Chapter V: Part II: Seeking a Publisher (1)

July 8th.

To-day I took it to the publisher's!

* * * * *

I had been pondering for a week who were the best publishers. To-day I hardly had the courage to go in--I know nothing about such things--and my hands shook so I could hardly hold the package.

* * * * *

I asked to see the manager. I told him I had a manuscript to submit. He looked at me--I guess I must look rather seedy. “What sort of a manuscript?” he asked. “A blank verse drama!”

Then he took it and glanced over it. “Blank verse dramas are difficult things to publish,” he said.

“You had best read it, I think,” I answered, “you will find it worth while.”

“Very well, if you wish,” said he, “we always read everything that is offered to us.”

“How soon shall you be able to let me know?”

“Oh, in a week or ten days.”

* * * * *

And then I went out--shuddering with excitement. A week or ten days! Well--I can wait. I have done all _my_ duty, at any rate.

* * * * *

July 9th.

I have certainly played a bold game with my poem! At the publisher's at last--and I, having paid my room-rent, have just a dollar in my pocket!

* * * * *

I have been tramping about all day to-day, looking for some work. I don't care what it is--I can do anything to keep alive for a week or ten days.--I wonder if they will advance me some money at once.

* * * * *

They all stare at me suspiciously. I think some of the wildness of the woods must still hang about me.--Anyway, I walk along on air, I fear nothing. I could hug all the passers-by. My book is at the publisher's! I could beg, I think, if I had to, and do it serenely, exultingly. I have only a dollar--but have I not all the stars?

* * * * *

I was thinking to-day about Carlyle, and that ghastly accident to his manuscript. Let others blame Carlyle for his sins--for those days of agony and horror I forgive him all things, and love him.

I have the original manuscript of The Captive put safely away. If that poem were destroyed it would kill me. I can think of anything else in the world but such a thing as that.

* * * * *

July 10th.

What will they write me about it? I picture to myself all the emotions of a publisher when he discovers a poem like that! Ah yes, good publisher, I have scanned your lists for many months back; but you have published nothing like The Captive.

And then I shall taste my first drop of success.

--I do not want it for myself--it is not that--I want it for the book! I want people to love it--I want it to stir their souls! I want brothers and friends and lovers in that great glory of mine! That is why I want all the world to shake with it.

* * * * *

And then I can go on!

* * * * *

--I wonder if they will write to me sooner, when they find out what it is.--

* * * * *

I have been picturing myself with some money! It is all over now--and I can do that--will it not be strange to have some money! I have been thinking where I should live, and what I should do.

The first thing I shall do is to get somebody to teach me music. And then all the concerts that I long for! How long has it been since I have heard a note of music?

* * * * *

I think that is all I want. I want no toys in my life. I want my freedom, and my soul, and the forest once again.--

* * * * *

I read some of the psalms to-night--far, far into the morning. My heart is a psalm.

* * * * *

--I have gotten something to do! I am a waiter in a restaurant on Sixth Avenue! I got the place this morning. Ugh!--it is nasty beyond words. But I do not care, it will keep me alive.

* * * * *

July 11th.

What a thing is hope! I have been for two days chained in the most horrible kind of a place. Picture it--to stand all day and see low people stuffing themselves with food--the dirt and the grease and the stench and the endless hideous drudgery! And I five days out of the springing forest and the ecstasy of inspiration!--Truly, it is a thing to put one's glory to a test! But I hardly feel it--I walk on air--deep back in my soul there is an organ song, I hear it all day, all day!

How soon will they write? I fly up-stairs each night, looking for a letter. Hurry up! Hurry up!

--“_Pegasus im Joche_!”

* * * * *

July 13th.

The book! The book! I go thinking about it--when I come home I throw myself down on the bed and laugh with suppressed excitement. I think all day--they are reading it now, perhaps! Ah, my book! And perhaps I'll find somebody at home there to see me about it to-night!

I look at the reviews--I am interested in all the books of the day now--because The Captive is going to be among them! How will it seem to see it there, in big letters?

* * * * *

And how will it seem to be known? I am not a fool--I know what will help me to my peace when I am out there in the woods again--and it will not be that the newspapers have been talking about me, and that the dames of high society have asked me to their tea-parties. But there are one or two men in this world that I should like to know. Perhaps as the author of a book that is known it would be possible.

* * * * *

--Yes, before I was one of the mob, and now I have shown what I can do.

* * * * *

July 15th.

The horror of that awful “eating-joint” grows on me every hour. I could not bear it much more--physically it makes me ill, and no amount of enthusiasm can make that better. I will not sell a second more of my time than I have to. I made up my mind that I would give up the place at the end of the week. The money will do me for another week after that, and by that time I will surely have heard from the publishers.

* * * * *

I'll have to tell them, that's all,--it is nothing to be ashamed of. They'll have to give me some money in advance. I can not live in that cesspool.

