Chapter IX: Part II: Seeking a Publisher (5)

It has been nine weeks and a half since I gave him that poem in the beginning! I never spent nine such weeks of horror in my life.

* * * * *

April 12th.

“In answer to your letter I beg to inform you that the manuscript of The Captive is now in the hands of the firm, and that you may expect a decision in about a week.”

So! It is a relief at any rate to know that the thing is all right. I can wait a little better now.

Of course I knew it must be there. A plague on that foolish clerk!

* * * * *

April 14th.

All the while that I am writing about this thing I keep up my courage by thinking what it will mean to me. It is something so immense that I can hardly realize it. I shall be famous!--And he really liked it, there can be no doubt about that! He was too busy to talk much, but he showed he liked it.

* * * * *

April 17th.

Oh my soul, I think this is the most frightful thing--is it not simply a nightmare? I have been pacing the floor to-night in an agony. _They have never seen that manuscript_!

I was going by there to-day, and I couldn't withstand the temptation; the week was not up, but I said: “If I inquire, there's no reason why he should know about it.” I went in.

And that terrible clerk--she smiled at me still! The more I talked, the more she shook her head. “There's no such manuscript ever been seen here,” she said. I showed her the letter, and that decided her to go in and see the firm. They sent out word that neither they nor their readers had ever heard of it, but that they would write to the editor at once.

* * * * *

Oh, I think this is horrible--horrible! And then just guess what I did! I couldn't bear the agony--I went to the other place, and he wasn't there, and so at last I went to his club.

He wasn't at the club, but they told me where he was; and I spent ten cents telephoning him. At this place they said he had an engagement to be there later, so I spent another ten cents, and that time I found him. I told him who I was. “The week isn't up yet,” I said, “but the firm say they have never received the manuscript.”

“So?” he said; his voice sounded hard, I thought, and it made me shudder. “You come up to see me the day after to-morrow at ten o'clock, and you'll hear about your manuscript.”

And that is all. And I walked out of the great, rich club, and I have been pacing up and down in my own garret ever since. I am almost too ill with anxiety to stand.

* * * * *

April 18th.

And to-day I can only wait. Once I lay down upon the bed and cried.

* * * * *

April 19th.

I don't know how to tell this thing. I am simply dazed. I had an experience to-day--the most hideous thing that I think ever happened to me in my life. Oh, I have been like a madman ever since--I lost my head--I did not know what I was doing. I was really crazy--it is three o'clock in the morning, now, but I shall write it down--I can not sleep.

* * * * *

To-day I went up to see that man as he told me to. I went trembling with suspense--just think, it has been eleven weeks since this agony began. And I went into his office--he was alone; and when he saw me he sprang to his feet--my soul, he looked like a tiger. He stood there in the middle of the room fairly gasping with rage.

“So,” he cried, “you've come, have you! I tell you, young man, I have never been subjected to such an outrage as this in my life! I would not read another manuscript for you--why, I wouldn't stand for such an imposition from Balzac or Thackeray--no, sir, I wouldn't!”

I stared at the man simply speechless with astonishment. “Why,” I panted, “what do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Why, you have hounded me about this city until I'm crazy. There's no place I can go to escape you. You come to my office, you come here, you come to my club! You have made yourself a perfect pest at the publishers to every one! Why--”

He stopped out of breath. Of course I have no courage or head with men--I was ready to grovel at his feet. “My dear sir,” I pleaded, “I assure you I didn't mean to do anything of the kind--it was only that the clerk kept telling me--”

“I don't care what the clerk kept telling you! I tell you that that manuscript has been in the hands of the company since the day I told you I would leave it there. Of course there have been delays, there is all sorts of routine to go through with; but suppose all our contributors did the same thing--what would we do?”

He was talking at me as if expecting a reply. Fortunately the right words came to my lips--I was really ready to cry with shame and perplexity.

“I don't think it is quite the same with all your contributors,” I said, with a trembling voice. “While I have been waiting I have been simply starving.”

It seemed to clear the atmosphere. He stared at me, and then he sat down. He was ashamed of himself, I could see. “Why,” he said, “you couldn't have been paid anything for months.”

“I didn't know,” I said, “I didn't know anything about it. But I have been starving.”

He spoke more quietly. “Mr. Stirling,” he said, “I'm very sorry about this, the whole thing has been unfortunate. Excuse me that I spoke angrily; let us not think any more about it.”

I stood there, feeling almost like crying, I was so nervous.

“Now, about that manuscript,” he went on, “I'm doing what I can to learn about it. It's been there all along, as I told you, and you will hear about it soon. Why, Mr. Stirling, I even took the trouble to send my secretary down there yesterday to make sure that it was all right.”

