see. How dear this walk ought to be to us, Arthur!"

"I do not know about you, Helen," said the young man, "but it has
been dear to me indeed. I could not tell you how many times I have
walked over it, all alone, since you left; and I used to think about
the many times I had walked it with you. You haven't forgotten,
Helen, have you?"

"No," said Helen.

"Not one?"

"Not one."

The young man was resting his head upon his hand and gazing steadily
at the girl.

"Do you remember, Helen--?" He stopped; and she turned with her
bright clear eyes and gazed into his.

"Remember what?" she asked.

"Do you remember the last time we took it, Helen?"

She flushed a trifle, and half involuntarily turned her glance away
again.

"Do you remember?" he asked again, seeing that she was silent.

"Yes, I remember," said the girl, her voice lower--"But I'd rather
you did not--." She stopped short.

"You wish to forget it, Helen?" asked Arthur.

He was trembling with anxiety, and his hands, which were clasped
about his knee, were twitching. "Oh, Helen, how can you?" he went
on, his voice breaking. "Do you not remember the last night that we
sat there by the spring, and you were going away, no one knew for
how long--and how you told me that it was more than you could bear;
and the promise that you made me? Oh, Helen!"

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