* * * * *

Yes, to-morrow and half of the next day,--that is all I will bear!

* * * * *

--I long sometimes to go and see them; but no, I can wait.

* * * * *

July 17th.

I treated myself to a long holiday this afternoon. I went up to the park, and walked and walked. Everything was in a tumult within me--I was clear of that last prison. And all the excitement and the power of that poem are still in me. I am restless, all on fire, stern, hungry, like a wind-storm. Come not near me unless you wish for truth! Come not near me if you fear the gods!

To-day my thoughts went surging into the future. I shall have money!--I shall be free!--And what shall I do next? I counted up what I might have--even a slight success for the book would mean a fortune such as turned my head to think of. What would I do?

My mind pounced upon a new work--a work that I have dreamed of often. Would it be my next work? I thought--would I be able--would I dare? It is a grand thing.

I went on, and got to thinking of it; I almost forgot that I was not still in the woods. What a sweeping thing I see it!

The American! It would have to be a three-volume novel, I fear--it would be as huge as Les Misérables!

It is the Civil War! I am haunted by that fearful struggle. Is there anything more fearful in history, any more tremendous effort of the human spirit? And so far it has not made one great poem, one great drama, one great novel!

* * * * *

It was the furnace-fire in which this land was forged--this land which holds in its womb the future of the world--this land that is to give laws to the nations and teach mankind its destiny. I search the ages, and I find no struggle so fraught with meaning, with the woe and the terror and the agony of a desperate hope.

It must be all put into an art-work, I say! There is no theme that could thrill the men of this country more, that could lift them more, that could do more to make their hearts throb with pride. We sent all the best that we had--armies and armies of them--and they toiled and suffered, they rotted upon a thousand fields of horror. And their souls cry out to me, that it must not be for naught, that the fearful consecration must not be for naught.

The world is filled with historical fiction; it is the cant and the sham of the hour.--Bah!

* * * * *

--This is what I long to do; to take the agony of that struggle and live it and forge it into an art-work; to put upon a canvas the soul of it; to put it there, living and terrible, that the men of this land might know the heritage that is come down to them.

It would take years of toil, it would take money, too--I should have to go down there. But some day I shall do it!

I saw some of it to-day, and it made my blood go!

I saw a poet, young, sensitive, throbbing at the old, old wrong, at the black shame of our history; I saw him drawn into that fearful whirlpool of blood and passion, driven mad with the pain and the horror of it; and I saw him drilled and hammered to a grim savageness, saw him fighting, day by day, with his spirit, forging it into an iron sword of war. He was haggard and hollow-eyed, hard, ruthless, desperate. He saw into the future, he saw the land he loved, the land he dreamed of--the Union! She stretched out her arms to him; she cried with the voices of unborn ages, she wrung her hands in the agony of her despair. And for her his heart beat, for her he was a madman, for her he marched in sun and in snow, for her he was torn and slashed, for her he waded through fields of slaughter. Of her he dreamed and sung--sung to the camps in the night-time, till armies were thrilled with his singing.

* * * * *

This was the thing of which he sang, the gaunt, grim poet: There is a monster, huge beyond thought, terrible, all-destroying; the name of it is Rebellion, and the end of it is Death! Day by day you grapple with it, day by day you hammer it, day by day you crush it. Down with it, down with it! Finish it!

I heard that as a battle-cry: “Finish it!” I saw a man, wild and war-frenzied, riding a war-frenzied horse; he rode at the head of a squadron, bare-headed, sword in hand, demon-like--thundering down-hill upon a mass of men, stabbing, slashing, trampling, scattering! Above the roar of it all I heard his cry: “Finish it! Finish it!”

And afterward he staggered from his horse and knelt by the men he had killed, and wept.

* * * * *

--I saw him again. It was when the man of the hour had come at last; when the monster had met his master; when, day by day, they hammered it, the fire-spitting, death-dealing monster; when they closed with it in death-grapple in a tangled wilderness, where armies fought like demons in the dark, and the wounded were burned by the thousands. I saw companies of fainting, starving, agonized men, retreating, still battling, day by day; and I saw the wild horseman galloping on their track, slashing, trampling--and still with the battle-yell: “Finish it! Finish it!”

* * * * *

I saw him yet a third time. It was done, it was finished; and he lay wounded in a dark room, listening. Outside in the streets of Washington a great endless army marched by, the army of victory, of salvation; and the old war-flags waved, and the old war-songs echoed, and he heard the trampling of ten thousand feet--the rumbling of the old cannon--and the ocean-roaring of the vast throngs of men! A wild delirium of victory throbbed in his soul,--burned him up, as he lay there alone, dying of his passion and his wounds. Born of the joy that throbbed in the air about him, born of the waving banners and the clashing trumpets and the trampling hosts and the shouting millions--a figure loomed up before him--a figure with eyes of flame and a form that towered like the mountains--with arms outstretched in rapture and robes that touched the corn-fields as she sped--angel, prophetess, goddess!--Liberty!