“I did not want you to go to any such trouble,” I stammered.

“That's all right,” he said, “don't mention it. Now they will have decided in a few days, and I will write you--”

“No, please do not,” I said, still with my abject humility. “Don't take any more trouble--let me go there and find out--”

“By no means!” said he. “Take my advice and don't go near there again under any circumstances. You can't tell how much an author hurts himself by troubling a publisher as you have done. Don't go near there--let me write to you.”

I promised that I would; and then with more abjectness I got myself out of that room, and I went out and sat down upon a step near by, simply shaking like a leaf.

“Oh, heavens!” I gasped. “That was horrible! Horrible!”

* * * * *

I sat dazed--thinking about it--thinking it over and over--I couldn't understand it, try as I might. Why should he have been so angry _that_ day--had he not told me to come there? And had he not said I should have a report?

* * * * *

--And then suddenly something flashed over me that made me leap! That firm had written him a letter the day before yesterday asking about the manuscript, and _that_ was why he was angry! And he had sent his secretary down to inquire!--But why in Heaven's name should he send his secretary down to inquire _when he had a telephone connecting with the firm right there in his office_!

And so I saw it--all in one instant the thing flashed over me!

I was so wild I paid a car-fare--I rode straight as a die down to that place, and I went in and saw the clerk.

“He has sent the manuscript now,” I said, “hasn't he?”

“Yes,” she said.

“He sent it in yesterday?” I said.

“Yes.”

“He sent it by his secretary, didn't he?”

“Yes,” she said again.

“Thank you,” I answered, and went out.

* * * * *

Is not that simply monstrous, simply awful beyond words? I have been beside myself tonight with rage, with amazement, with perplexity. Oh, think what I have suffered at the hands of that frightful man! And what have I _done_ to him--why should he have treated me so? What does it mean? I am baffled every way I turn.

The thing is like flame in my blood--like acid in my veins. It makes me hysterical with pain. I cry aloud.

* * * * *

--What do you mean by it, you monster, you wretch? Why, here for eleven weeks I have been hanging upon your every word--eleven weeks of my life spent in torment--absolutely flung away! _Eleven weeks!_ And you have lied to me--and you have kicked me about like a dog!

What do you mean? What do you mean? Tell me, above all, _why_ you did it! Were you torturing me on purpose? Or did you simply forget it? But then, how could you forget it when you had to tell me all those miserable falsehoods? And when you had to write me those letters?

And then to-day!

That is the thing that goads me most--to-day! I stood there cringed before you like a beaten cur--you kicked me--you spit upon me! And it was every bit of it a lie! That insolent rage of yours--why, it wasn't even genuine! You weren't even angry--you knew that you had no reason to be angry--that you had treated me as if I were a worm to tread on! And yet you stood there and abused me!

Oh--why, the thing is madness to think of! It is more madness the more you realize it! I have never known anything like it before in my life.

Yes--actually--it is something quite new to me. I have met blind people--people who would not heed me--but a really evil person I have never known before! A person who has no respect for another's rights--who would trample upon another! Oh, you miserable wretch--and the lies--the lies! The hateful sneaking of it--you black-hearted, insolent man! The manuscript had been there all the time! _The delays, the routine_! And you had sent your secretary down to inquire! And above all--oh, above all--the prince of them--I must not go near there lest I should injure myself! I must not go near them--they were so weary of seeing me! And I never saw a single soul there in my life but one clerk!

I never suffered such a thing as this before in all my days--deliberate, brutal injustice! And that I should be so placed as to be a victim of such a thing--that I should have to hang upon your words and to be at your mercy for eleven weeks of agony! You are a great editor, a clubman, a rich man! You have fame and power and wealth--and you stand up there and scald me with your rage--and with your heart a mess of lies all the time!

* * * * *

--But _why_ did you do it? That is the thing I ask myself in consternation. Why? _Why?_--Were you not interested in my work? If you weren't--why didn't you give it back to me, and let me go my way? And if you were--if you had any idea of publishing it--then why did you use me in this way? Where was the manuscript all this time? What did you mean to do with it? How long did you expect me to wait? And what object did you have in telling me untruths about it meanwhile?

--The whole thing is as blank to me as night. That a man should have in him so much infinite indifference about another as to leave that manuscript in a drawer, and write me that I was to “have a report on it within a week”! Why, it is something of which I can not even think. And then to get out of it by that sham anger and that sneaking!--

* * * * *

April 20th.

