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diff --git a/old/7774-h.htm.2021-01-26 b/old/7774-h.htm.2021-01-26 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f72af47 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/7774-h.htm.2021-01-26 @@ -0,0 +1,15078 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Journal of Arthur Stirling, by Upton Sinclair + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +Project Gutenberg's The Journal of Arthur Stirling, by Upton Sinclair + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Journal of Arthur Stirling + "The Valley of the Shadow" + +Author: Upton Sinclair + + +Release Date: March, 2005 [EBook #7774] +This file was first posted on May 16, 2003 +Last Updated: March 10, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JOURNAL OF ARTHUR STIRLING *** + + + + +Text file produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE JOURNAL OF ARTHUR STIRLING + </h1> + <h2> + “THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW” + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Upton Sinclair + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h4> + Revised And Condensed With An Introductory Sketch + </h4> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + The matter which is given to the public in this book will speak with a + voice of its own; it is necessary, however, to say a few words in advance + to inform the reader of its history. + </p> + <p> + The writer of the journal herein contained was not known, I believe, to + more than a dozen people in this huge city in which he lived. I am quite + certain that I and my wife were the only persons he ever called his + friends. I met him shortly after his graduation from college, and for the + past few years I knew, and I alone, of a life of artistic devotion of such + passionate fervor as I expect never to meet with again. + </p> + <p> + Arthur Stirling was entirely a self-educated man; he had worked at I know + not how many impossible occupations, and labored in the night-time like + the heroes one reads about. He taught himself to read five languages, and + at the time when I saw him last he knew more great poetry by heart than + any man of letters that I have ever met. He was the author of one book, a + tragedy in blank verse, called The Captive; that drama forms the chief + theme of this journal. For the rest, it seems to me enough to quote this + notice, which appeared in the New York Times for June 9, 1902. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + STIRLING.—By suicide in the Hudson River, poet and + man of genius, in the 22d year of his age, only son of + Richard T. and Grace Stirling, deceased, of Chicago. + Chicago papers please copy. +</pre> + <p> + Arthur Stirling was in appearance a tall, dark-haired boy—he was + really only a boy—with a singularly beautiful face, and a strange + wistful expression of the eyes that I think will haunt me as long as I + live. I made him, somewhat externally and feebly, I fear, one of the + characters in a recently published novel. That he was a lonely spirit will + be plain enough from his writings; he lived among the poverty-haunted + thousands of this city, without (so he once told me) ever speaking to a + living soul for a week. Pecuniarily I could not help him—for though + he was poor, I was scarcely less so. At the time of his frightful death I + had not seen him for nearly two months—owing to circumstances which + were in no way my fault, but for which I can nevertheless not forgive + myself. + </p> + <p> + The writing of The Captive, as described in these papers, was begun in + April, 1901. I was myself at that time in the midst of a struggle to have + a book published. It was not really published until late in that year—at + which time The Captive was finished and already several times rejected. It + was an understood thing between us that should my book succeed it would + mean freedom for both of us, but that, unfortunately, was not to be. + </p> + <p> + Early in April of 1902 I had succeeded in laying by provisions enough to + last me while I wrote another book, and I fled away to put up my tent in + the wilderness. The last time that I ever saw Arthur Stirling was in his + room the night before I left. He smiled very bravely and said that he + would keep his courage up, that he was pretty sure he would come out all + right. + </p> + <p> + I did not expect him to write often—I knew that he was too poor for + that; but after six weeks had passed and I had not heard from him at all, + I wrote to a friend to go and see him. It developed that he had moved. The + lodging-house keeper could only say that he had left her his baggage, + being unable to pay his rent; and that he “looked sick.” Where he went she + did not know, and all efforts of mine to find him were of no avail. The + only person that I knew of to ask was a certain young girl, a typewriter, + who had known him for years, and who had worshiped him with a strange and + terrible passion—who would have been his wife, or his slave, if he + had not been as iron in such things, a man so lost in his vision that I + suppose he always thought she was lost in it too. This girl had copied his + manuscripts for years, with the plea that he might pay her when he + “succeeded”; and she has all of his manuscripts now, except what I have, + if she is alive. All that we could learn was that she had “gone away”; I + feel pretty certain that she went in search of him. + </p> + <p> + In addition, all that I have to tell is that on Monday, June 9th last I + received a large express package from Arthur. It was sent from New York, + but marked as coming from another person—evidently to avoid giving + an address of his own. Upon opening it I found two packages, one of them + carefully sealed and marked upon the outside, The Captive; the other was + the manuscript of this journal, and upon the top of it was the following + letter: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MY DEAR ——: You have no doubt been wondering what has become + of me. I have been having a hard time of it. I wish I could + find some way to make this thing a little easier, but I can + not. When you read this letter I shall be dead. There is + nothing that I can tell you about it that you will not read in + the papers I send you. It is simply that I was born to be an + artist, and that as anything else I can not live. The burden + that has been laid upon me I can not bear another day. I have + told the whole story of it in this book—I have kept myself + alive for months, sick and weeping with agony, in order that I + might tear it out of my heart and get it written. It has been + my last prayer that the struggle my life has been may somehow + not be useless. There will come others after me—others perhaps + keener than I—and oh, the world must not kill them all! + + You will take this manuscript, please, and go over it, and cut + out what you like to make it printable, and write a few words + to make people understand about it. And then see if any one + will publish it. You know more about all these things than I + do. If it should sell, keep part of the money for your own + work and give the rest to poor Ellen. As to The Captive—I + all but burned it, as you will read; but keep it, sealed as + I have sealed it, for two years, and then offer it to some + publishers—to others than the nine who have already rejected + it. If you can not find any one to take it, then burn it, or + keep it for love, I do not care which. + + I am writing this on Thursday night, and I am almost dead. I + mean to get some money to-morrow, and then to buy a ticket for + as far up the Hudson as I can go. In the evening I mean to find + a steep bank, and, with a heavy dumb-bell I have bought, and + a strong rope, I think I can find the peace that I have been + seeking. + + The first thing that I have to say to you about it is, that + when you get this letter it will be over and done, and that I + want you, for God's sake, not to make any fuss. No one will + find my body and no one will care about it. You need not think + it necessary to notify the newspapers—what I'm sending you + here is literature and not journalism. I have no earthly + belongings left except these MSS., upon which you will have to + pay the toll. I have written to M——, a man who once did some + typewriting for me, asking him to use a dollar he owes me in + putting a notice in one of the papers. I suppose I owe that to + the people out West. + + I can't write you to-night—before God I can't; my head is going + like a steel-mill, and I'm <i>so</i> sick. You will get over + this somehow, and go on and do your task and win. And if the + memory of my prayer can help you, that will be something. Do + the work of both of us if you can. Only, if you do pull through, + remember my last cry—remember the young artist! There is no + other fight so worth fighting—take it upon you—shout it day + and night at them—what things they do with their young artists! + + God bless you, dear friend. Yours, ARTHUR. +</pre> + <p> + The above is the only tidings of him, excepting the extended accounts of + his death which appeared in the New York Times and the New York World for + June 10 and 11, 1902, and several letters which he wrote to other people. + There remains only to say a few words as to the journal. + </p> + <p> + It is scrawled upon old note-books and loose sheets of paper. The matter, + although a diary, contains odd bits of his writings—one of two + letters to me which he had me send back, and some extracts from an essay + which a friend of mine was offering at that time to magazines in the hope + of placing it for him. There is a problem about the work which I leave to + others to solve—how much of it was written as dated, and how much + afterward, as a piece of art, as a testament of his sorrow. Parts of it + have struck me as having been composed in the latter way, and the last + pages, of course, imply as much. + </p> + <p> + Extraordinary pages they are to me. That a man who was about to take his + life should have written them is one of the strangest cases of artistic + absorption I know of in literature. But Arthur Stirling was a man lost in + his art just so—so full of it, so drunk with it, that nothing in + life had other meaning to him. To quote the words he loved, from the last + of his heroes, he longed for excellence “as the lion longs for his food.” + </p> + <p> + So he lived and so he worked; the world had no use for his work, and so he + died. + </p> + <p> + <b>S.</b> </> + </p> + <p> + NEW YORK, <i>November 15, 1902</i>. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + READER: + </h2> + <p> + I do not know if “The Valley of the Shadow” means to you what it means to + me; I do not know if it means anything at all to you. But I have sought + long and far for these words, to utter an all but unutterable thought. + </p> + <p> + When you walk in the forest you do not count the lives that you tread into + nothingness. When you rejoice with the springtime you do not hear the + cries of the young things that are choked and beaten down and dying. When + you watch the wild thing in your snare you do not know the meaning of the + torn limbs, and the throbbing heart, and the awful silence of the creature + trapped. When you go where the poor live, and see thin faces and hungry + eyes and crouching limbs, you do not think of these things either. + </p> + <p> + But I, reader—I dwell in the Valley of the Shadow. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes it is silent in my Valley, and the creatures sit in terror of + their own voices; sometimes there are screams that pierce the sky; but + there is never any answer in my Valley. There are quivering hands there, + and racked limbs, and aching hearts, and panting souls. There is gasping + struggle, glaring failure—maniac despair. For over my Valley rolls + <i>The Shadow</i>, a giant thing, moving with the weight of mountains. And + you stare at it, you feel it; you scream, you pray, you weep; you hold up + your hands to your God, you grow mad; but the Shadow moves like Time, like + the sun, and the planets in the sky. It rolls over you, and it rolls on; + and then you cry out no more. + </p> + <p> + It is that way in my Valley. The Shadow is the Shadow of Death. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> EDITOR'S INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> READER: </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART"> PART I. WRITING A POEM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> PART II. SEEKING A PUBLISHER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART3"> PART III. THE END </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_TOC" id="link2H_TOC"> </a> <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART I + </h2> + <h3> + WRITING A POEM + </h3> + <p> + The book! The book! This day, Saturday, the sixth day of April, 1901, I + begin the book! + </p> + <p> + I have never kept a journal—I have been too busy living; but to-day + I begin a journal. I am so built that I can do but one thing at a time. + Now that I have begun The Captive, I must be haunted with it all day; when + I am not writing it I must be dreaming it, or restless because I am not. + Therefore it occurred to me that in the hours of weariness I would write + about it what was in my mind—what fears and what hopes; why and how + I write it will be a story in itself, and some day I think it will be + read. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have come to the last stage of the fight, and I see the goal. I will + tell the story, and by and by wise editors can print it in the Appendix! + </p> + <p> + Yesterday I was a cable-car conductor, and to-day I am a poet! + </p> + <p> + I know of some immortal poems that were written by a druggist's clerk, and + some by a gager of liquid barrels, but none by a cable-car conductor. “It + sounds interesting, tell us about it!” says the reader. I shall, but not + to-day. + </p> + <p> + To-day I begin the book! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I did not write that on April 6th, I wrote it a month ago—one day + when I was thinking about this. I put it there now, because it will do to + begin; but I had no jests in my heart on April 6th. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 10th. + </p> + <p> + I have been for four days in a kind of frenzy. I have come down like a + collapsed balloon, and I think I have had enough for once. + </p> + <p> + I have written the opening scene, but not finally; and then I got into the + middle—I could not help it. How in God's name I am ever to do this + fearful thing, I don't know; it frightens me, and sometimes I lose all + heart. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I suppose I shall have to begin again tonight. I must eat something first, + though. That is one of my handicaps: I wear myself out and have to stop + and eat. Will anybody ever love me for this work, will anybody ever + understand it? + </p> + <p> + I suppose I can get back where I was yesterday, but always it grows + harder, and more stern. I set my teeth together. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It was like the bursting of an overstrained dam, these last four days. How + long I have been pent up—eighteen months! And eighteen months seems + like a lifetime to me. I have been a bloodhound in the leash, hungering—hungering + for this thing, and the longing has piled up in me day by day. Sometimes + it has been more than I could bear; and when the time was near, I was so + wild that I was sick. The book! The book! Freedom and the book! + </p> + <p> + And last Saturday I went out of the hell-house where I have been pent so + long, and I covered my face with my hands and fled away home—away to + the little corner that is mine. There I flung myself down and sobbed like + a child. It was relief—it was joy—it was fear! It was + everything! The book! The book! Then I got up—and the world seemed + to go behind me, and I was drunk. I heard a voice calling—it + thundered in my ears—that I was free—that my hour was come—that + I might live—that I might live—live! And I could have shouted + it—I know that I laughed it aloud. Every time I thought the thought + it was like the throbbing of wings to me—“Free! Free!” + </p> + <p> + No one can understand this—no one who has not a demon in his soul. + No one who does not know how I have been choked—what horrors I have + borne. + </p> + <p> + I am through with that—I did not think of that. I am free! They will + never have me back. + </p> + <p> + That motive alone would drive me to my work, would make me dare <i>anything</i>. + But I do not need that motive. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I think only of the book. I thought of it last Saturday, and it swept me + away out of myself. I had planned the opening scene; but then the thought + of the triumph-song took hold of me, and it drove me mad. That song was + what I had thought I could never do—I had never dared to think of + it. And it came to me—it came! Wild, incoherent, overwhelming, it + came, the victorious hymn. I could not think of remembering it; it was not + poetry—it was reality. <i>I</i> was the Captive, <i>I</i> had won + freedom—a faith and a vision! + </p> + <p> + So it throbbed on and on, and I was choked, and my head on fire, and my + hands tingling, until I sank down from sheer exhaustion—laughing and + sobbing, and talking to God as if He were in the room. I never really + believe in God except at such times; I can go through this dreadful world + for months, and never think if there be a God.