* * * * *

--And at her feet he sobbed out his life.

* * * * *

--The American!

* * * * *

July 18th.

Still another day, and no news from the publisher's. The time is nearly up--I can not wait much longer.

* * * * *

They have rejected The Captive! They have rejected The Captive! In God's name, what does it mean? They have rejected The Captive!

I stared at the paper in blank consternation! I couldn't realize the words, I couldn't understand what they meant. Such a thing never occurred to me in my wildest moment.

What is the matter with them--are they mad? Great God, that any human creature!--And without a line about it!

--“We have carefully considered the MS. which you have kindly offered us, and regret that we are not advised to undertake its publication. We are returning the MS. with thanks for your courtesy in submitting it.”

* * * * *

That letter came to me like a blow in the face.--I have spent hours to-night pacing the streets, almost speechless. Fools!

--But I will not let such a thing disturb me for an instant. Yes, they are a great publishing-house--but such things as I have seen them publish! And they “regret.” Well, you _will_ regret, some day, never fear!

* * * * *

July 19th.

The manuscript arrived this morning. I took it up-stairs and sat down, trembling, and read it all again.

I wish that I could see the man or woman who read that poem and rejected it--just that I might see what kind of looking person it is. Oh, the wildness of it, the surge and the roar of it! The glory of it!

* * * * *

I can not afford to waste my time worrying about such things. I only say “Fools!”

* * * * *

--I took it to another publisher. I don't know any in particular, but I will try the best. This publisher didn't seem very anxious to read it. Go ahead, try it!--Or are you a fool too?

--Of course I shall have to begin tramping around, looking for some work again. I must find something better than the last.

* * * * *

July 20th.

Nervous, impatient--it is so that I have lived. Never to waste an instant has been my passion. I have struggled, watched, fought for a minute. If ever I were held back or kept idle it drove me wild, and I burst through everything. It has always been a torture to me not to be thinking something.

But less of that torture than I have now, I think I never had; it seems as if I had won the mastery--I mind nothing any more. I walk upon the air, and I never tire. Thoughts--endless thoughts--come to me without ever the asking; nothing disturbs me, nothing hinders me--I take everything along with me.--I am full of impulse, of life, of energy!--

I am the owner of the sphere,
Of the seven stars and the solar year,
Of Cæsar's hand and Plato's brain!--

And this when I have spent all the day looking for work!--answering advertisements, and tramping to this place and that! Discouraging?--what does the word mean?

* * * * *

--I am the man who has never learned to shiver and shake!

* * * * *

I thought of a young Irishman I worked with a long time ago. “Once I went into a place, and says I, 'I'd like to be havin' a job.' An' he looked me over, an' he says, says he, 'Git oot!' An' so I thought I'd better git oot!”

* * * * *

It might take me some time to find a publisher, I was thinking to-day. I do not know anything about publishers. But once get it before the world, that is the thing! I fear nothing, I can wait. It is done, that is all I can think of. --The rest “must follow, as the night the day.”

* * * * *

July 21st.

To-night I sat by the bedside trembling, thinking of what I had learned. Oh, this faith that I have gained, it must go forth among men! A prayer welled up in my soul--I have learned what I can do--I have learned that I can do what I will! I have seen the infinite heights that lie beyond--oh, let me not fail! The hopes of unborn generations are in my soul.

* * * * *

--That is true. What systems shall come of this vision of mine, what new ways of beauty, what new happiness and new freedom! That thought has shaken the very depths of my soul.

It makes me leap up--it makes me wish to go! Why should I not start now? Why should I waste to-day?

* * * * *

July 22d.

I have been making plans. I must get to work. I was racing through all sorts of vast schemes to-day as I walked about the streets hunting for something to do. I will make my Greek perfect first--I can do that while I am walking.

I made an athlete of myself pacing up and down with The Captive! I honestly think I walked ten or twelve hours some days. I have walked all day to-day, but I do not feel tired. I answered advertisements in the papers.

* * * * *

--Why are men impolite? I do not believe I could ever learn to speak rudely.

* * * * *

July 23d.

The impossible occupations that I have thought of, in trying to solve my problem! To-day I saw myself a lighthouse-keeper! What does a lighthouse-keeper do, anyway? And could I manage to get such a place where I could be alone by myself?

* * * * *

--But no, some one would have to attend to the light!--

* * * * *

I thought of being a hall-boy. But you are not paid very much.--I said, however, that I would at least get some sort of a place up-town. I could not stand it down in the “business” world.

* * * * *

God, how horrible it is! All that seething effort--and for what? All this “business”--is it really necessary to the developing of the souls of men? Does each man in that rushing mob need more money yet, to begin developing his soul?