I have done absolutely nothing but brood over this thing and rage all day. What am I to do?--I sat and wondered if there was anything I could do but go and shoot that man. And I asked myself: Ought I not at least to go and get the manuscript from that accursed place this instant? Ought I not to have taken it then and there? But see the utter misery of my situation, the abject shame of it--suppose they were to take the thing! It is my one hope in this world--I dare not lose it--I have to leave it there!

* * * * *

But then, what hope is there now? I ask. Why, he was going to urge it upon them! And now, of course, he's simply sent it in there without a word!

Don't you see what it was--it was that letter of inquiry they wrote him! He paid no more attention to me than if I were a hound; but he had to send it when they wrote! And perhaps they said something about carelessness and that made him wild.

Oh, the thing is an endless spring of gall to me! I am all raw with it--I have to rush out on the street and walk away my passion. I never saw my situation so plainly--the horrible impotence of it! Just see what I struggle against, the utter insane futility of everything I do! Why, I beat my wings in a void, I hammer my head against a wall!

* * * * *

--And now I must wait for that thing to come back--don't I know that it will come back? And don't I know that that will be the end of me?

A black, horrible gloom has settled down upon me. I am utterly lost in despair.

* * * * *

April 21st.

I will write no more about that man--my whole being is turned to bitterness. I wonder at myself--I have no longer one feeling left in this world except a black brooding hatred of him!

* * * * *

--And all the time the thing haunts me like a detective story--I can't find the solution! What does it mean? Why did he do it? It is so irrational--so impossible--so utterly incomprehensible! And shall I _never_ know the truth about it?

* * * * *

April 24th.

“We regret that we are not advised to undertake the publication of The Captive. We return the manuscript by express.”

* * * * *

There it is! I read that thing, and I felt my whole being sinking down as if into hell. There it is! And that is the end of it all! Oh, merciful Providence, is it not simply too cruel to be believed! Eleven weeks! _Eleven weeks_!

* * * * *

--I can do no more--I do not know where to turn. I believe I shall go mad with my misery.

* * * * *

April 25th.

To-day I thought I would go up and see him--I thought I could not live until I knew what this thing meant. I heard myself saying, “I _demand_ to know why you treated me thus? I say I demand it! Before God, how _dared_ you--or don't you believe in a God?”

* * * * *

--Then again I thought, I will plead with him. It must be some mistake--I can't believe that it is all over. Why, he liked it! And now perhaps it was only looked over by some careless reader and flung aside!

But no--I could not go near the place! I could not face that man again. The memory of his look as he stood there in his insolence is so hateful to me that it makes me tremble.

* * * * *

April 26th.

I see myself crying this out from the housetops. I even wrote a letter to a newspaper, but I did not send it.

I went to a lawyer, a man I used to know. I told him I had no money--I asked him to help me. But I can not sue him--he was under no obligations, it seems; and I can not prove that the manuscript was injured in value by the delay.

So there is nothing that I can do. He will go his way--he will never think of me again. He is rich and famous.--

* * * * *

--I have just nine dollars left of my money. I can not possibly make it do more than three or four weeks; and meanwhile I sit and brood and watch them go by in blank despair.

* * * * *

April 28th.

I fight with myself--I must get that hellish thing out of my head! I went to a publisher's to-day--I didn't have the heart to go in, but I gave it to the clerk.

It will take two or three weeks. This will be the eighth publisher.

* * * * *

I said to-day: “I will force myself to read, I will get myself together; I will not let myself be stamped to the mud by this man.”

* * * * *

There is nothing I can do about it--I only poison my whole soul thinking of it. I must put it out of my mind--I must work!

* * * * *

May 1st.

I said to myself to-day: “Do you really believe that the world would heed that poem? Do you think that if any publisher published it, he could sell it?” I answered, “No, I do not.”

If one took it I should think I was making a fool of him. I offer it on that chance!

--What am I going to do? I do not know. I must try to find some work that does not tear me to pieces; and then perhaps some day I shall be able to write something different.

* * * * *

May 3d.

My whole soul is in a turmoil these days. I struggle,--I can not give up while I live; but for what do I struggle? I am a man journeying in a thicket; I can not see one step before me.

--I try to forget myself--I try to get interested in a book. But I never had but one kind of interest. I can not get used to living without a purpose, without enthusiasm, without morality.

* * * * *

I have no ideas any more. My whole life is shrunken and contracted. It is all stagnant--the garden of my soul is full of weeds. The broad fields that I used to cover, the far-off things I used to strive for--what have they to do with me now?

* * * * *

--I heard a gull to-day--far, far up--a mere speck in the sky. I started, as I watched him vanish. Then I said: “But you, too, will have to come down and mingle in the turmoil and the danger!”