—Here I sit gossiping + about it.—But I am tired out. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The writing of a book is like the bearing of a child. But every birth-pang + of the former lasts for hours; and it is months before the labor is done. + </p> + <p> + It is not merely the vision, the hour of exultation; that is but the + setting of the task. Now you will take that ecstasy, and hold on to it, + hold on with soul and body; you will keep yourself at that height, you + will hold that flaming glory before your eyes, and you will hammer it into + words. Yes, that is the terror—into words—into words that leap + the hilltops, that bring the ends of existence together in a lightning + flash. You will take them as they come, white-hot, in wild tumult, and you + will forge them, and force them. You will seize them in your naked hands + and wrestle with them, and bend them to your will—all that is the + making of a poem. And last and worst of all, you will hold them in your + memory, the long, long surge of them; the torrent of whirling thought—you + will hold it in your memory! You are dazed with excitement, exhausted with + your toil, trembling with pain; but you have built a tower out of cards, + and you have mounted to the clouds upon it, and there you are poised. And + anything that happens—anything!—Ah, God, why can the poet not + escape from his senses?—a sound, a touch—and it is gone! + </p> + <p> + These things drive you mad.— + </p> + <p> + But meanwhile it is not gone yet. You have still a whole scene in your + consciousness—as if you were a juggler, tossing a score of golden + balls. And all the time, while you work, you learn it—you learn it! + It is endless, but you learn it. In the midst of it, perhaps, you come + down of sheer exhaustion; and you lie there, panting, shuddering, your + hands moist; you dare not think, you wait. And then by and by you begin + again—if it will not come, you <i>make</i> it come, you lash + yourself like a dumb beast—up, up, to the mountain-tops again. And + then once more the thing comes back—you live the scene again, as an + actor does, and you shape it and you master it. And now in the midst of + it, you find this highest of all moments is gone! It is gone, and you can + not find it! Those words that came as a trumpet-clash, burning your very + flesh—that melody that melted your whole being to tears—they + are gone—you can not find them! You search and you search—but + you can not find them. And so you stumble on, in despair and agony; and + still you dare not rest. You dare not ever rest in this until the thing is + done—done and over—until you have <i>nailed</i> it fast. So + you go back again, though perhaps you are so tired that you are fainting; + but you fight yourself like a madman, you struggle until you feel a thing + at your heart like a wild beast; and you keep on, you hold it fast and + learn it, clinch it tight, and make it yours forever. I have done that + same thing five times to-day without a rest; and toiled for five hours in + that frenzy; and then lain down upon the ground, with my head on fire. + </p> + <p> + Afterward when you have recovered you sit down, and for two or three hours + you write; you have it whole in your memory now—you have but to put + it down. And this forlorn, wet, bedraggled thing—this miserable, + stammering, cringing thing—<i>this</i> is your poem! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Some day the world will realize these things, and then they will present + their poor poets with diamonds and palaces, and other things that do not + help. + </p> + <p> + I wrote this, and then I leaned back, tired out. My thoughts turned to + Shakespeare, and while I was thinking of him— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad, + Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastern hill! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 11th. + </p> + <p> + I have not done much to-day. I spent the morning brooding over the opening + speech. It is somber and terrible, but I have not gotten it right. It must + have a tread—a tread like an orchestra! Ah, how I wish I had an + orchestra!—I would soon do it then—<i>“So bist nun ewig du + verdammt!”</i> + </p> + <p> + The secret of the thing is iteration. I must find a word that is like a + hammer-stroke. I have tried twenty, but I have not found the one. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I spent the rest of the day thinking over the whole first act, + mapping it out, so to speak. + </p> + <p> + I have often fancied a resemblance between The Captive and the C-minor + symphony; I wonder if any one else would have thought of it. It is not + merely the opening—it is the whole content of the thing—the + struggle of a prisoned spirit. I would call The Captive a symphony, and + print the C-minor themes in it, only it would seem fanciful.—But it + would not really be fanciful to put the second theme opposite the thought + of freedom—of the blue sky and the dawning spring. + </p> + <p> + All except the scherzo. I couldn't find room for the scherzo. Men who have + wrestled with the demons of hell do not tumble around like elephants, no + matter how happy they are. I wish I could take out Beethoven's scherzos! + </p> + <p> + My heart leaps when I think of my one big step. I have put those pages + away—I shall not look at them again for a month. Then I can judge + them. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 13th. + </p> + <p> + A cable-car conductor and a poet! I think that will be a story worth + telling. + </p> + <p> + I have tried many and various occupations, but I have not found one so + favorable to the study of poetry as my last. I should have made out very + well—if I had not been haunted by The Captive. + </p> + <p> + With everything else you do you are more or less hampered by having to + sell your brain; and also by having to obey some one. But a cable-car is + an unlimited monarchy; and all you have to do is to collect fares and pull + the bell, both of which duties are quite mechanical. And besides that you + receive princely wages—and can live off one-third of them, if you + know how; and that means that you need only work one-third of the time, + and can write your poetry the rest of it! + </p> + <p> + This sounds like jesting, but it is not. I have only been a cable-car + conductor six months, but in that time I have taught myself to read Greek + with more than fluency. All you need is good health and spirits, a will of + iron, and a very tiny note-book in the palm of your hand, full of the + words you wish to learn. And then for ten or twelve hours a day you go + about running a car with your body—and with your mind—hammering, + hammering! It is excellent discipline—it is fighting all day, “<i>Pous, + podos</i>, the foot—<i>pous, podos</i>, the foot—34th Street, + Crosstown East and West—<i>pous, podos</i>, the foot!” + </p> + <p> + And then when you get home late at night, are there not the great masters + who love you? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 15th. + </p> + <p> + Thou wouldst call thyself Artist; thou wouldst have the Eternal Presence + to dwell within thee, to fire thy heart with passion and dower thy lips + with song; canst thou go into thy closet, and alone with thy Maker, say + these words: + </p> + <p> + “O Thou Unthinkable, source of all light and life, Thou the great + unselfish One, the great Sufferer; Thou seest my heart this day, how in it + dwells but love of Thy truth and worship of Thy holiness. Thou seest that + I seek not wealth that men should serve me, nor fame that they should + honor me, for the glory that is Thine. Thou seest that I bring all my + praise to Thy feet, that I love all things that Thou hast made, that I + envy no man Thy gifts, that I rejoice when Thou sendest one stronger than + I into the battle. And when these things are not, may Thy power leave me; + for I seek but to dwell in Thy presence, and to speak Thy truth, which can + not die.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That prayer welled up in my heart to-day. There are times when I sit + before this thing in my soul, crouching and gazing at it in fear. Then I + see the naked horror of it, the shuddering reality of it. I see the Soul: + motionless, tense, quivering, wrestling in an agony with the powers of + destruction. It is so real to me that my body stiffens into stone, and I + sit with the sweat on my forehead. That happened to me to-day, and I wrote + a few lines of the poem that made my voice break—the passionate + despairing cry for deliverance, for rest from the terror. + </p> + <p> + But there is no rest. The mountain slope is so that there is no standing + upon it, and once you stop, it breaks your heart to begin again. And so + you go on—up—up—and there is not any summit. + </p> + <p> + It is that way when you write a book; and that way when you make a + symphony; and that way when you wage a war. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + But my soul hungered for it. I have loved the great elemental art-works—the + art-works that were born of pure suffering. For months before I began The + Captive I read but three books—read them and brooded over them, all + day and all night. They were Prometheus Bound, Prometheus Unbound, and + Samson Agonistes. + </p> + <p> + You sit with these books, and time and space “to nothingness do sink.” + There looms up before you—like a bare mountain in its majesty—the + great elemental world-fact, the death-grapple of the will with + circumstance. You may build yourself any philosophy or any creed you + please, but you will never get away from the world-fact—the + death-grapple of the soul with circumstance. Æschylus has one creed, and + Milton has another, and Shelley has a third; but always it is the + death-grapple. Chaos, evil—circumstance—lies about you, binds + you; and you grip it—you close with it—all your days you toil + with it, you shape it into systems, you make it live and laugh and sing. + And while you do that, there is in your heart a thing that is joy and pain + and terror mingled in one passion. + </p> + <p> + Who knows that passion? Who knows— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “With travail and heavy sorrow + The holy spirit of Man.” + </pre> + <p> + Prometheus Bound, Prometheus Unbound, and Samson Agonistes! And now there + will be a fourth. It will be The Captive. + </p> + <p> + Am I a fool? I do not know—that is none of my business. It is my + business to do my best. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Horace bids you, if you would make him weep, to weep first yourself. I + understand by the writing of a poem just this: that the problem you put + there you discover for yourself; that the form you put it in you invent + for yourself; and, finally, that what you make it, from the first word to + the last word, from the lowest moment to the highest moment, you <i>live</i>; + that when a character in such a place acts thus, he acts thus because you, + in that place—not would have acted thus, but <i>did</i> act thus; + that the words which are spoken in that moment of emotion are spoken + because you, in that moment of emotion—not would have spoken them, + but <i>did</i> speak them. I propose that you search out the scenes that + have stirred the hearts of men in all times, and see if you can find one + that was written thus—not because the author had lived it thus, but + because somebody else had lived it thus, or because he wanted people to + think he had lived it thus. + </p> + <p> + And now you are writing The Captive. You do not go into the dungeon in the + body, because you need all your strength; but in the spirit you have gone + into the dungeon, and the door has clanged, and it is black night—the + world is gone forever. And there you sit, while the years roll by, and you + front the naked fact. Six feet square of stone and an iron chain are your + portion—that is circumstance; and the will—<i>you</i> are the + will. And you grip it—you close with it—all your days you toil + with it; you shape it into systems, make it live and laugh and sing. And + while you do that there is in your heart a thing that is joy and pain and + terror mingled in one passion. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Yes, sometimes I shrink from it; but I will do it—meaning what those + words mean. I will fight that fight, I will live that life—to the + last gasp; and it shall go forth into the world a living thing, a new + well-spring of life. + </p> + <p> + It shall be—I don't know what you call the thing, but when you have + hauled your load halfway up the hill you put a block in the way to keep it + from sliding back. That same thing has to be done to society. + </p> + <p> + Man will never get behind the Declaration of Independence again, nor + behind the writings of Voltaire again. We let Catholicism run around loose + now, but that is because Voltaire cut its claws and pulled out all its + teeth. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 16th. + </p> + <p> + I was thinking to-day, that The Captive would be an interesting document + to students of style. Read it, and make up your mind about it; then I will + tell you—the first line of it is almost the first line of blank + verse I ever wrote in my life. + </p> + <p> + I have read about the French artists, the great masters of style, and how + they give ten years of their lives to writing things that are never + published. But I have noticed that when they are masters at last, and when + they do begin to publish—they very seldom have anything to say that + I care in the least to hear. + </p> + <p> + —My soul is centered upon <i>the thing</i>! + </p> + <p> + Let it be a test. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I am trying to be an artist; but I have never been able to study style. I + believe that the style of this great writer came from what he had to say. + You think about how he said it; but he thought about what he was saying. + </p> + <p> + It seemed strange to me when I thought of it. With all my trembling + eagerness, with all my preparation, such an idea as “practise” never came + to me. How could I cut the path until I had come to the forest? + </p> + <p> + All my soul has been centered upon <i>living</i>. Since this book first + took hold of me—eighteen months ago—I could not tell with what + terrible intensity I have lived it. They said to me, “You are a poet; why + don't you write verses for the magazines?” But I was not a writer of + verses for the magazines. + </p> + <p> + It has been a shrine that I have kept in the corner of my heart, and + tended there. I have never gone near it, except upon my knees. There were + days when I did not go near it at all, when I was weak, or distraught. But + I knew that every day I was closer to the task, that every day my heart + was more full of it. It was like wild music—it came to a climax that + swept me away in spite of myself. + </p> + <p> + To get the mastery of your soul, to hold it here, in your hands, at your + bidding, to consecrate your life to that, to watch and pray and toil for + that, to rouse yourself and goad yourself day and night for that; to + thrill with the memory of great consecrations, of heroic sufferings and + aspirations; to have the power of the stars in your heart, of nature, of + history and the soul of man; <i>that</i> is your “practise.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 17th. + </p> + <p> + It is true that my whole life has been a practise for the writing of this + book, that this book is the climax of my whole life. I have toiled—learned—built + up a mind—found a conviction; but I have never written anything, or + tried to write anything, to be published. I have said, “Wait; it is not + time.” And now it <i>is</i> time. If there is anything of use in all that + I have done, it is in this book. + </p> + <p> + Yes; and also it is a climax in another way. It is my goal and my + salvation.—Ah, how I have toiled for it! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 19th. + </p> + <p> + I saw my soul to-day. It was a bubble, blown large, palpitating, whirling + over a stormy sea; glorious with the rainbow hues it was, but perilous, + abandoned.—Do you catch the <i>feeling</i> of my soul? + </p> + <p> + Something perilous—I do not much care what. A traveler scaling the + mountains, leaping upon dizzy heights; a gambler staking his fortune, his + freedom, his life—upon a cast! + </p> + <p> + I will tell you about it. + </p> + <p> + It began when I was fifteen. My great-uncle, my guardian, is a wholesale + grocer in Chicago; he has a large palace and a large waistcoat. + </p> + <p> + “Will you be a wholesale grocer?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said I, “I will not.” + </p> + <p> + I might have been a partner by this time, had I said Yes, and had a palace + and a large waistcoat too. + </p> + <p> + “Then what will you be?” asked the great-uncle. + </p> + <p> + “I will be a poet,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “You mean you will be a loafer?