* * * * *

--Another occupation! I saw myself a lonely hunter, living by a mountain lake, and shooting game for a living! I wonder if that wouldn't be possible. I never shot any game, but I could learn.

It would suit me perfectly to sit by a mountain lake and read Greek and watch for ducks.

* * * * *

July 27th.

I was getting down pretty close to the limit again, but I got something to do to-day. I had to take what I could find; it is what would be called a good position, I suppose; I am in a wholesale-paper store. I get twelve dollars, and that is quite something.

* * * * *

The business of the will is to face the things that come--not any other things. Now I have to drill and discipline myself anew, to learn to save my soul alive in a wholesale-paper store!

It is a great, dingy place, full of chaffering, hungry-looking men. They are all desperately serious; it is a great “business house,” I believe; the very atmosphere of it is deadly poison.

--Oh bald-headed, grim-visaged senior-partner, that didst gaze at me over black-rimmed spectacles--so I have “an opportunity to rise,” have I?

Yes,--I shall rise upon wings of a sapphire sheen, and toss myself up in the wind and shake down showers of golden light into thy wondering eyes, oh bald-headed, grim-visaged senior-partner!

* * * * *

--It is my business to show samples of paper. I shall learn all about them in a few days, and then I shall go at the Greek.

* * * * *

July 28th.

Whenever I feel weary I run off into a corner and whisper into my ear, “It is done! Be not afraid!” Instantly my heart goes up like swift music.

* * * * *

July 31st.

Twelve days since I left The Captive; they said it would take three weeks.

* * * * *

Something strange flashed over me to-day, something that sent a shudder through me; I have done a strange thing to myself this summer, not in metaphor, but in fact. I have seen a ghost; I have drunk a potion; I have gazed upon a nymph; I have made myself mad!

* * * * *

I am no longer a man among men--I am “the reed that grows never more again”!

* * * * *

--I try to lose myself in a book, but the book does not hold me. Nothing satisfies me as it used to,--I am restless, hungry, ill at ease. Why should I read this man's weak efforts--what profits me that man's half-truths?

* * * * *

--And all the time I know too well what I want--I want to fight!

I want to get back into the woods again! I want that vision again! That work again! I want _myself_!

* * * * *

--And here I am, a bird in a cage, beating the bars. What folly to say that I can be strong and endure this thing! That I can endure anything, dare anything. Yes, so I can--if I can strive! Put me out there alone, and set me a task, and I will do it though it kill me. But how can I conquer when I can not strive?

Here I am, tied! I am tied--not hand and foot--but tied in soul. Tied in time! Tied in attention! How can I be anything but beaten and wretched? How can I expect anything but defeat and ruin? A song comes to me, it calls me--and I can not go! I must stare at it and watch it leave me!--How can that not drive me wild?

The great wings of my soul begin to beat--I go up, I am wild for the air,--and then suddenly I am struck back by the hideous impertinences of the wholesale-paper business! How can I endure such things as that--how can I _conquer_ Why, it is like the clashing in my ears of twenty trumpets out of tune!

* * * * *

Do not keep me here long! Do not keep me here long!

* * * * *

--It is something that I find very strange and curious to watch--how spontaneously, and instinctively, all young men dislike me. Have I a brand upon my forehead?

* * * * *

It is not my habit to stand upon the pedestal of my inspiration, and gaze down upon those that I meet. Sympathy is my life--I can sympathize even with men who aspire to rise in business. But I have to live many lives, and new lives; and I can brook no delay.

I will make no compromises; I have sworn a vow against idle words--they may dislike me as they will. I give my work, for which I am paid; I can not give my soul.

* * * * *

August 2d.

Oh what a horrible thing is “business”! Here, where I am,--this is _the world_. An industrial era!

* * * * *

This is a wholesale-paper house, and the three partners who run it call themselves, with unconscious irony, “wholesale-paper MEN”! They live their lives in wholesale-paper,--they talk it--they dream it--they plan it--they have no hope in the world except to find people to buy wholesale-paper! And the manager--keen and hungry--he is planning to be a wholesale-paper man himself. And here are twenty-five men and youths apparently having but one virtue in the world, the possibility of consecrating their souls to wholesale-paper!

What they make is useful, it may even be sublime--in which way the business is unique. But none of these men ever thinks of that--they would be just as absorbed in the business if it were wholesale bonnets. None of them has the least care in the world about books. And these men who come here to buy the paper--are _they_ any better? Or is their interest in the paper the profits it may bring to them?

* * * * *

--Dear God!--That brought me back to The Captive.

* * * * *

--I have been sick to-day, and sickness clips your wings. It is an error of mine--I pay for my food with my soul, and so I try to eat little, and thereby make myself ill.

* * * * *

August 3d.

I got my first twelve dollars to-day!

* * * * *

August 5th.