* * * * *

May 6th.

I go over into the Park--the springtime is in full glory, all the sights that used to thrill my heart are there; the splendor of new verdure and young flowers, the birds that I love rioting in song. But it moves me not in the least, it only makes me ten times more mournful. I turn away.

Why, once an apple spray in blossom was to me a drunken ecstasy.

--Shall I ever know what it is to be generous, and rich and royal in my heart again? To know that surging fulness of emotion that makes you think of gold and purple and regal pomp?

I tell you the whole thing is a question of money with me. I have come down to the bare bed-rock of sordidness--I must have money--_money!_--It is everything in this world to me. I can never think of anything else again until I have it.

* * * * *

I see myself going out into the world and fighting as other men fight, and making a place in it for myself.

* * * * *

May 8th.

I am getting down again; my poor hoard is going! I sit and count it--I calculate it--I lay out my bill of fare. Oh, where shall I go, what _can_ I do? Can I write anything? I ask. I have nothing in me but a naked, shivering longing.

I dread to be in the desperate fix I was the last time I could find no work. And yet I can not make up my mind to do anything until I hear from this one publisher more.

* * * * *

May 9th.

I walked over there to-day to save a postage-stamp. They had not heard from the reader yet.

* * * * *

--I sit down and try to study. Then I get up and say I ought not to put it off any longer. Then again I think: “Wait until to-morrow, at any rate.”

* * * * *

May 10th.

I was looking at that man's magazine to-day. What thoughts it brought to me--what agonies, what longings, what despair! And, above all, what ocean-floods of bitterness!

* * * * *

I walked all the way down to the wholesale-paper store. I thought I would prefer that to evils that I know not of. I have almost a terror of having to come into contact with new people.

But my place was filled. I trudged home again. I went to the publisher's too; nothing yet. The three weeks were up to-day.

* * * * *

May 12th.

I dared not wait any more to-day. I had just three dollars and ten cents left. And my rent is due the day after to-morrow. I have answered every sort of advertisement, from dishwashing to tutoring a boy. I guess I looked too seedy for the latter.

* * * * *

--Sometimes when I am wandering around in all this misery, still yearning for what I might have been, the thought comes across my mind: “And in this huge world there might yet be some one who would understand the thing! Some one who would help me! Some one by whom it would be an honor to be helped--if I could only find him.”

And here I am, having my life beaten out of me, spark by spark,--and I can't find him--I _can't_!

* * * * *

I cry out for money--for money!

* * * * *

But no, it is others who have it.--And the way that they use it--O God, the way that they use it!

If all the world were poor, it would not be so bad; but the sight of wealth--of infinite oceans of it squandered in perfect frenzies of ostentation! The sight of this “world”--this world, which they take quite as a matter of course!

* * * * *

I have seen a good deal of this world myself, and I at least do not take it thus. I gaze upon the men and women who do take it thus, and I say, “Are you men and women really? Or are you not some strange, un-Godmade creatures, without ever a thought about justice, without ever a gleam of reason or purpose or sense?”

* * * * *

May 14th.

I have tramped the streets for two days more. I was made so ill by my anxiety last time that I made up my mind I would not risk it again. I asked my landlady to-night to wait a while, as I was looking for some work. She was ungracious enough, but I have no longer any sensibilities--I only want to be safe. She can wait--she has my trunk, as I told her.

* * * * *

Probably she wouldn't even be as willing, if she could see what is in it! I have no longer anything to sell. I had to exchange my waiter's costume for a pair of trousers, for mine were all in rags.

I have two dollars and seventy cents. I imagine that is a safe margin.

There are no words that can tell what an absolutely deadening thing it is to be wandering about the city looking for work. It turns you into a log of wood--you not only no longer have an idea, you have not a thought of an idea. You simply drag on and on until the thing becomes a habit, and you go without even thinking of that.

* * * * *

May 15th.

“Our readers have examined with a great deal of interest the unusual piece of work which you have sent us. But it has been our experience that poetry proves such a distressing adventure commercially, that we are forced to decline the offer which you have so kindly made us. We wish, however, to assure you of our desire to see anything else which you may have on hand, or may have at any time in future.”

That is about the way the letter ran--I tore it up. I did not read it but once. I took the thing to another firm--it can't do any harm.

I have not been able to find anything to-day.

* * * * *

May 16th.

So long as I have thoughts I can write a journal; but while my life is that of an animal, it doesn't seem very necessary. I have always felt myself an outcast--a poet has to be that; but I never felt it quite so much as at present. I wander around from door to door; and those who have homes and money and power--they simply order me out of the way.