To-day I made a resolution, that I must stop this chafing, this panting, this beating my wings to pieces. A man's inspiration must be under his control, to stop it, as well as to start it. I can not write or dream poetry while I am in this slavery, and somehow I have to realize it. When I go home I will get to some work, and not wander around hungering.

After my glimpse of the forest it is frightful to be penned in this steaming city. To have to work in an office all day--sometimes it makes me reel. And then at night too, when I try to read, the room gets suffocating.

Then I go out among the tenement-house crowds, carrying my little note-book. I stop at a lamp-post and look at a couple of words and then walk on and learn them! So I go for hours.

* * * * *

--Hurry up, publishers!--I wrote to them to-night.

* * * * *

August 7th.

“In answer to your letter of the 5th instant, we beg to inform you that your manuscript is now in the hands of our readers, and that you may expect a report upon it in a week.”

* * * * *

I am reading Euripides.

* * * * *

August 8th.

Oh how will I find words for my delight when I have got a little money and can escape from dirt and horror. To-night two vile men have been quarreling in the room underneath, and I have been drinking in all their brutal ugliness. Bah!--

* * * * *

To live in a place where there are not horrible women in wrappers, reeling, foul-smelling men, snuffling children with beer-cans!

This is more of my “economy”!

* * * * *

To-night I sat upon the edge of the bed and whispered, “To be free! I shall be free!”--until I was trembling in every nerve.

My beautiful poem! My beautiful poem will set me free!

Sometimes I love it just as if it were a child.

* * * * *

August 10th.

Twelve dollars more!

* * * * *

August 11th.

“We have read with the utmost interest the manuscript of The Captive which you have been so good as to show us. We are very sorry to say that it does not seem to us that the publication of this poem would be a venture in which we could engage with profit. At the same time, however, we have been very much struck with it, and consider it an altogether remarkable piece of work. We should like very much to have the privilege of an interview with you, should you find it convenient.”

* * * * *

Now what in the world do they mean by that? If they are not going to publish the book, what do they want to see me for? And I've wasted two weeks more of my life!

I had not reckoned on petty things such as these. I fear I have not much knowledge of men. How can a man read The Captive and not know that others would read it? What are they in business for, anyway?

* * * * *

August 12th.

I begged off from work for an hour. I have had an interview with the great publishers! I have learned a great deal too.

I saw the manager of the firm. He meant to be very kind, that is the first thing to say; the second is that he is very well-dressed, and comfortable-looking.

* * * * *

“Now, Mr. Stirling,” said he, “you know a publishing house is always on the lookout for the new man. That is why I wanted to have the pleasure of meeting you. It is evident to me that you have literary talent of no common kind.”

(I bow.)

“I wish that I could tell you that we could consider The Captive an available piece of writing; I have read it myself with the greatest care. But you must know, Mr. Stirling, that it is an exceedingly _difficult_ piece of work; I mean difficult from a publisher's point of view. There is very little demand for poetry nowadays--a publisher generally brings out at a loss even the poems that make a reputation for their authors. Whether you are aware of that I don't know, but it is true; and I think of all kinds of poetry a blank verse tragedy is the most to be shunned.”

(Here a pause. I have never any tongue when I am with men.)

“What I want to talk to you about, Mr. Stirling, is the work which you contemplate in the future. As I said, I was interested at once in this work; I should like very much indeed to advise you and to be of any assistance to you that I can. I should like very much to know what your plans are. I should like very much to see anything that you might write. Are you contemplating anything just at present?”

“No, not just at present.”

“Not? Don't you think that you might find it possible to produce something just a little more in accordance with the public taste? Don't you think, for instance, that you might possibly write a novel?”

(Some hesitation.) “I have thought of a novel.”

“Ah! And might I ask--would it be a character study?--or perhaps historical?--or--”

“It would be historical.”

“Ah! And of what period?”

“The Civil War.”

(A great look of satisfaction.) “Dear me! Why, that is very interesting indeed, Mr. Stirling! I should like to see such a work from your pen. And are you thinking of completing it soon?”

(General discomfort on my part.) “I had never thought of the time exactly. I had feared it would take a great many years.”

(Perplexity.) “Oh, pshaw!--still, of course, that is the way all great work is done. Yes, one has to obey one's own inspiration. I understand perfectly how he can not adjust himself to the market. I have seen too often how disastrous such attempts are.”

(More courteous platitudes, I assenting. Then at last, weary--)

“You don't think, then, that you will be able to undertake The Captive?”

“No, Mr. Stirling, I really do not think we can. You understand, of course, if I take this work to the firm I have to tell them I think it will sell; and that I can not honestly do. You know that a publishing house is just as much limited as any other business firm--it can not afford to publish books that the trade does not want. And this is an especially unusual sort of thing, it is by no means easy to appreciate--you must be aware of that yourself, Mr. Stirling. You see when I read a manuscript I have to keep constantly before my mind the thought of how it is going to affect the public--a very different thing from my own judgment, of course. From the former standpoint I believe there are things in The Captive that would meet with a reception not satisfactory to either of us, Mr. Stirling.”

(Perplexity on my part.) “You'll have to explain that to me, I fear.”

“Why--but the explaining of that would be to offer you my opinion about the book--”

“I should be very pleased to hear it. Your reason for declining it, then, is not altogether that it is a blank-verse drama?”

“Not altogether, Mr. Stirling. It's a little difficult for me to tell you about these things, you know. I understand that the book must have meant a great deal to you, and so I am naturally diffident. But if you will pardon my saying so, it seems to me that the book--it is obviously, of course, the work of a young man--it is very emotional, it strives to very high altitudes. I will not say that it is exaggerated, but--the last part particularly--it seems to me that you are writing in too high a key, that your voice is strained.” (An uncomfortable pause.) “Of course, now, that is but my opinion. It will not seem of any value to you, perhaps, but while I read it I could not get away from the fact that it was not altogether natural. It seemed hysterical and overwrought in places--it gives the effect of crudeness. It is rather hard, you know, to expect a man who sits at a desk all day to follow you in such very strenuous flights.” (A slight laugh.)

“Mind you it is not that I do not appreciate high qualities, Mr. Stirling, it is merely that it seemed to me that if it were toned down somewhat it would be better--you know such things strike different people in different ways; you do not find it easy to believe that it would affect men so--but I am pretty sure that the impulse of the average critic would be to go still further--to make fun of it. Here, for instance--let me read you the opinion upon the book that was handed in by one of our most experienced readers--etc., etc.--”

I have told enough of that story, giving the conversation as literally as I can recall it. I am always a fool, the presence of other men overawes me; I sit meek and take all that comes, and then make my escape. The great publishers' manager still thinks he impressed me with his wisdom--he has half an idea I'm going to “tone down” The Captive!

--He read me that criticism--great God, it makes me writhe! It was like a review of the Book of Revelations by Bill Nye.

* * * * *

_That my work should be judged by such men!_

* * * * *

--“Exaggerated!” “Hysterical!” And is there nothing hysterical in life, then? And would you go through battle and pestilence with the same serenity that you sit there at your desk all day, you publisher?

As if a man who was being torn to pieces would converse after the manner of Mr. Howells and Jane Austen!

* * * * *

--“Tone it down!” That bit of inanity has been haunting my ears. Tone down The Captive! Tone down the faith and rapture of my whole life, until it is what the reading public will find natural!--And tone down the Liebes-Tod--and tone down the Choral Symphony--and Epipsychidion--and King Lear!

Swounds, show me what thou'lt do:
Woo't weep? Woo't fight? Woo't fast? Woo't tear thyself?
Woo't drink up eisel? Eat a crocodile?
I'll do't. Dost thou come here to whine?
To outface me with leaping in her grave?
Be buried quick with her, and so will I:
And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw
Millions of acres on us, till our ground,
Singeing his pate against the burning zone,
Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou!--

“This is mere madness,” observes the queen. Tone it down!

* * * * *

August 12th.

I sat last night brooding over this thing till almost dawn. I could not bring myself to the thought of offering my work again to be judged by such people. I made up my mind to take a different course--I sat and wrote a long letter to a certain poet whom I love and honor. He is known as a critic--he will know. I told him the whole story, and asked him to read the poem.

It was something that I had never thought about, the effect of The Captive upon commonplace people. I was so full of my own rapture--I made my audience out of my own fancy. And now these snuffy little men come peering at it!

My appeal is not to the reading public--my appeal is to great minds and heroic hearts--to the ages that will come when I have gone.

--And can it be that I am to repeat the old, old story--will every one laugh at me and leave me to starve?

* * * * *

--I will get myself together and prepare for a siege. I will find an opening somewhere. You can not shut up a volcano.

* * * * *

August 16th.

There seems to be little use of struggling. I can not control myself. I wander around, restless, unhappy. That horrible prison that I am pent in--God, how I hate it! Such heart-sickening waiting--waiting!--and meanwhile that intolerable treadmill! It drives me wild! I am so full of life, of passion; and to be dragged back--and back--and stamped on! Each day I feel myself weaker; each day my power and my joy are going. Let me go--let me go!

Is my inspiration of no value at all, my ardor, my tenderness, my faith,--all nothing? You treat me as if I were an ox!

* * * * *

It is like being chained in the galleys! The dust and the heat, the jostling crowds, the banging and rattling, the bare, hideous streets--and above it all the wild, rampant vulgarity--the sordidness, the cheapness, the chaffering! My eyes stare at advertisements and signs until they burn me in my head.

Oh, the hell of egotism and vulgarity that is a city!

--“Why so much trouble? Other men bear dust and heat, and do their work without complaining!” Ah, yes!--but they do not have to write poems in the bargain!