* * * * *

May 18th.

I do not think I can stand this much longer. I never had such a time before finding anything. I think my state must be written in my face--men no longer have any use for me.

I fear my coat is seedy. And I know my collar is soiled; but the two I left at the laundry won't be done till to-morrow.

I have broken my last two-dollar bill. I watch in terror for the next week--I can not face that woman again. I must save enough for that.

* * * * *

May 19th.

I applied for a position as office-boy to-day--I was desperate. I have not enough to last me through a week, if I pay the woman anything.

But they said I was too old.

My feet are most horribly sore. I can hardly walk. And I have the strangest ringing in my head. I could not eat any supper--and the milk won't keep in this warm weather, either.

* * * * *

May 22d.

The day before yesterday, when I woke up in the morning, I could hardly stand. My head was on fire, and I do not think I have ever been so sick before. I got around to a drug-store--the man said he would give me some powders; he said they were forty cents, but I dared not pay it. He gave them to me for a quarter. He said I should have a tonic, but I haven't had it.

I was too ill to move all day yesterday. I am better to-day, but still I daren't go out. I have only eighty-five cents left.

* * * * *

I must manage to get out and get some work to-morrow, or I shall go mad.

* * * * *

I had a scene with that horrible creature yesterday. It was the second week--she thought I was shamming, I know. She said she never allowed her “roomers” to get behindhand--it was her invariable rule. O God, I was so sick I could scarcely see--I did not care what she did. I told her that I had no money; that I was waiting to get some work; that I would pay her the first moment I could.

“Why don't you keep work when you get it?” she demanded. “You have been idle nearly all the whole time you've been here.”

I could not argue with her; she can turn me out when she likes.

* * * * *

May 24th.

I dragged myself out to-day. I feel better except for the blisters on my feet. But nothing to do! Nothing to do! Oh, I am half mad.

I thought to-day I would call upon some of my relatives. But I bit my lips together--no, I will not ever do that!

* * * * *

It is the ghastly heat that kills me. Yesterday was almost stifling, I thought I could not bear it. I never knew it to be so hot so early.

* * * * *

May 26th.

I have got but thirty-five cents, and to-day I was so tired I had to rest for two hours nevertheless. Oh, merciful heavens, but this is fiery torture!

* * * * *

It is half a week again. I know she will not let me stay another week. I did a strange thing--I wrapped up all my papers and carried them out under my coat. She can keep everything else I have, but my papers are mine. I took them to the grocery-store where I buy things and asked the man to keep them for me.

* * * * *

May 27th.

What does a man do when he wants to work and can't find anything? Does he really starve? Or does he get locked up? Or what?

I said to-day: I will eat nothing but bread and oatmeal till I get something to do.

* * * * *

May 29th.

It was just as I thought. She has demanded her money--and I have but fifteen cents! I helped a man up with a trunk and got ten.--She told me that I would have to get out. It is clear to-night. I shall sleep somewhere in the Park. I can not write any more.

* * * * *

May 31st.

I got some work to do after all--at the height of my despair. I am giving out samples of a hitherto unequaled brand of soap.

It was yesterday morning, I met one of the men and asked him where he got the job. He said they wanted more men, so I got on a car and rode down there in haste. I made fifty cents yesterday, for half a day, and a dollar to-day. Thank God!

I spent the night before last in the Park, and last night in the room where I am writing. It is in a tenement-house. I paid fifty cents a week for it, and there is a drunken man snoring on the other side of a board partition.

I sha'n't go back to the other place, of course, until I get more money. Besides, she has probably rented the room.

* * * * *

I am so relieved at having gotten something to do. I believe I am even proud of the soap.

I am getting used to walking all day; anything so long as one doesn't have the agonizing worry about starvation. I am ill, but I shall keep at it, and answer advertisements meanwhile by mail, till I get something better.

I am going out to sit by the river. I can not stand the heat and stench in this room. To-morrow is Sunday. I shall have a long rest.

* * * * *

June 2d.

I did not go back to distribute soap to-day. I have given up the work. I have just seventy cents left in my pocket. The rent of this room is up on June 6th, and the money will last me until then.

On June 6th I am going to die.

* * * * *

--To-day I went to the publisher's. I said: “On June 6th I am going out of town. (Grim humor, that!) On June 6th you will have had the manuscript three weeks and more. I shall have to ask you to have a report by that date, or to return it to me now.” He said: “You shall have the report.”

If they will publish the poem, I shall wait. If not, I shall die on June 6th. That is settled.