* * * * *

If it were for truth and beauty, such a life would be heroism. But the hoards of wealth that they heap up--they spend it upon fine houses, and silly clothes, and gimcracks, and jewels, and rich food to eat, and wines to drink, and cigars to smoke! Bah!--

It is the brutality of it all that drives me wild. I see great, hulking, disgusting _bodies_ that live to be pampered and fed. And after that, in the place of minds, I see little restless centers of vanity--hungering, toiling, plotting, intriguing--to be stared at and praised and admired.

* * * * *

August 20th.

I thought that I would surely have heard from my poet by now. I am not a good waiter.

* * * * *

The senior-partner's nephew is a young German, over to learn the language. He is on a furlough from the army. He has close-cropped hair, a low forehead, and two front teeth like a squirrel's. When he smiles he makes you think of a horse. He has opinions, commercial and political, which he enunciates in a loud voice. Think of listening to Prussian opinions!

* * * * *

And there is another clerk who was meant for a variety-show specialist. He hums comic songs and cracks jokes, and conducts witty pantomime incessantly. He is very popular. He is never quiet. Sometimes he slaps you on the back.

* * * * *

I wrestle with my soul all day; the rage of it is like to burst me. The infinite pettiness of it--that is the thing! I am bitten and stung by a swarm of poisonous flies!

* * * * *

August 24th.

Another twelve dollars yesterday! I gasp with relief as if I were hauling a load up successive slopes; here is so much gained, so much safe. I have gotten along on twelve dollars; I have a little over thirty-five.

* * * * *

I believe these things are more wearing than the toil of writing; I know I find it so. Then I accomplish something; here I work myself into nervous frenzies, and chafe and pant for nothing. I can feel how it weakens me; I can feel that I have less elasticity, less _élan_ every day. Ah, God, let me go!

* * * * *

August 25th.

Why doesn't he answer my letter?

* * * * *

August 27th.

To-day I took myself off in a corner. I said: “Am I not here, have I not this thing to _do_? The power that I have in my soul--it is to be used for the doing of _this_; if I am to save my soul, it must be by the doing of _this_! And I am a fool that I do not face the fact. I shall be free some day--that I know--I have only to bide my time and wait. Meanwhile I am to stay here--or until I have money enough; and now I will turn my soul to iron, and do it! I am going to study what I can in this place, and at night I am going to speed home and get into a book. I will never stop again, and never give up--and above all never think, and never feel! I will get books of fact to read--I will read histories, and no more poetry. I will read Motley, and Parkman, and Prescott, and Gibbon, and Macaulay.--Macaulay will not afflict me with wild yearnings, I guess.”

--Is there any author in the world more vulgar than Macaulay?--unless it be Gibbon. Or possibly Chesterfield.

I have heard Chesterfield's letters referred to as a “school for gentlemen.” When the world is a little bit civilized, men will read them as they now read Machiavelli's Prince.

* * * * *

--All these resolutions while I was selling wholesale-paper! I fought quite a battle, and heard some of the old-time music. What a task for a poet,--to fight _not_ to live!

* * * * *

August 30th.

I have still heard nothing from my poet! I wrote to him to-day to ask him if he had received my letter. Eighteen whole days gone by, and I watching every mail, with The Captive lying idle in a drawer! I can not stand waiting like this--Why do not people answer my letters promptly?

* * * * *

August 31st.

I have been reading George Moore's Evelyn Innes for the last two days. He is striving toward deeper things; but the mark of the beast is in the fiber.

The spiritual struggles of a young lady with two sloppy lovers at once! Of a young and beautiful girl whose first walk on the street with a baronet is a “temptation.” And who turns nun at last and worships the Holy Virgin, in order to forget her nastiness! A Gallicized novelist ought to deal with Gallic characters. While I was reading Evelyn Innes, I could never get away from the impression that I was reading the career of a chambermaid.

And the whole story hinges upon the fact that a woman can not sing the sacred ecstasy of Tristan and Isolde without being a harlot!

* * * * *

I read the Confessions of a Young Man, and I felt the vigor of it, and the daring; but it was a very cheap kind of daring. The fundamental laws of life are occasionally enunciated by commonplace people, and that gives an opportunity to be startling. But I leave it for small boys to gape at such fireworks; my interest is in the stars.

The last chapter runs into absolute brutality. I am accustomed to say that Gautier is a ruffian author, but if there is any ruffianism in Gautier more savage than that sentiment about the “skinful of champagne,” I do not know where to find it.

About such stuff as that I would say that it makes me sick, but it is not worth that--it simply makes me tired. One would not call it impudent, because it is so silly--it is the driveling of a fool. He will get me off in a corner now, will he, and probe my soul? “Out with it!--Why not confess that you'd like to live a life of dissipation if you only had the money!” Why, you poor fool, before I would live such a life, I'd have my eyes torn out, and my ears torn off, and my fingers, and my hands, and my feet. “Why not confess the wild joys of getting drunk on champagne!” Poor fool, I have never tasted champagne.

* * * * *

--“Perhaps that is just the reason,” you add. When the folly of a fool reaches its climax, the fool becomes a wit. But possibly that is it, I never was drunk.

--And yet I know something about drunkenness. I once buried a drunkard. He was my father. He died in a delirium.

* * * * *

There must be something young about my attitude--men smile at me. But I do not find it easy to imagine evil of men. I do not mean the crowd--I do not philosophize about the crowd. But I mean the artists. I was looking at a picture of Musset the other day; it was a noble face--the face of a man; and in the face of a man I read dignity and power--high things that I love and bow before. Here are lips,--and lips are things that speak of beauty; here are eyes,--and eyes are things that seek the light. And now to gaze upon that face and say: “This man lived in foulness; he was the slave of hateful lust--he died rotten, and sodden with drink.”--I say that I do not find it easy.

* * * * *

I have nothing to do with any artist who has anything to do with sin--anything, one way or the other. If a man must still think about sin, let him go back, and let him go down,--let him be a Christian. Let him wrestle with his body, overcome himself, obey laws, and learn fear. To such men and to such ways I can only say: “I have nothing to do with you.” My life is for free men--my words are for free men--for men defying law and purged of fear, for men mad with righteousness. What right have foul men in the temple of my muse? The thought of them is insult to me--away with them--in their presence I will not speak of what I love. For I am a drunkard--yes, and I am drunk all night and all day! And I am a lover--a free lover--knowing no law and defying all restraint. And how can I say such things in the presence of foul men?

Let not any man think that he can feel the love-clasp of my muse while he hides a satyr's body underneath his cloak. Free is my muse, and bold, fearing not the embrace of man, fearing not passion, nor the words of passion,--not the throbbing heart, nor the burning brow, nor the choking voice. But the warmth of her breath and the fire of her eyes, they were kindled at a shrine of which the beast does not know. Let not any man think that he can kiss the lips of my muse while his breath is tainted with the fumes of wine!

* * * * *

An artist is a man with one pleasure--and it is not self-indulgence; an artist is a man with one virtue--and it is not self-restraint. Sweetly and simply will I and my muse take all temptation, knowing not that it tempts, and wondering at the clamor of men. I will eat and drink that I may be nourished, I will sleep that I may be rested, I will dress that I may be warm. When I go among men it shall be to speak the truth, and when I press a woman to my heart, it shall be that a man may be born into the world. There is but one sin that I know, and that is dulness; there is but one virtue, and that is fire. And for the rest, I love pleasure, and hold it sweetest and holiest of all the words I know; the guide-post of all righteousness is pleasure--which whoso learns to read may follow all his days.

* * * * *

September 1st.

“The reason for delay in replying to your letter is that it was mislaid. I am directed by Mr. ---- to say that he has so many requests to read manuscripts that he is compelled to make it an invariable rule to decline.

“Secretary.”

So that hope is gone!

That letter--or rather the chain of thoughts which it brought me, made me feel ill to-night. “So many requests!” “An invariable rule!”

So many swarming millions, helpless, useless, dying unknown and unheeded. And I am in the midst of them--helpless, unknown, and unheeded! And now that I have done my work, I can not find any one with faith enough--interest enough--even to look at it!

How could a man who is a poet--who writes things that stir the hearts of men--how could he send such an answer to such a letter as I wrote him? I do not think that _I_ shall ever send such an answer!

Or is it really true, then, that the world is such a thing that it closes the hearts even of poets? That his ardor and his consecration, his sympathy and love and trust--he gives all to the things of his dreams and never to the men and women he meets?

Oh how shall I find one--just one--warmhearted man!

* * * * *

I begin the trying of the publishers once more to-morrow.

* * * * *

September 2d.

I am in my sixth week! Two weeks of the money is nearly gone--I had to get another pair of shoes and a necktie and to have some things laundered twice. I have to be respectable now, I can not wash my own clothes at the faucet when no one is about.

My “room” costs me seventy-five cents a week, and my food from a dollar and a half to two dollars. At the end of the seventh week I shall have over fifty dollars clear. I have made up my mind to give up the place at the end of that time. Twelve dollars is the most I ever earned, but I can't stand it longer than that.

I shall be clear for nearly four months, and that will surely put me safe until I have found a publisher. I would go away into the country again, only I must have books. I have nothing to write now.

* * * * *

--Oh the heat of this dreadful city; sometimes it takes all my strength to bear that and my drudgery, and nothing else. When the night comes I am panting, and can only shut my eyes.

If I am kept here long, I tell you I shall never, as long as I live, be as strong and keen as I might have been.

So long as I was working, striving for an education, preparing myself, I could bear it. But now I have done all that I can do amid these surroundings. I cry out day and night, “I have earned my freedom!”

* * * * *

September 6th.