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said I—disliking argument—“I will be a loafer.” + </p> + <p> + And so I went away, and while I went I was thinking, far down in my soul. + And I said: “It must be everything or nothing; either I am a poet or I am + not. I will act as if I were; I will burn my bridges behind me. If I am, I + will win—for you can not kill a poet; and if I am not, I will die.” + </p> + <p> + Thus is it perilous. + </p> + <p> + I fight the fight with all my soul; I give every ounce of my strength, my + will, my hope, to the making of myself a poet. And when the time comes I + write my poem. Then if I win, I win empires; and if I lose— + </p> + <p> + “You put all your eggs into one basket,” some one once said to me. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I replied, “I put all my eggs into one basket—and then I + carry the basket myself.” + </p> + <p> + Now I have come to the last stage of the journey—the “one fight + more, and the last.” And can I give any idea of what is back of me, to + nerve me to that fight? I will try to tell you. + </p> + <p> + For seven years I have borne poverty and meanness, sickness, heat, cold, + toil—that I might make myself an artist. The indignities, the + degradations—I could not tell them, if I spent all the time I have + in writing a journal. I have lived in garrets—among dirty people—vulgar + people—vile people; I have worn rags and unclean things; I have + lived upon bread and water and things that I have cooked myself; I have + seen my time and my strength wasted by a thousand hateful impertinences—I + have been driven half mad with pain and rage; I have gone without friends—I + have been hated by every one; I have worked at all kinds of vile drudgery—or + starved myself sick that I might avoid working. + </p> + <p> + But I have said, “I will be an artist!” + </p> + <p> + Day and night I have dreamed it; day and night I have fought for it. I + have plotted and planned—I have plotted to save a minute. I have + done menial work that I might have my brain free—all the languages + that I know I have worked at at such times. I have calculated the cost of + foods—I have lived on a third of the pittance I earned, that I might + save two-thirds of my time. I once washed dishes in a filthy restaurant + because that took only two or three hours a day. + </p> + <p> + I have said, “I will be an artist! I will fix my eyes upon the goal; I + will watch and wait, and fight the fight day by day. And when at last I am + strong, and when my message is ripe, I will earn myself a free chance, and + then I will write a book. All the yearning, all the agony of this my life + I will put into it; every hour of trial, every burst of rage. I will make + it the hope of my life, I will write it with my blood—give every + ounce of strength that I have and every dollar that I own; and I will win—I + will win! + </p> + <p> + “So I will be free, and the horror will be over.” + </p> + <p> + I have done that—I am doing that now. I mean to finish it if it + kills me.— + </p> + <p> + But I was sitting on the edge of the bed to-night, and the tears came into + my eyes and I whispered: “But oh, you must not ask me to do anymore! I can + not do any more! It will leave me broken!” + </p> + <p> + Only so much weight can a man carry. The next pound breaks his back. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 22d. + </p> + <p> + I am happy to-night; I am a little bit drunk. + </p> + <p> + To-day was one day in fifty. Why should it be? Sometimes I have but to + spread my wings to the wind. Yesterday I might have torn my hair out, and + that glory would not have come to me. But to-day I was filled with it—it + lived in me and burned in me—I had but to go on and go on. + </p> + <p> + The Captive! It was the burst of rage—the first glow in the ashes of + despair. I was walking up and down the room for an hour, thundering it to + myself. I have not gotten over the joy of it yet: <i>“Thou in thy mailèd + insolence!”</i> + </p> + <p> + I wonder if any one who reads those thirty lines will realize that they + meant eight hours of furious toil on my part! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Stone by stone I build it. + </p> + <p> + The whole possibility of a scene—that is what I pant for, always; + that it should be all there, and yet not a line to spare; compact, solid, + each phrase coming like a blow; and above all else, that it should be + inevitable! When you stand upon the height of your being, and behold the + thing with all your faculties—the thing and the phrase are one, and + one to all eternity. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 24th. + </p> + <p> + I was looking at a literary journal to-day. Oh, my soul, it frightens me! + All these libraries of books—who reads them, what are they for? And + each one of them a hope! And I am to leap over them all—I—I? I + dare not think about it. + </p> + <p> + I have been helpless to-day. I can not find what I want—I struggled + for hours, I wore myself out with struggling. And I have torn up what I + wrote. + </p> + <p> + Blank verse is such a—such a thing not to be spoken of! Is there + anything worse, except it be a sonnet? How many miles of it are ground out + every day—sometimes that kind comes to me to mock me—I could + have written a whole poem full of it this afternoon. If there are two + lines of that sort in The Captive, I'll burn it all. + </p> + <p> + An awful doubt came to me besides. Somebody had sown it long ago, and it + sprouted to-day. “Yes, but will it be <i>interesting</i>?” + </p> + <p> + Heaven help me, how am I to know if it will be interesting? The question + made me shudder; I have never thought anything about making it interesting—I've + been trying to make it true. Can it possibly be that the ecstasy of one + soul, the reality of one soul, the quivering, exulting life of it—will + not interest any other soul? + </p> + <p> + “How can you know that what you are doing is real, anyhow?” The devil + would plague me to death to-day. “But how many millions write poems and + think they are wonderful!” + </p> + <p> + —I do not believe in my soul to-day, because I have none. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 25th. + </p> + <p> + Would you like to know where I am, and how I am doing all these things? I + am in a lodging-house. I have one of three hall rooms in a kind of top + half-story. There is room for me to take four steps; so it is that I “walk + up and down” when I am excited. I have tried—I have not kept count + of how many places—and this is the quietest. The landlady's husband + has a carpenter shop down-stairs, but he is always drunk and doesn't work; + it has also been providentially arranged that the daughter, who sings, is + sick for some time. Next door to me there is a man who plays the 'cello in + a dance hall until I know not what hour of the night. He keeps his 'cello + at the dance hall. Next to him is a pale woman who sits and sews all day + and waits for her drunken husband to come home. In front there is some + kind of foolish girl who leaves her door open in the hope that I'll look + in at her, and a couple of inoffensive people not worth describing. + </p> + <p> + I get up—I never know the time in the morning; and sometimes I lie + without moving for hours—thinking—thinking. Or sometimes I go + out and roam around the streets; or sit perfectly motionless, gazing at + the wall. When it will not come, I make it. I breakfast on bread and milk, + and I eat bread and milk at all hours of the day when I am hungry. For + dinner I cook a piece of meat on a little oil-stove, and for supper I eat + bread and milk. The rest of the time I am sitting on the floor by the + window, writing; or perhaps kneeling by the bed with my head buried in my + arms, and thinking until the room reels. When I am not doing that I wander + around like a lost soul; I can not think of anything else.—Sometimes + when I am tired and must rest, I force myself to sit down and write some + of this. + </p> + <p> + I have just forty dollars now. It costs me three dollars a week, not + including paper and typewriting. Thus I have ten or twelve weeks in which + to finish The Captive—that many and no more. + </p> + <p> + If I am not finished by that time it will kill me; to try to work and earn + money in the state that I am in just at present would turn me into a + maniac—I should kill some one, I know. + </p> + <p> + I am quivering with nervous tension—every faculty strained to + breaking; the buzz of a fly is a roar to me. I build up these towering + castles of emotion in my soul, castles that shimmer in the sunlight: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Banners yellow, glorious, golden! +</pre> + <p> + And then something happens, and they fall upon me with the weight of + mountains. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Ten weeks! And yet it is not that which goads me most. + </p> + <p> + What goads me most is that I am a captive in a dungeon, and am fighting + for the life of my soul. + </p> + <p> + I shall win, I do not fear—the fountains of my being will not fail + me. I saw my soul a second time to-day; it was no longer the bubble, blown + large, palpitating. It was a bird resting upon a bough. The bough was + tossed and flung about by a tempest; and a chasm yawned below; but the + bough held, and the bird was master of its wings, and sang. + </p> + <p> + The name of the bough was Faith. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 27th. + </p> + <p> + I have read a great deal of historical romance, and a great deal of local + color fiction, and a great deal of original character-drawing—and I + have wished to get away from these things. + </p> + <p> + There is no local color, and no character-drawing, in The Captive. You do + not know the name of the hero; you do not know how old he is, or of what + rank he is, at what period or in what land he lives. He is described but + once. He is “A Man.” + </p> + <p> + My philosophy is a philosophy of will. All virtue that I know is + conditioned upon freedom. The object of all thinking and doing, as I see + it, is to set men free. + </p> + <p> + There is the tyranny of kings—the tyranny of force; there is the + tyranny of priests—the tyranny of ignorance; there is the tyranny of + society—the tyranny of selfishness and indolence; and above all, and + including all, and causing all—there is the tyranny of self—the + tyranny of sin, the tyranny of the body. So it is that I see the world. + </p> + <p> + So it is that I see history; I can see nothing else in history. The + tyranny of kings and nobles, the tyranny of the mass and the inquisition, + the tyranny of battle and murder and crime—how was a man to live in + those ages? + </p> + <p> + How is a man to live in <i>this</i> age? The tyranny of kings and of + priests is gone, and from the tyranny of industrialism the individual can + escape. But the lightning—is not that an inquisition? And if it + comes after you, will it not find out all your secrets? And the tyranny of + hurricane and shipwreck, of accident, disease, and death? Any tyranny is + all tyranny, I say; and the existence of tyranny is its presence. + </p> + <p> + It is conceivable that some day the sovereign mind may shake off its + shackles, and the tyranny of matter be at an end. But that day is not yet; + and meanwhile, the thing existing, how shall a man be free? That has been + the matter of my deepest brooding. + </p> + <p> + This much I have learned: + </p> + <p> + The man may accept this life, if it please him, and its chances; but while + he does he can never be a soul. So long as he accepts this life and its + chances, he is the slave of tyranny. When the day comes that mind is + sovereign, I will give myself into the hands of this life. But meanwhile I + will know myself for what I am—a bubble upon the surface of a + whirling torrent, an insect borne aloft upon a flying wheel. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is by your will that you are free; by your will you are one with the + infinite freedom, by your will you are master of time and your fate, lord + of the stars and the endless ages, thinker of all truth, hearer of all + music, beholder of all beauty, doer of all righteousness. That is the + truth which I have brought out of my deepest brooding. + </p> + <p> + So long as your happiness is in anything about yourself—your wealth, + or your fame, or your life—you are not free. So long as your + happiness is in houses and lands, in sons and in daughters, you are not + free. You give one atom of your soul to these things at your own peril; + for when your hour comes you tear them from you, though they be as your + eyes; and by your <i>will</i> you save your soul alive. + </p> + <p> + Therefore I write The Captive. I put aside childish things—I grip my + hands upon naked Reality. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + There are nine characters in The Captive: a tyrant, two slaves, six + guests, and a man. There are two scenes—a dungeon, and a + banquet-hall. + </p> + <p> + A tyrant: I understand by a tyrant a man whose happiness is the + unhappiness of others. I read of the discoverers of Mexico, and how they + found a pyramid of human skulls, raised as a monument; that has been to + me, ever since, the type of tyranny. The forms of tyranny vary through the + ages, but the principle is always the same; a tyrant is a man who is made + great by the toil and sorrow of others. + </p> + <p> + The slave also remains the same through all time; and likewise the guest. + The guest is the man who takes the world as he finds it, and likes a good + dinner. The population of society is made up of tyrants, slaves, and + guests. + </p> + <p> + The man is a character of my own imagining. + </p> + <p> + The first scene of The Captive is the dungeon. When I was very young I was + in Europe, and I was in a dungeon; I have never forgotten it. There enter + the tyrant and the two slaves with the man. They chain him to the wall, + and then the tyrant speaks. That first speech—I have written it now—I + have gotten the hammer-thuds! Tyranny is an iron thing—you had to + feel the tread of it, the words had to roll like thunder. It is an + advantage to me that I am full of Wagner; I always hear the music with my + poetry. (I shall be disappointed if some one does not make an opera out of + The Captive.) + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The man is there, and he is there forever. After that, once a day, bread + and water are shoved in through an opening. But the door of the dungeon + does not open again until the last act—when ten years have passed. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That is all. And now the man will battle with that problem. Will he go mad + with despair? Will he sink into a wild beast? Will he commit suicide? Or + what <i>will</i> he do? Day by day he sinks back from the question, numb + with agony; day by day the grim hand of Fate drags him to it; and so, + until from the chaos of his soul he digs out, blow by blow, a faith. + </p> + <p> + Here there will be Reality; no shams and no lies will do here—here + is iron necessity, and cries out for iron truth. God—duty—will—virtue—let + such things no more be names, let us see what they <i>are</i>! + </p> + <p> + These are awful words. Sometimes I shrink from this thing as from fire, + sometimes I rush to it with a song; I am writing about it now because I am + worn out, and yet I can not think of anything else. + </p> + <p> + This man will find the truth; being delivered from the captivity of the + world and set free to be a soul. Superstition blinds him; doubt and + despair and weakness blind him; but still he gropes and strives, cries out + and battles for truth; until at last, shut up in his own being, he tears + his way out to the very source of it, and knows for himself what it is. <i>Infinite + it is, and unthinkable; glorious, all-consuming, all-sufficing; food and + drink, friendship and love, ambition and victory, joy, power, and eternity + it is to him who finds it; and all things in this world are nothing to him + who finds it.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And so comes the victory to this soul. Hour by hour he catches gleams of + the light; day by day he toils toward it, with fear and agony and prayer; + until at last he knows his salvation—to rest never, and to toil + always, and to dwell in this Presence of his God. In one desperate hour he + flings away the world and the hope of the world, and vows this + consecration, and lives. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + He keeps the vow; it is iron necessity that drives him. He finds himself, + he finds his way—each day his step is surer. + </p> + <p> + Each day the channels of his being deepen. He lays broad plans for his + life—he gathers all knowledge, he solves all problems; lord of the + infinite mind, he ranges all existence, and beholds it as the symbol of + himself. Into the deeps and yawning spaces of it he plunges; blind, he + sees what men have never seen; deaf, he hears what men have never heard—singer + he is, prophet and poet and maker. New worlds leap into being in the + infinite fulness of his heart, visions of endless glory that make his + senses reel; as a column of incense towering to the sky is the ecstasy of + his adoration and his joy. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And so the long years roll by; and the unconquered spirit has left the + earth: left time and space and self, and dwells where never man has dwelt + before. And then one day the door of the dungeon is opened, and his chains + are shattered, and the slaves lead him up to the light of day. + </p> + <p> + It is the banquet-hall; and there is the tyrant, and there the guests—there + is the world. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + He is aged, and weak, and white, and terrible. They stare at him; and he + stares at them, for he is dazed. They begin to mock at him, and then at + last he realizes, and he covers his face and weeps—beholding the + world, and the way that it must come. They jeer at him, they strike him; + and when he answers not, they call to the slaves to torture him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + This man has lived for ten years with <i>himself</i>. He is nothing but a + will. And now they will conquer him! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I recall the highest moment of my being. I saw that moment, and all the + others of my life. I saw them as something that I could not bear to see, + and I cried out that from that hour I would change them. I have not kept + the vow; there was no one to drive me. + </p> + <p> + But this man they drive; they pinch him and burn him and tear him; they + crush his limbs, they break his bones, they grind his flesh, they make his + brain a living fire of anguish. And he fights them. + </p> + <p> + Into the deep recesses of his being goes the cry—for all that he has—for + all that he is! For every ounce of his strength, for every throb of his + will, for every vision, every truth that he knows! To bear this, to save + him here! And so he wrestles, so he rises, so he gropes and gasps; and in + the moment of his fiercest straining, with the throb of all his being he + bursts the barrier, he rends the veil; and infinite passion rolls in in + floods upon him, he clutches all existence in his arms; and from his lips + there bursts a mad frenzied shout of rapture—that makes his + torturers stand transfixed, listening, trembling with terror. + </p> + <p> + And so they drag him back to his dungeon; and there, unable to move, he + lies upon the stones and pants out his ecstasy and his life. + </p> + <p> + That is The Captive. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 29th. + </p> + <p> + What counts in this thing is momentum—spiritual momentum. You are + filled with it all the time, it never leaves you; it drives behind you + like a gale of wind; it roars in your ears when you are awake, it rocks + you to sleep when you are weary; whenever you are dull or do not heed it, + it nags at you, it goads you, it beats into your face. Each day it is + more, each day it is harder, more unattainable; but only do not stop, it + carries you with it like a wave; you mount upon each day's achievement to + reach the next, you move with the power of all the days before. It is + momentum that counts. + </p> + <p> + Do not stop!—I cry it all day—Do not stop! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 30th. + </p> + <p> + It is weak of me, but sometimes I can not help but look ahead—and + think that it is done! I could not find any words to tell the joy that + that will be to me—to be free, after so long—to be free! + </p> + <p> + I do not care anything about the fame—it would not be anything to me + to be a great author. If it could be done, nothing would please me better + than to publish it anonymously—to let no one ever know that it was + mine. If I could only have the little that I need to be free, I would + publish all that I might ever write anonymously. + </p> + <p> + Yes, that is the thing that makes my blood bound. To be free! Let it only + be done—let it only be real, as it will be—and the naked force + of it will shake men to the depths of their souls. I could not write it, + if I did not believe that I was writing words that would grip the soul of + any man—I care not how dull or how coarse he might be. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I finished the first act just now. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 1st. + </p> + <p> + I am wild to-day. Oh, how can I bear this—why should I have to + contend with such things as this! Is it not hard enough—the agony + that I have to bear, the task that takes all my strength and more? And + must I be torn to pieces by such hideous degradation as this? Oh, my God, + if my life is not soon clear of these things I shall die! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Oh, it is funny—yes, funny!—Let us laugh at it. The dance-hall + musician has brought home his 'cello! I heard him come bumping up the + stairs with it—God damn his soul! And there he sits, sawing away at + some loathsome jig tunes! And he has two friends in there—I listen + to their wit between the tunes. + </p> + <p> + Here I sit, like a wild beast pent in a cage. I tell you I can bear any + work in the world, but I can not bear things such as this. That I, who am + seeking a new faith for men—who am writing, or trying to write, what + will mean new life to millions—should have my soul ripped into + pieces by such loathsome, insulting indignities! + </p> + <p> + Oh, laugh!—but <i>I</i> can't laugh—I sit here foaming at the + lips, and crying! And suppose he's lost his position, and does this every + day! + </p> + <p> + Now every day I must lay aside what I am doing and sit and shudder when I + hear him coming up the steps—and wait for him to begin this! I tell + you, I demand to be free—I <i>demand</i> it! I want nothing in this + world but to be let alone. I don't want anybody to wait on me.—<i>I + don't want anything from this hellish world but to be let alone!</i> + </p> + <p> + It is pouring rain outside, and my overcoat is thin; but I must go out and + pace the streets and wait until a filthy Dutchman gets through scraping + ragtime on a 'cello. + </p> + <p> + All day wasted! All day! Does it not seem that these things persecute you + by system? I came in, cold and wet, and got into bed, and then he began + again! And the friends came back and they had beer, and more music. And I + had to get up and put on the wet clothes once more. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 2d. + </p> + <p> + I was crouching out on one of the docks last night. I had no place else to + go. I can think anywhere, if it is quiet. + </p> + <p> + A wonderful thing is the night. I bless Thee for the night, oh “<i>süsse, + heilige Natur</i>”! + </p> + <p> + It was a voice in my soul, as clear as could be. + </p> + <p> + —She can not bear too long the sight of men, sweet, holy Nature: the + swarming hives—the millions of tiny creatures, each drunk and blind + with his own selfishness; and so she lays her great hand upon it all, and + hides it out of her sight. + </p> + <p> + Once it was all silent, and formless as the desert; soon it shall all be + silent and formless again; and meanwhile—the night, the night! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Oh, I hunger for the desert! I do not care for beauty—I have no time + for beauty, I want the earth stern and forbidding. Give me some place + where no one else would want to go—an iron crag where the oceans + beat—a mountain-top where the lightning splinters on the rocks. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I go at it again. But I am nervous—these things get me into such a + state that I simply can not do anything. It was not merely yesterday—I + have it constantly. The dirty chambermaid singing, or yelling down to the + landlady; the drunken man swearing at his wife; the boys screaming in the + street and kicking a tomato-can about. When I think of how much beauty and + power has been shattered in my life by such things as these, it brings + tears of impotent rage into my eyes. + </p> + <p> + I must be free—oh, I must be free! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It comes strangely from the author of The Captive, does it not? + </p> + <p> + I give all my life to my work, and sometimes, when I am broken like this, + I wonder if I do not give too much. Once I climbed to a dizzy height, and + I cried out a dizzy truth: + </p> + <p> + “O God, how as nothing in Thy sight are my writings!” + </p> + <p> + I do not know if I shall ever reach that height again. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 3d. + </p> + <p> + I have not one single beautiful memory in my life. I have nothing in my + life that, when I think of it, does not make me <i>writhe</i>. + </p> + <p> + To all that I have lived, and known, and seen, I have but one word, one + cry—Away! Away! Let me get away from it! Let me get away from + cities, let me get away from men, let me out of my cage! Let me go with my + God, let me forget it all—put it away forever and ever! Let me no + longer have to plot and plan, to cringe and whimper, to barter my vision + and my hours for bread! + </p> + <p> + Who knows what I suffer—who has any idea of it? To have a soul like + a burning fire, to be hungry and swift as the Autumn wind, to have a heart + as hot as the wild bird's, and wings as eager—and to be chained here + in this seething hell of selfishness, this orgy of folly. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Ah, and then I shut my hands together. No, I am not weak, I do not spend + my time chafing thus! I have fought it out so far— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I was ever a fighter, so one fight more!” + </pre> + <p> + I will go back, and I will hammer and hammer again—grimly—savagely—day + by day. And out of the furnace of my soul I will forge a weapon that will + set me free in the end—I think. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 4th. + </p> + <p> + I wrote a little poem once. I remembered two lines of it—a nature + description; they were not great lines, but there flashed over me to-day + an application of them that was a stroke of genius, I believe. I was + passing the Stock Exchange. It was a very busy day. I climbed one of the + pillars, in spirit, and wrote high above the portals: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Where savage beasts through forest midnight roam, + Seeking in sorrow for each other's joy. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 5th. + </p> + <p> + A dreadful thing is unbelief! A dreadful thing it is to be an infidel! + </p> + <p> + —That is what all men cry nowadays—there is so much infidelity + in the world—it is the curse of our modern society—it is + everywhere—it is all-prevailing! + </p> + <p> + I had a strange experience to-day, Sunday. I went into a church, and high + up by the altar, dressed in solemn garb and offering prayers to God—I + saw an infidel! + </p> + <p> + He preached a sermon. The theme of his sermon was “Liberalism.” + </p> + <p> + “These men,” cried the preacher, “are blinding our eyes to our salvation, + they are undermining, day by day, our faith! They tell us that the sacred + word of God is 'literature'! And they show us more 'literature'; but oh, + my friends, what new <i>Bible</i> have they shown us!” + </p> + <p> + As I got up and went out of that church, I whispered: “What a dreadful + thing it is to be an infidel!” + </p> + <p> + Oh Dante and Goethe and Shakespeare—oh Wordsworth and Shelley and + Emerson! Oh thrice-anointed and holy spirits! What a dreadful thing it is + to be an infidel! + </p> + <p> + What a dreadful thing it is to believe in a Bible, and not to believe in + literature—to believe in a Bible and not to believe in a God! + </p> + <p> + You think that this world lives upon the revelation of two thousand years + ago! Fool—this world lives as your body lives by the beating of its + heart—upon the revelation and the effort of each instant of its + life. And to-day or to-morrow the great Revealer might send to some lonely + thinker in his garret a new word that would scatter to dust and ashes all + laws and all duties that now are known to men. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + There are many ways to look at the world, and always a deeper one. I see + it as a fearful thing, towering, expanding, upheld by the toil and the + agony of millions. Who will bring us the new hope, the new song of + courage, that it go not down into the dust to-day? + </p> + <p> + To do that there is the poet; to live and to die unheeded, and to feed for + ages upon ages the hungry souls of men—that is to be a poet. + Therefore will he sing, and sing ever, and die in the sweetness of his + song. + </p> + <p> + When I think of that—not now as I write it here in bare words—but + in quivering reality, it is a hand upon my forehead, and a presence in the + room. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 6th. + </p> + <p> + Chiefest of all I think of my country! Passionately, more than words can + utter, I love this land of mine. If I tear my heart till it bleeds and + pour out the tears of my spirit, it is for this consecration and this hope—it + is for this land of Washington and Lincoln. There never was any land like + it—there may never be any like it again; and Freedom watches from + her mountains, trembling. + </p> + <p> + —It is a song that it needs, a song and a singer; to point it to its + high design, to thrill it with the music of its message, to shake the + heart of every man in it, and make him burn and dare! For the first time + there is Liberty; for the first time there is Truth, and no shams and no + lies, enthroned. The news of it has gone forth like the sound of thunder, + and has shaken all the earth: that man at last may live, may do what he + can and will! + </p> + <p> + —And to what is it? Is it to the heaping up of ugly cities, the + packing of pork and the gathering of gold? That is the thing that I toil + for—to tear this land from the grasp of mean men and of merchants! + To take the souls of my countrymen into the high mountains with me, to + thrill them with a soaring, strong resolve! <i>Living things</i> shall + come from this land of mine, living things before I die, for the hunger of + it burns me, and will not ever let me rest. Freedom! freedom! And stern + justice and honor, and knowledge and power, and a noonday blaze of light! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Arise in thy majesty, confronting the ages! + Stretch out thine arms to the millions that shall be! + Justice thine inheritance, God thy stay and sustenance, + My country, to thee! +</pre> + <p> + Those are feeble words. If this were a book, I would tear it all up. + </p> + <p> + I wonder if any one will ever read this. As a matter of fact, I suppose + ten people will read gossip about the book for every one who reads the + book. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + This is just a month from the beginning. A month to-day! Yes—I have + done my share, I have done a third of it—a third! + </p> + <p> + But the end is so much harder! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 9th. + </p> + <p> + I have been for two days in the mire. I was disturbed, and then I was + sluggish. Oh, the sluggishness of my nature! + </p> + <p> + If ever I am a great poet, I will have made myself that by the power of my + will; that is a fact. I am by nature a great clod—I feel nothing, I + care about nothing. I look at the flowers as a cow chewing its cud.—It + is only that I <i>will</i> to do right. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes the sight of my dulness drives me wild. Then again I merely gaze + at it. I try time and again to get my mind on my work, and something—anything, + provided it is trivial enough—turns me aside. Just now I saw a + spider-web, and that made me think of Bruce, and thence I went by way of + Walter Scott to Palestine, and when I came to I was writing a song for—who + was the minstrel?—to sing outside of the prison of Coeur de Lion. + </p> + <p> + I go wandering that way—sometimes I sit so for an hour; and then + suddenly I leap up with a cry. But I may try all I please—I don't + care anything about the work—it doesn't stir me—the verses I + think of make me sick. And then I remember that I have only so many weeks + more; and what it will mean to fail; and that makes me desperate, but + doesn't help. + </p> + <p> + When I have stopped at some resting-place in the poem, I can get going + again. But now I have stopped in the middle of a climax; and the number of + times that I have read that last line, trying to find another—Great + heavens! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + But I can not find another word. I am in despair. + </p> + <p> + I know perfectly well what I shall do, only I am a coward, and do not do + it. I shall stay in this state till my rage has heaped itself up enough + and breaks through everything at last. And then I shall begin to hammer + myself! to swear at myself in a way that would make a longshoreman turn + white. And I shall spend perhaps two or three hours—perhaps two or + three days—doing that, until I am quite in a white heat; and then—I + shall go to my work. + </p> + <p> + That is the price I pay for being distracted. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 11th. + </p> + <p> + I said to myself the day before yesterday—with a kind of a dry sob—“I + can't do it! I can't do it!” + </p> + <p> + Oh how tormented I am by noises—noises! What am I not tormented by? + Some days ago I was writing in a frenzy—and the landlady came for + her rent. And the horrible creature standing there, talking at me! “So + lonely!—don't ever see people! Mrs. Smithers was a-saying—” + Oh, damn Mrs. Smithers! + </p> + <p> + I thought I could never do it—I was really about to give it up. I + went out on the street—I roamed about for hours, talking I don't + know what nonsense to myself. And then at last I came home, and I knelt + down there at the bedside and said: “Here you stay without anything to eat + until you've written ten lines of that poem!” + </p> + <p> + And that was how I did it. I stayed there, and I prayed. I don't often + pray, but that time I prayed like one possessed—I was so lonely and + so helpless—and the work was so beautiful. I stayed there for nine + blessed hours, and then the clock stopped and I couldn't count after that. + </p> + <p> + But the day came, and then the ten lines! And so I had my breakfast. + </p> + <p> + These things leave you weak, but a little less dull. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 13th. + </p> + <p> + I have been working with a kind of wild desperation all day to-day. Oh it + hurts—it hurts—but I am doing it! Whenever I read some lines + of it that are real—whenever some great living phrase flashes over + me—then I laugh like a man in the midst of a battle. + </p> + <p> + I shall be just as a man who has been through a battle; haggard and wild + and desperate. Oh, I don't think I shall <i>ever</i> have the courage to + do it again! + </p> + <p> + I did not know what it meant! I did not! It was giving myself into the + hands of a fiend! + </p> + <p> + All great books will be something different to me after this. Did + Shakespeare write thus with the blood of his soul? Or am I weak? Did he + ever cry out in pain, as I have? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 14th. + </p> + <p> + Another day of raw torture. It is like toiling up a mountain side; and + your limbs are of lead. It is like struggling in a nightmare,—that + is just what it is like. It is sickening. + </p> + <p> + But then you dare not stop. It is hard to go on, but it is ten times as + hard to start if you stop. + </p> + <p> + I could hardly stand up this afternoon! but the thing was ringing in my + ears—it went on and on—I had to go after it! I was in the + seventh heaven—I could see anything, dare anything, do anything. It + made no difference how hard—it called to me—on—on! And I + said: “Suppose I were to be tortured—could I go then?” And so I went + and went. + </p> + <p> + I haven't written it down yet; I felt sick. But I know it all. + </p> + <p> + Oh men—oh my brothers—will you love me for this thing? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 16th. + </p> + <p> + I did no writing yesterday or to-day. I have been terribly frightened. + </p> + <p> + I wrote what I had to write the day before yesterday—I could not + help it. But when I stopped my head was literally on fire, and the + strangest mad throbbing in it—I stood still in fear, it felt so as + if something were going to burst—my head seemed to weigh a ton. I + poured cold water over it, but it made no difference—it stayed that + way all night and all yesterday. + </p> + <p> + What am I to do? I dare not think—I took a long walk, and even now I + find myself thinking of the book without knowing it. Imagine me sitting on + a doorstep and playing for two hours with a kitten! + </p> + <p> + Why should I be handicapped in such a way as this? I had never thought of + such a thing. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I was thinking about The Captive—it is my own. Nobody has helped me—I + have told not one person of it. Everything in it has come out of my soul. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 17th. + </p> + <p> + I feel better to-day, but I hardly know what to do. + </p> + <p> + Meantime I was happy!—Think of a poet's being happy with city + flowers! of a poet's being happy with store-flowers—prostitute-flowers—flowers + for sale! + </p> + <p> + It was all about a narcissus—“Very flower of youth, and morning's + golden hour!”—as I called it once. And it danced so! (It was out on + the curbstone)—and I went off happy. + </p> + <p> + Then I thought of a poem that is pure distilled ecstasy to my spirit. I + will write it, and be happy again: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sit thee by the ingle, when + The sear faggot blazes bright; + Spirit of a winter's night!— ... + Sit thee there, and send abroad, + With a mind self-overaw'd, + Fancy, high-commission'd:—send her! + She has vassals to attend her; + She will bring, in spite of frost, + Beauties that the earth hath lost; + She will bring thee, all together, + All delights of summer weather; + All the buds and bells of May, + From dewy sward or thorny spray; + All the heaped Autumn's wealth, + With a still, mysterious stealth; + She will mix those pleasures up, + Like three fit wines in a cup, + And thou shall quaff it!— +</pre> + <p> + Ah! And so I went along, “sun, moon, and stars forgot”—laughing and + half dancing. People stared at me—and I laughed. And then I passed + three pretty girls, and I laughed, and they laughed too. I guess they + thought I was going to follow them. + </p> + <p> + —But that pleasure was not in my cup, dear girls. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Some of these days I hope to live in a beautiful world, where a man may + speak to a pretty girl on the street. Badness is its own punishment, let + the bad world observe. + </p> + <p> + I would rather look at a beautiful woman than do anything else I know of + in this world, except listen to music. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 18th. + </p> + <p> + I often think how I shall spend my money after The Captive is done. I + shall take a band of chosen youths, seekers and worshipers, and we shall + build a house on a mountain-top and worship the Lord in the beauty of + music! + </p> + <p> + I shall have to begin at the beginning—I have never had any one to + teach me music. But oh, if I did know!—And if I ever got hold of an + orchestra—<i>how</i> I would make it go! + </p> + <p> + And in the middle of it the astonished orchestra would see the conductor + take wings unto himself and fly off through the roof. + </p> + <p> + A book that I mean to write some day will be called The Pleasures of + Music, and it will sing the joys of being clean and strong, of cold water + and the early morning and a free heart. It will show how all the + unhappiness of men is that they live in the body and in self, and how the + world is to be saved through music, which is not of the body, nor of self—which + is free and infinite, swift as the winds, vast as the oceans, endless as + time, and happy as whole meadows of flowers! The more who come to partake + of it, the better it is; for generous is “Frau Musika,” her heart is made + wholly of love. + </p> + <p> + —And when I have shown all these things, Frau Musika, I shall tell + of the golden lands that I have visited upon the wings of thy spirit!— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What objects are the fountains + Of thy happy strain! + What fields or waves or mountains, + What shapes of sky or plain! + What love of thine own kind, what ignorance of pain! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 20th. + </p> + <p> + I live among the poor people and that keeps me humble. There is not much + chance for freedom, I hear them say, there are not many who can dwell in + the forests. Prove your right to it—prove what you can do—the + law is stern. I am not afraid of the challenge; I will prove what I can + do. + </p> + <p> + But I see one here and there with whom the law is not so strict, I think. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I met a merchant the other night. I dreamed of him. He said: “I buy such + goods as men need; I buy them as cheaply as I can, since life is grim. I + sell them as cheaply as I can, since men are poor and suffering. I make of + profit what I need to live humbly. I am not of the world's seekers; I am + of the finders.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I met also a guileless fool. + </p> + <p> + We passed a great mansion. “I should like to know the man who lives + there,” said the fool. + </p> + <p> + “Should you?” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Is he a hero?” asked the fool. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Is he a poet?” asked the fool. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “Must he not be very beautiful,” said the fool, “that men judge him worthy + of so much beauty?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 21st. + </p> + <p> + I must finish this thing this time! That cry rings in my ears night after + night. I am toiling upward—upward—I can see no sign of the end + yet—but I must finish this time! If I had to stop with this thing + haunting me—if I had to go out into that jungle of a world with this + weight upon me—to repress myself with this fire in my heart—I + could not bear it—I could not bear it! + </p> + <p> + And if I stopped and went out into that world again—how many weeks + of agony would it cost me to get back to where I am now! + </p> + <p> + I must finish this time! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 22d. + </p> + <p> + “No, officer, I am neither a burglar nor a highwayman, nor anything else + worth bothering; I'm just a poet, and I'm crazy, to all practical + purposes, so please get used to me and let me wander about the streets at + these strange hours of the night without worrying!” + </p> + <p> + Poor, perplexed policeman! Poor, perplexed world! Poor, perplexed mothers + and fathers, sisters and cousins and aunts of poets! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mit deinen schwarzbraunen Augen + Siehst du mich forschend an: + “Wer bist du, und was fehlt dir, + Du fremder, kranker Mann!” + </pre> + <p> + Who does not love the poet Heine—melodious, beautiful, bitter soul? + Is there any other poet who can mingle, in one sentence, savage irony and + tenderness that brings tears into the eyes? Who can tell the secret of his + flower-like verses? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ich bin ein deutscher Dichter, + Bekannt im deutschen Land; + Nennt man die besten Namen + So wird auch der meine genannt. + Und was mir fehlt, du Kleine, + Fehlt manchem im deutschen Land; + Nennt man die schlimmsten Schmerzen, + So wird auch die meine genannt! +</pre> + <p> + I have never seen but one beautiful thing in New York, and that is its + mighty river in the night-time. I wander down to the docks when my work is + done, and when it is still; I sit and gaze at it until the city is quite + gone, and all its restlessness,—until there is but that grave + presence, rolling restlessly, silently, as it has rolled for ages. It + makes no comments; it has seen many things. + </p> + <p> + To-night I sat and watched it till a tangled forest sprang up about me, + and I saw a strange, high-bowed, storm-beaten craft glide past me, ghostly + white, its ghostly sailors gazing ahead and dreaming of spices and gold. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The old, old river—my only friend in a whole city! It goes its way—it + is not of the hour. + </p> + <p> + It fascinates me, and I sit and sit and wonder. I gaze into its black and + gurgling depths, and whisper what Shelley whispered: “If I should go down + there, I should <i>know</i>!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + But no, I should not know anything. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <i>The days when thou wert not, did they trouble thee? The days when thou + art not shall trouble thee as much.</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 24th. + </p> + <h3> + AN ESSAY AFTER RIGHTEOUSNESS + </h3> + <p> + I write this to set forth a purpose which I have for over a year held + before me. I write it that it may serve me for a standard. I write it at a + time when my bank-account consists of twenty-five dollars, and I mean to + publish it at such a time as by the method of plain living and high + thinking, I shall have been able to increase it a hundredfold. + </p> + <p> + We are told that a man who would write a great poem must first make a poem + of his life. An artist, as I understand the word, is a man who has but one + joy and one purpose and one interest in life—the creating of beauty; + he is a man lifted above and set apart from all other motives of men; a + man who seeks not wealth nor comfort nor fame, nor values these things at + all; a man whose heart is forever lonely, whose life is an endless sorrow, + and whose excuse and whose spur and whose goal and whose consecration, is + the creating of beauty. + </p> + <p> + What power—be it talent or genius—God has given me, I can not + tell; I only know that an artist in that sense of the word I mean to be. I + have thought out a plan by which I shall make the publishing of my books, + as well as the writing of them, a thing of Art. + </p> + <p> + No one will read very far in what I shall write without perceiving there a + savage hatred of the spirit of the modern world of wealth; it is only + because I have faith in democracy and hope in the people of my country + that I do not go to worship my God on a desert island. The world which I + see about me at the present moment—the world of politics, of + business, of society—seems to me a thing demoniac in its + hideousness; a world gone mad with pride and selfish lust; a world of wild + beasts writhing and grappling in a pit. + </p> + <p> + I am but a voice crying in the wilderness, and these things must run their + course. But in the meantime there is one thing that I can do, and the + doing of that has become with me a passion—I can keep my own life + pure; I can see that there is one man amid all this madness whose life is + untouched by any stain of it; who lives not by bread alone, nor by jewelry + and gold; who lives not to be stared at and made drunk with pride, but to + behold beauty and dwell in love; who labors day and night to keep a heart + full of worship and to sing of faith to suffering men; who takes of the + reward of that singing just what food and shelter his body needs; and who + shrinks from wealth and luxury as he would from the mouth of hell. + </p> + <p> + To live humbly and in oblivion would be my choice, but it will be my duty + to do differently. I know enough about the human heart to know that the + presence of one righteous man makes ten thousand unrighteous men angry and + uncomfortable. And therefore, for the help of any whom it may comfort, and + for the damnation of all the rest, I shall choose that the life I live and + the thing I do shall be public; I shall choose that the millions in our + country who are wearing out their frantic lives in the pursuit of the + dollar, and the few who are squandering their treasures in drunken pomp, + shall know that there is one man who laughs at them—whom all the + millions of all of them could not buy—and who dwells in joy and + worship in a heaven of which they can not even know. In other words, it is + my idea not merely to make a poem of my life, but to publish the poem. + </p> + <p> + I shall have other, and deeper, and kinder reasons also, for what I shall + do. What I write in my books must be from my deepest heart, the confession + of those moments of which I would speak to no living soul; it must be all + my tenderness, and all my rapture, and all my prayer; and do you think it + will come easily to me to put that out before the rough world to be stared + at, to be bound up in a book and hawked about by commercial people?... + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Here follows in the manuscript the outline of a + plan for publishing the writer's works at cost.) + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Would it not be interesting to me, if I could but pierce the future once, + and see how long it is destined to be before I do so publish a book! I + would do my work better, I fancy, for that.—But let it lie. I shall + publish it some day surely, that I know at least. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Sometimes I can hardly realize what it will be to me when I have really + won fame, when I can speak the things that so need speaking—and be + heard. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 25th. + </p> + <p> + Line by line, page by page, I do it. I am counting the days now, wondering—longing. + </p> + <p> + It is not merely the writing of it, it is the seeing of it—the + planning and designing. Sometimes I brood over it for hours—I can + not find what I want; and then suddenly a phrase flashes over me and like + a train of gunpowder my thought goes running on—leaping, flying; and + then the whole thing is plain as day. And I hold it all living in my + hands. + </p> + <p> + I am blessed with a good memory. In times of excitement such as that I + seize all the best phrases and carry them away, and bury them out of + sight, like a miser. They are my nuggets of gold. + </p> + <p> + And sometimes I am a greedy miser, and stand perplexed; shall I go on and + gather more, or shall I make off with the armful that I have? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 26th. + </p> + <p> + My religion is my Art. I have no prayer but my work. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes that is a glory, and sometimes again that is an agony. To have + no duty outside of yourself; to have no inspiration outside of yourself; + to have no routine to help you, no voice to cry out when your conscience + goes to sleep, no place of refuge in your weakness!— + </p> + <p> + All that is but the reason why I dare not be weak. I have chosen to lead + and not to follow; therefore I have no rest, and may not look behind me, + and can think of nothing but the way. + </p> + <p> + To be the maker of a religion is to sweat blood in the night-time. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + There is but one way that I may live—to take every impulse that + comes—to be watching, watching—to dare always and instantly, + to hesitate, to put off never, to seize the skirt of my muse whenever it + shimmers before me. So I make myself a habit, a routine, a discipline; and + so each day I have new power. So each day I feel myself, I bare my arms, I + walk erect, exulting—I laugh—I am a god! + </p> + <p> + —And as I write that a feeling takes rise in me, and my heart beats + faster; but I am tired, I sink back, I do not take the gift that is + offered; and then my conscience gives a growl, and in a flash I see what I + have done, and feel a throb of rage and leap up. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + One of my perils is that when I am strong I feel that I must always be so. + This truth that is so obvious, these words that flow so swift—what + need is there to fear for them, to write them now?—And so they are + never written. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 27th. + </p> + <p> + Will you imagine me to-day, kneeling by the bedside, shuddering; my face + hidden, the tears streaming down my cheeks—and I crying aloud: “I + will—oh, I will!” + </p> + <p> + I can not tell any more. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 29th. + </p> + <p> + I am coming to the last scenes. I hear them rumbling in my soul—far, + far off—like a distant surf on a windless night. + </p> + <p> + I am coming, step by step: I mean to fight it out on this line. + </p> + <p> + I know a man who always rose to the occasion. Never was he challenged that + he did not dare and triumph. Oh, if instead of being hungry and pining, I + had but the music of that divine inspirer!— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Heller schallend, + mich umwallend, + sind es Wellen + sanfter Lüfte? + Sind es Wogen + wonniger Düfte? + Wie sie schwellen, + mich umrauschen, + soll ich athmen, + soll ich lauschen? + Soll ich schlürfen, + untertauchen, + süss in Düften + mich verhauchen? + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 30th. + </p> + <p> + To-day. I had a spiritual experience—a revelation; to-day, in a + flash of insight, I understood an age—whole centuries of time, whole + nations of men. + </p> + <p> + I had been writing one of the great hymns, one of the great victories; and + I had been drunk with it, it had come with a surge and a sweep, it had set + everything about me in motion—huge phantom shapes—all life and + all being gone mad. + </p> + <p> + And then, when I had written it, I went out into the dark night; I walked + and walked, not knowing where, still tingling with excitement. And, + suddenly, I stood spellbound—the cathedral! + </p> + <p> + There it was—there it was! I saw it, alive and real before me—all + of it—all that I had seen and known! I cried out for joy, I + stretched out my arms to it—the great, dark surging presence; and + all my soul went with it, singing, singing—up into the misty night! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 1st. + </p> + <p> + I sat to-night by the river again. It was moonlight, and the water lay + shimmering. A little yacht, gleaming with lights, sped by; it was very + close, and I saw a group of people on it, I heard them laughing; and one + of them—a woman—was singing. + </p> + <p> + O God, what a voice! So rich, so exquisite! It soared upward and died + again, quivering like the reflection of the stars on the water. It went in—in + to the very depths of my soul; it loosed all the woe of my spirit, it made + the tears gush into my eyes. And then it died away, away in the distance; + and I sat with my hands clasped. + </p> + <p> + Sail on—sail on—oh heavenly voice! Far-off vision of + brightness and beauty! Your lot is not my lot. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —There is something within me that weeps yet, at the echo of that + music. Oh, what would I not give for music! How much of my bitterness, how + many of my sorrows have melted into tears at one strain! + </p> + <p> + And I can not have it! Oh, you who do have it, do you know what you have? + Oh beautiful voice, do you hear yourself? + </p> + <p> + All things else I can make for myself—friendship and love—nature + and books and prayer; all things but music! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Can you not hear that voice dying—dying—“over the rolling + waters”? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 2d. + </p> + <p> + I shall come out of this a man—a man! I shall know how to live all + my days! I shall have memories that will always haunt me, memories that I + can build the years by! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 3d. + </p> + <p> + From the time that I began The Captive it has been almost two months; it + is just six weeks from the day I wrote that I had ten or twelve weeks in + which to finish. I have done well financially—I have twenty-one + dollars left, and I have paid for my typewriting. + </p> + <p> + It is not a fortune. But enough is as good as a fortune. + </p> + <p> + And I am coming on! I have been counting the scenes—I am really + within sight of the end. + </p> + <p> + —That day when I crouched by the bed I saw all of the end. I have + seen the whole thing. It will leave me a wreck, but I can do it. And it + will take me about three weeks. + </p> + <p> + Think of my being able to say that!—Five or six hundred lines at + least I shall have to do, and still I dare to say that. But I am full of + this thing, I mount with it all the time. I am finding my wings. + </p> + <p> + Nothing can stop me now; I feel that I shall hold myself to it. I become + more grim every day. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + No one can guess what it means to me to find that I have hold of the whole + of this thing! It is like strong wine to me—I scarcely know where I + am. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 4th. + </p> + <p> + I am sitting down by the window, and first I kick my heels against my old + trunk, and then I write this. Hi! Hi! I think of a poem that I used to + recite about Santa Claus—“Ho, Castor! ho, Pollux!”—and then ho + a lot of other things—a Donner and a Blitzen I remember in + particular. I want a reindeer—a Pegasus—a Valkyrie—an + anything—to carry me away up into the air where I can exult without + impropriety! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come blow your horn, hunter, + Come blow your horn on high! + In yonder room there lieth a 'cello player, + And now he's going to move away! + Come blow your horn— +</pre> + <p> + That's an old Elizabethan song. I heard them come up for his trunk just + now, and they've dragged it down-stairs, and I hear the landlady fuming + because they are tearing the wall paper. I have never loved the sound of + the landlady's voice before. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —The world is divinely arranged, there is no question about it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 5th. + </p> + <p> + Deep in my soul I was convinced that the room would be let to something + worse. But now it appears that the landlady's sister is to occupy it. + </p> + <p> + —So now I will get to work! + </p> + <p> + —Moving is noisy; I can't complain. I have been walking about the + streets. I am hungry for the work; but still, I had much to think of. It + is a wonderful thing—a glorious thing, this story—it will make + men's hearts leap. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 6th. + </p> + <p> + I have plenty of time to write journals, if I feel like it. There is the + sister, and there is the landlady, and there is another woman, and they + have been jabbering about dresses all of the morning. I have been like a + crazy man—I was all on fire this morning, too! O God, it is too + cruel! + </p> + <p> + I could dress those three hags with broomsticks. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —How long is this to continue, I want to know. Here it is afternoon + and they are still chattering. Every time I have tried to compose my + thoughts they have come back and begun chattering again. And so I can only + pace about, and then rush out into the street—and wear myself sick. + I call this simply monstrous. That my soul should be tied down to such + vulgarity as this—is it not maddening? Here I am—with all my + load of woe—at this fearful crisis! And I am to be shattered and + wrecked and ruined by <i>this</i>! Just as long as they choose to sit + there, just so long I am helpless. Was it for this that I have borne all + the pain? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It seems to me that I hear jeering laughter around me from a swarm of + little demons. I hide my face and flee, but they follow me. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + But what can you expect? Have they not a right to talk?—Yes—all + the world has a right to be as hideous as it can. And I have no right but + to suffer and to choke in my rage. + </p> + <p> + Three vile, ignorant serving-women! Serving-women—ah yes, and if + they were <i>my</i> servants! If I could pay them!—But who serves + me! Of what consequence am I! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + These things goad me, they are like poisoned thorns in my flesh. The + infinite degradation of it all, the shame, the outrage! + </p> + <p> + It has burned a brand deep into my flesh, and never while I live will it + come out. Ah, you rich men! You who rule us, who own the treasures, the + opportunities, the joys! You who trample the fair gardens of life like + great blind beasts! + </p> + <p> + Do you think it is nothing to me that the inspiration and the glory of my + whole lifetime is to be trampled into nothingness for lack of what others + spend upon one dress? Yes, of my whole lifetime! My whole lifetime! Give + me but what another will spend upon one foolish gimcrack that he never + looks at again, and I will live for a whole lifetime! And I will write + such music—Bah! What am I doing? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Sometimes when I think of these things a black shadow stalks over + my heart. I hear a voice, “Fool, and do you still think that you are ever + to escape from this? Do you not perceive that this sordid shame is your <i>lot</i>? + Do you not perceive that you may writhe and twist, struggle and pant, toil + and serve, till you foam at the lips? Who will heed you! Who will hear + you! Who cares anything about you!—Who wants your Art! Who wants + your work! Who wants your <i>life</i>!—Fool!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Of course this thing could not go on. And so of course,—stammering + and writhing, as I always do when I have my nose pushed into this kind of + filth—I had to speak to the landlady about it to-night.— + </p> + <p> + And of course the landlady was astonished. “Why, Mr. Stirling, can't a + body talk in a body's own room?” Yes, a body can talk, but then other + bodies have to move away. + </p> + <p> + Now she's going to speak to her sister about it. And here I sit, writhing + and trembling. Oh my God, suppose I have to move! Oh merciful Father, have + pity on me—I can't bear much of this! To go tramping around this hot + and horrible city, to go into some new and perhaps yet more dirty place! + And oh, the agony, the shame—suppose <i>that</i> will not do, and I + have to keep on searching! Dragging this fearful burden with me! And I + have only eighteen dollars left! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + If I think of it any longer I shall scream with nervousness. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 7th. + </p> + <p> + And now it is all settled. A body has to talk in a body's own room, and a + body's nose has to turn up with indignation as a body announces the fact. + And so here I sit, waiting for the expressman to come for my trunk. + </p> + <p> + Now that it is over it does not seem so bad. I am like a snail—once + back in my shell, I do not care what happens. I have given up trying to + write The Captive, and so nothing bothers me any more.—I have + forgotten all about it now, it is years behind me. + </p> + <p> + But I have seen it all; I can get it back in good time. I do not fear. + </p> + <p> + I have rolled up a little bundle, a tooth-brush and some manuscripts + principally; and I send the rest to a friend's house. I have had an + inspiration. Why should I stay in this hot and steaming place?—Why + should I be “barricaded evermore within the walls of cities?” <i>Ich will + ins Land!</i> + </p> + <p> + Why did I not think of this in the beginning? I am going now to see the + springtime!—“the only pretty ring time, when birds do sing—hey + ding-a-ding!” + </p> + <p> + That was a real idea. I do not know where I am going; but I will walk and + get somewhere—there will be woods. I'll sleep in hay-ricks if it + can't be managed any other way. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Away, away from men and towns, + To the wildwood and the downs! +</pre> + <p> + I could have been through in three weeks now, I believe. But it was not to + be. We have to take what comes to us— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let us then be up and doing, + With a heart for any fate. +</pre> + <p> + I'm glad I don't have to write poetry like <i>that</i>! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 8th. + </p> + <p> + Howdy-do, Brother Bobolink! How in the world did you guess I was coming + this way? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —Es ist nun einmal so. + Kein Dichter reist incognito! +</pre> + <p> + Ah, to be out in the open air again, to see the world green and beautiful; + to run with the wind and look at the flowers and listen to the birds! I am + sitting by a spring; I have eaten my dinner. + </p> + <p> + I turned my steps Jerseyward. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I have been walking all day. I must find some place to stop very + soon. I can not think of the country with this burden on me. I am like a + sick animal—I seek a hiding-place. I fancied I might think of my + work on the way, but I can not. The world is happy; my work is not happy. + </p> + <p> + My hope is all in the end of the journey, and the walking is drudgery. And + then, my money is going! I must find some sort of a hut—a + tumble-down house, an old barn—anything. + </p> + <p> + I shall trudge one more day's journey. Then I think I shall be far enough + from New York. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I passed a tramp to-day; and while we walked together I composed an + address: + </p> + <p> + “My brother—for are we not brothers, thou and I? + </p> + <p> + “Have we not fled from the sleek man, thou and I? And is it not we alone + that know Truth? + </p> + <p> + “Thy clothing is ragged, and there is hunger in thine eyes; it is so also + with me. + </p> + <p> + “It is thy fate to wander; it is my fate to wander too. And with restless + eyes to look out upon the world, to meet with distrust from men. + </p> + <p> + “Yet not for that am I sad, nay, not for that, but for a deeper sorrow; + because I was sent out into the world with a curse upon me, because I was + sent out into the world a Drunkard. + </p> + <p> + “Yea, so it is, my brother. + </p> + <p> + “And that for which I thirst is not easy to find; and when I have found it + I am not content, but must seek more; and so I have only desolation. + </p> + <p> + “Who laid this curse upon us, my brother? + </p> + <p> + “That we should dwell in sorrow and unrest? + </p> + <p> + “That no man should heed our voice, and that we should grow weak and + faint? + </p> + <p> + “That we should die, and be forgotten—thou and I? + </p> + <p> + “Oh, tell us wherefore—ye wise men.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 9th. + </p> + <p> + I have walked another day. I am beginning to get away from the suburban + towns, and into the real country. I knew that it would cost me a good deal + to go to a hotel last night, and it was warm, so I slept in a hay-stack! + It was quite an adventure. Now I've got my pockets stuffed full of rolls, + Benjamin Franklin style. + </p> + <p> + —My mind is like the ocean after a storm. + </p> + <p> + The great waves come rolling over it still; it is all restless, tossing. + But it is sinking, sinking to rest!—Heaven grant that I may find my + place of refuge before it is quite calm. + </p> + <p> + It is everything or nothing with me; I am made that way. Either I give + every instant of my time, every thought, every effort to my work, or else + I close up like a flower and wait. I can not write poetry and hunt a + lodging too. + </p> + <p> + So I am waiting—waiting.— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 10th. + </p> + <p> + I began inquiring to-day—a shanty, a barn—anything. Every one + thinks it necessary to be very much puzzled about what I want it for. My + clothes are still fairly respectable, and so they tell me about pretty + summer cottages—only so much per month! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 12th. + </p> + <p> + I have been tramping on and on for two more days. I do not believe I shall + ever find what I want. Nothing but one old musty place in ruins, so far! + And my money is going, and I am wild with anxiety! I am almost tempted to + turn back to the ruin. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 13th. + </p> + <p> + I am sitting in a room in a dirty hotel. It was raining to-day and I had + to come here. I shall probably have to pay fifty cents too. I won't stay + to breakfast. + </p> + <p> + Oh what will I do if my money gives out? I saw a cottage to-day, that a + man said I could have for ten dollars a month. I was tempted to spend + nearly all I had and take it, and live on bread and water. I am desperate. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 14th. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps maybe you'd like 'Oaklands,'” said the farmer, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Oaklands” turned out to be the home of a millionaire “dry-goods man” who + was in Europe. I did not want “Oaklands.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know of anything else,” said the farmer, scratching his head. + Then he added with a grin, “unless it be the cook-house.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the cook-house?” I asked, suspiciously. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it's a kind of a little place they've got 'way out in the woods,” + said the farmer. “It's where they goes when they goes picnicking.” + </p> + <p> + My heart gave a jump. “What sort of a place?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “They've got a big platform chiefly, where they put up a tent. The + cook-house ain't nothin' but a little two by four shanty, with a big stove + in it.” + </p> + <p> + “How big is it?” I cried. + </p> + <p> + “It's about half o' this here room, I reckon.” + </p> + <p> + (“This here room” was about six of my rooms in New York!) + </p> + <p> + “And where is it?” I cried. “How can I get there?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you don't want to go to no sech place ez that!” said the farmer. + “There ain't no bed nor nothin' in it! An' it's two mile out there in the + woods!” + </p> + <p> + Let anybody imagine how my heart was going! “Who can show it to me?” I + panted. + </p> + <p> + “Why,” said he, “I'm the man that's in charge of it; but I—” + </p> + <p> + “And can you rent it to me for a month?” + </p> + <p> + “Why, I don't know any reason why I can't rent it to you for a year—only + it ain't worth nothin', an'—” + </p> + <p> + “Then rent it to me! The less it is worth the better it will suit me. But + come, show me where it is!” + </p> + <p> + “I reckon I can show you,” said the man, looking perplexed. “But what in + the world do you want to go into that lonesome place for? Why, boy, nobody + goes there in a month! An' what you goin' to do for somethin' to eat, an' + some place to sleep, an'—” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I managed to get him started at last. And now, oh just look at me! I've + been roaming around staring at it—inside and outside. The gods love + me after all. + </p> + <p> + The infinite relief that it is! The infinite exultation that it is! And + all to myself—not a soul near me! And out in the woods! <i>And mine + for a month!</i> Oh blessed 'cello player that moved away; blessed + landlady's sister that talked—! + </p> + <p> + And oh blessed cook-house! We will make thee a consecrated cook-house + before we get through—we will! We will cook a dish in thee that will + warm the hearts of a goodly company—oh blessed cook-house! + </p> + <p> + —And outside a great white moon streaming through the forest trees! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The “cook-house” is about ten feet square. It is about one-third stove, + now covered with a newspaper and serving as a table. Besides that there is + one chair, for which I have just improvised a leg, with the help of my + knife. + </p> + <p> + Besides the knife I have a fork, a plate, a cup, and a spoon—borrowed + from the farmer. I have a blanket and a bed consisting of an old carriage + robe, rented from the farmer. I have a lamp and a kerosene-can—ditto. + I have a frying-pan—ditto. But I haven't my little oil-stove, so I + fear I shall eat mostly cold things. I have a pail of milk, a loaf of + bread, a ginger-cake, some butter, some eggs, some bacon, some apples and + some radishes; also a tooth-brush, a comb, a change of clothing, two + handkerchiefs, some pencils and paper, Prometheus Bound, Prometheus + Unbound, Samson Agonistes, faith, hope, and charity! + </p> + <p> + —I believe I have named all the necessaries of life. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 15th. + </p> + <p> + I have scooped myself out a bathtub below the spring. I forgot towels in + my list of necessaries! I fear it will be inconvenient on rainy days. I am + like a child with a new toy, in my wonderful home. I was too excited to + think of working. I fried an egg over a little fire, and then I roamed all + about the woods. I don't remember ever having been so happy before. I had + forgotten there was anything beautiful in the world.— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I spent the whole of the afternoon dreaming a dream. When I have + finished The Captive and gotten some money, I am going to have a little + house in the woods! I have just had it before my eyes—and I laughed + with delight like a boy. + </p> + <p> + It will be a fine big house—it will cost about fifty dollars; and + there will be a table and a chair, and a cot, and such things. It will + stand by a lake, a wild lake far out in the mountains! I have vowed to + find a lake at least five miles from anything; and once a week I will have + somebody bring me provisions. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —That is the way I shall spend next summer!—Up, up! Get to + work!— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 17th. + </p> + <p> + I have done nothing for two days but wander around and stare at things. It + is all gone, every gleam of it! And I can not bring it back—I know + not what to do, where to turn. I stopped in one of the hardest parts of + the whole thing—in the very midst of it; and how in the world am I + to begin? I walk around, I sit down, I get up again; I try to put my + thoughts upon it, I bring them back again and again. But I can not do it—I + have let every thread of it go. What has tramping over the country and + delight in houses got to do with my work? + </p> + <p> + I have nothing to write—the whole thing is a blank to me. And here I + am, eating up my provisions!—This shows me what I am—what a + child. + </p> + <p> + —But how am I to get up on those fearful heights again? How am I to + take the first step toward those fearful heights again? I cry that all + day! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 20th. + </p> + <p> + Oh, the joy of being out in the woods! I never knew of it before—I + never dreamed it! + </p> + <p> + It is better than an orchestra. To be able to stretch your arms! To have a + place to walk! To be able to talk aloud!—to laugh—to shout—to + do what you please!—to be free from all men, and the thought of all + men! + </p> + <p> + And to hear your own poetry aloud!—I cried out to-day that I would + go back and do the whole of The Captive over again, so that I could hear + it out loud. It made me quite wild yesterday when I first realized that I + was <i>alone</i>! + </p> + <p> + —Last night there was a gale, and the clouds sped over the moon, and + the wind roared in the trees—and I roared too! + </p> + <p> + —“For I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 21st. + </p> + <p> + I did just as I have always done before. I got desperate enough, and then + I went to work. I said “I will! and I will! and I will!” I think I said + nothing else for twenty-four hours. + </p> + <p> + And so the storm again, and the great waves speeding! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Is there any one who has ever watched the great waves?—How they go! + They take you right with them. My verses shall be waves. + </p> + <p> + I am tired out again; but oh, I am filled with my music! There was never + any poetry like it in the world! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And at the height of it I cry out: “I am free! I am free! + </p> + <p> + “I won't have to stop again! + </p> + <p> + “I can go to the very end of it! + </p> + <p> + “And I don't care who hears me! + </p> + <p> + “I am free!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 23d. + </p> + <p> + I ate a raw egg this morning. For yesterday I let the fire go out five + times, and gave up my breakfast rather than start a sixth. + </p> + <p> + I wanted to save time—I thought it would be egg just the same; but I + record it for future generations of poets, that the experiment is not a + success. You taste raw egg all day. + </p> + <p> + I shall have them all hard-boiled in the farmhouse after this. + </p> + <p> + —Twenty-eight lines to-day! I had more, but I lost them, and then I + fell down. + </p> + <p> + —There is always a new height, but there are not always new words. + My verse grows more and more incoherent, and more and more daring. I can + feel the difference of a whole lifetime between it now, and what I wrote + ten weeks ago. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —That is as it should be, of course. One does not reckon by days in + a dungeon. + </p> + <p> + I notice also that the periods get longer; it has more sweep—it + leaps wider spaces—it is less easy to follow. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Oh, let not any man read what I wrote this morning, except he stand + upon the heights! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have worn a path in the woods, deep and wide, pacing back and forth, + back and forth, all day. Any one who saw me would think that I was mad. + Fighting—fighting—all the time fighting! Sometimes I run—sometimes + I don't know what I do. Last night I know that it grew dark, and that I + was still lying flat on the dead leaves, striking my hands, that were numb + with excitement. I was too weak to move—but I remember panting out, + “There is nothing like that in <i>King Lear</i>!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I brought about twenty phrases out of that, and one or two sentences. They + will fall into the verse the next time it comes. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 24th. + </p> + <p> + —Listen to me, oh thou world—I will tell you something! You + may take a century to understand those phrases—to stop laughing at + them, perhaps—who knows? But those sentences are <i>real</i>; and + they will last as long as there is a man alive to read them! + </p> + <p> + When I let anything make me cease to believe in that scene, may I die! + </p> + <p> + —I will shout it aloud on the streets; they are <i>real</i>! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And there has been nothing like them done for some years, either. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 25th. + </p> + <p> + To-day you may imagine me frantically throwing stones at a squirrel. I + said: “If I get him I won't have to go to the farmhouse to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + I had had nothing to eat but bread and apples for two meals, and I + couldn't stand that again. + </p> + <p> + I had fried squirrel and fried apples for supper. It was a very curious + repast. + </p> + <p> + And I was hungry, and I ate too much! That made me wild, of course, and I + flung all my apples away into the woods. May they feed new squirrels! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 26th. + </p> + <p> + I get up every morning like—like the sun! I overflow with laughter—nothing + frightens me now. I never knew what was the matter with me before—it + was simply that I could not fight as I chose. If ever I go back again to + have my soul pent up in the cities of men! + </p> + <p> + I am full of it—full of it! I grapple with it all the day, I can not + get enough of it. I do crazy things. + </p> + <p> + And the harder it is the faster I go! This thing has been my torturing—it + has made me fight and live. That is really the truth. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And I am coming to the end—really to the end! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 27th. + </p> + <p> + A rainy day! And no glass in my house—only a board cover to the + window. I made myself a nest on the sheltered side. + </p> + <p> + Nearer! Nearer! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 29th. + </p> + <p> + Wandering through the woods dreaming of a banquet-hall.—The guests + are witty. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have put into the mouths of the guests all that the world has said to + me, since first I went poetical. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 30th. + </p> + <p> + To-day I got a big stock of things to eat. I count my time not by days, + but by loaves of bread and dozens of hard-boiled eggs. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —This book goes out into the world, not to be judged, but to judge! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 1st. + </p> + <p> + You do not hear much from a man in a battle, just now and then a cry. + </p> + <p> + I have gone in to seek out my last enemy—the last demon who has + defied me. I shall close with him—I shall have the thing over with—I + will no longer be haunted and made sick. + </p> + <p> + —I believe I shall do it all in one day. I don't think I can lay it + aside. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 3d. + </p> + <p> + It is done!— + </p> + <p> + I wrote that at three o'clock this morning, and then I lay back and + laughed and sobbed, and in the end I fell asleep in the chair. + </p> + <p> + I was not ill—my relief was so great. I was only happy. I lay back + and closed my eyes. I have born my child. + </p> + <p> + It is done! It is done! I realize it, and then I am like a crazy person. I + do not know what I am doing—I only wander around and sit down in the + woods and laugh and talk to myself. O God, I am so happy! + </p> + <p> + I have only to write the end—the last scene in the dungeon. And that + is nothing. “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 4th. + </p> + <p> + I have only to write the echoes that are in my heart, the stammering words + of thanksgiving. It is nothing—I have been over them. My whole being + is melted with the woe of them—but I can do them anywhere—anyhow. + </p> + <p> + —And a sudden wild longing has come over me for the city. I must + take all the world into my arms—I am so happy—I love it so! + </p> + <p> + Ah, I have done it! I have done it! I am free! <i>Free!</i> FREE! + </p> + <p> + I must get this thing typewritten—I must get rid of it—it must + be published. How long does it take to get a book published? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 5th. + </p> + <p> + I fought a fight with myself yesterday, and won it. The last of my + weaknesses! I wanted to pack up my things and go home! And finish my poem + on the train! I was that hungry for the goal! But I am still here—doing + the last scene. I shall stay until it is done. I can not stay after that. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Let me hear how your voice trembles as you sing the last strains of your + song, and I will tell you how great an artist you are. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Good night, sweet prince, + And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 6th. + </p> + <p> + Five in the afternoon! And the wind was howling in turret and tree, and + all the forest was an organ chant. So I packed up my belongings, and laid + my poem in next to my heart—the last words written: “It is done!” + </p> + <p> + And I went out and stood and gazed at my little home. Farewell, farewell, + little home! Perhaps I shall never see you again; but ever you will live + in my fancy as my heaven upon earth. They built thee for picnic parties! + And I wonder what proud prince had built for his pleasures—the + Garden of Gethsemane! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And now I go forth like a bridegroom out of my chamber, rejoicing as a + strong man to run a race. And all the world dances around me, and I + stretch out my arms and sing! + </p> + <p> + Come, come, my foes, where are ye now? What foes shall I be afraid of now! + Is it the world and its trials? Come! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I go back to conquer—I have forged my weapon! I have bared my arm! + Where are those foes of mine? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + There is nothing so commonplace that it does not sing to me. I walk with a + springing step, I laugh, I exult. Birds, flowers, men—I love them + all; I get into the train, and the going of it is drunkenness. I have won! + I have won! + </p> + <p> + I go back to the world. Come, world! I have but four dollars left—four + dollars!—and The Captive! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is not strange that a man should be made drunk with happiness by the + writing of a tragedy! That is the great insincerity of the artist. “That + cry of agony!—what a triumph of genius was that my cry of agony!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —It is not the sorrow, it is the struggle; so I read the tragedy. + This man is dead, but God lives, and Art lives. + </p> + <p> + I will go back, I will do anything now—I will empty ash-cans, and + find it a joy. The book is done—safe in next to my heart!—And + now it will be printed, and not fire nor earthquake can destroy it after + that. Free! Free! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I am writing on the train. I write commonplaces. That is because I can not + shout. + </p> + <p> + But back there, coming out of the woods, I shouted—and not + commonplaces either! + </p> + <p> + Coming out of the forest—forest-drunk! Now I know all about Pan and + his creatures! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I write carelessly. But in my heart I sit shuddering before that fearful + glory. O God, my Father, let me not forget this awful week, and I will + live in Truth all my days. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 7th. [Footnote: Possibly an error in the date, as the day was + Sunday.] + </p> + <p> + Wandering all day about the streets of the hot city, seeing it not, + hearing it not—waiting for the last lines of the poem to be copied! + I could not do anything until that was done, and at a publisher's. I got + it and fled home, and spent the night correcting the copy. + </p> + <p> + Ah, God, what a thing it is! How it roars, how it thunders, how it surges! + How infinite, how terrible! Stern, throbbing—is there anything like + it in the world? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Ten lines of it make my blood tingle—an act of it makes me bury my + face in my pillow and laugh and sob for five minutes. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Go forth, oh my perfect song! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART II + </h2> + <h3> + SEEKING A PUBLISHER + </h3> + <p> + July 8th. + </p> + <p> + To-day I took it to the publisher's! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + Then he took it and glanced over it. “Blank verse dramas are difficult + things to publish,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You had best read it, I think,” I answered, “you will find it worth + while.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, if you wish,” said he, “we always read everything that is + offered to us.” + </p> + <p> + “How soon shall you be able to let me know?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, in a week or ten days.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And then I went out—shuddering with excitement. A week or ten days! + Well—I can wait. I have done all <i>my</i> duty, at any rate. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 9th. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 10th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + And then I shall taste my first drop of success. + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And then I can go on! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I wonder if they will write to me sooner, when they find out what + it is.— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I read some of the psalms to-night—far, far into the morning. My + heart is a psalm. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 11th. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + How soon will they write? I fly up-stairs each night, looking for a + letter. Hurry up! Hurry up! + </p> + <p> + —“<i>Pegasus im Joche</i>!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 13th. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Yes, before I was one of the mob, and now I have shown what I can + do. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 15th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Yes, to-morrow and half of the next day,—that is all I will bear! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I long sometimes to go and see them; but no, I can wait. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 17th. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + The American! It would have to be a three-volume novel, I fear—it + would be as huge as Les Misérables! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The world is filled with historical fiction; it is the cant and the sham + of the hour.—Bah! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + I saw some of it to-day, and it made my blood go! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + And afterward he staggered from his horse and knelt by the men he had + killed, and wept. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —And at her feet he sobbed out his life. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —The American! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 18th. + </p> + <p> + Still another day, and no news from the publisher's. The time is nearly up—I + can not wait much longer. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + They have rejected The Captive! They have rejected The Captive! In God's + name, what does it mean? They have rejected The Captive! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + What is the matter with them—are they mad? Great God, that any human + creature!—And without a line about it! + </p> + <p> + —“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.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That letter came to me like a blow in the face.—I have spent hours + to-night pacing the streets, almost speechless. Fools! + </p> + <p> + —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 <i>will</i> regret, some day, + never fear! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 19th. + </p> + <p> + The manuscript arrived this morning. I took it up-stairs and sat down, + trembling, and read it all again. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I can not afford to waste my time worrying about such things. I only say + “Fools!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + —Of course I shall have to begin tramping around, looking for some + work again. I must find something better than the last. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 20th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I am the owner of the sphere, + Of the seven stars and the solar year, + Of Cæsar's hand and Plato's brain!— +</pre> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I am the man who has never learned to shiver and shake! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 21st. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + It makes me leap up—it makes me wish to go! Why should I not start + now? Why should I waste to-day? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 22d. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Why are men impolite? I do not believe I could ever learn to speak + rudely. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 23d. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —But no, some one would have to attend to the light!— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + It would suit me perfectly to sit by a mountain lake and read Greek and + watch for ducks. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 27th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 28th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + July 31st. + </p> + <p> + Twelve days since I left The Captive; they said it would take three weeks. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I am no longer a man among men—I am “the reed that grows never more + again”! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —And all the time I know too well what I want—I want to fight! + </p> + <p> + I want to get back into the woods again! I want that vision again! That + work again! I want <i>myself</i>! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>conquer</i> Why, it is like the clashing in my ears of twenty + trumpets out of tune! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Do not keep me here long! Do not keep me here long! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 2d. + </p> + <p> + Oh what a horrible thing is “business”! Here, where I am,—this is <i>the + world</i>. An industrial era! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>they</i> any better? Or is + their interest in the paper the profits it may bring to them? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Dear God!—That brought me back to The Captive. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 3d. + </p> + <p> + I got my first twelve dollars to-day! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 5th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Hurry up, publishers!—I wrote to them to-night. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 7th. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I am reading Euripides. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 8th. + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To live in a place where there are not horrible women in wrappers, + reeling, foul-smelling men, snuffling children with beer-cans! + </p> + <p> + This is more of my “economy”! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + My beautiful poem! My beautiful poem will set me free! + </p> + <p> + Sometimes I love it just as if it were a child. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 10th. + </p> + <p> + Twelve dollars more! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 11th. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 12th. + </p> + <p> + I begged off from work for an hour. I have had an interview with the great + publishers! I have learned a great deal too. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + (I bow.) + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>difficult</i> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + (Here a pause. I have never any tongue when I am with men.) + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “No, not just at present.” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + (Some hesitation.) “I have thought of a novel.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! And might I ask—would it be a character study?—or perhaps + historical?—or—” + </p> + <p> + “It would be historical.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! And of what period?” + </p> + <p> + “The Civil War.” + </p> + <p> + (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?” + </p> + <p> + (General discomfort on my part.) “I had never thought of the time exactly. + I had feared it would take a great many years.” + </p> + <p> + (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.” + </p> + <p> + (More courteous platitudes, I assenting. Then at last, weary—) + </p> + <p> + “You don't think, then, that you will be able to undertake The Captive?” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + (Perplexity on my part.) “You'll have to explain that to me, I fear.” + </p> + <p> + “Why—but the explaining of that would be to offer you my opinion + about the book—” + </p> + <p> + “I should be very pleased to hear it. Your reason for declining it, then, + is not altogether that it is a blank-verse drama?” + </p> + <p> + “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.) + </p> + <p> + “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.—” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + —He read me that criticism—great God, it makes me writhe! It + was like a review of the Book of Revelations by Bill Nye. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <i>That my work should be judged by such men!</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —“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? + </p> + <p> + As if a man who was being torn to pieces would converse after the manner + of Mr. Howells and Jane Austen! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —“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! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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!— +</pre> + <p> + “This is mere madness,” observes the queen. Tone it down! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 12th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + —And can it be that I am to repeat the old, old story—will + every one laugh at me and leave me to starve? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I will get myself together and prepare for a siege. I will find an + opening somewhere. You can not shut up a volcano. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 16th. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Oh, the hell of egotism and vulgarity that is a city! + </p> + <p> + —“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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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!— + </p> + <p> + It is the brutality of it all that drives me wild. I see great, hulking, + disgusting <i>bodies</i> 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 20th. + </p> + <p> + I thought that I would surely have heard from my poet by now. I am not a + good waiter. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 24th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>élan</i> every day. Ah, God, + let me go! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 25th. + </p> + <p> + Why doesn't he answer my letter? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 27th. + </p> + <p> + To-day I took myself off in a corner. I said: “Am I not here, have I not + this thing to <i>do</i>? The power that I have in my soul—it is to + be used for the doing of <i>this</i>; if I am to save my soul, it must be + by the doing of <i>this</i>! 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.” + </p> + <p> + —Is there any author in the world more vulgar than Macaulay?—unless + it be Gibbon. Or possibly Chesterfield. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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 <i>not</i> to live! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 30th. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + August 31st. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —“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. + </p> + <p> + —And yet I know something about drunkenness. I once buried a + drunkard. He was my father. He died in a delirium. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 1st. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Secretary.” + </p> + <p> + So that hope is gone! + </p> + <p> + That letter—or rather the chain of thoughts which it brought me, + made me feel ill to-night. “So many requests!” “An invariable rule!” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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>I</i> shall ever send such an answer! + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + Oh how shall I find one—just one—warmhearted man! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I begin the trying of the publishers once more to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 2d. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 6th. + </p> + <p> + He had no business to send me that answer! He had no business to send it! + I care not how many such requests he gets! Pain throbbed in that letter, + hunger and agony were in it; and if he were a man he would have known it! + He had no business to send me that answer! I shall never forgive him for + it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The last publisher said it would take a month; they had many manuscripts + on hand, and could not do any better. So I have only to set my teeth + together and wait. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I count the days before my escape from that hideous place down-town. The + thought of it drives me wild—it gets more and more a torture. Can I + stay out the week? I ask. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 8th. + </p> + <p> + All day—all day—I have but one thought in my mind—but + one thought in my life! I am beset by it, I can not escape it. That + horrible shame to which I am subjected! + </p> + <p> + It turns all my life to gall! It beats down my enthusiasm, it jeers at my + faith, it spits into the face of my unselfishness! I come home every night + weak and worn and filled with despair, or else with a choking in my + throat, and helpless, cruel rage in my soul. Never mind that I am going to + be free—the wrong is that it should ever have been—it will + stay with me all my days and turn all my life to gall! It will wreck all + my visions, all my aspirations, my faith, my eagerness; the memory of it + will sound like a mocking voice in my ears, a sneer! + </p> + <p> + Day by day I strive and struggle and tear my-self to pieces, and sink back + worn out; and don't you suppose that has any effect upon me? I can feel + it. I see it plain as day, and shudder at it—I am being cowed! I am + being tamed, subdued, overpowered; the thing is like a great cold hand + that is laid upon me, pressing me down, smothering me! I know it—and + I cry out and struggle as if in a nightmare; but it only presses the + harder. Why, I was like a lion—restless—savage—all-devouring! + Never-ceasing, eager, untamable—hungry for life, for experience, for + power! I rushed through in days what others took months at—I watched + every instant—I crowded hours into it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —And now look at me! I crouch and whine—there is an endless + moan in my soul. Can you break a man's spirit so that he never rises + again? So that all his attempts to be what he was mock at him? So that he + never <i>tries</i> any more? Look at those poor wretches you pass on the + street—those peasants from Europe, from Russia! See the restless, + shifting eyes, the cringing gait—<i>that</i> is what it is to be + tamed! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Hateful tyrant of the commonplace—so you will lay your cold hand + over me and crush out all the fire from my heart. All this that was to + build new empires—new hopes, new virtues, new power; all that I was, + and all that I sought to be! Ah, but you will not crush me—understand + it well, you may beat me and kick me, you may starve me to death, but you + will never overcome me, you will never tame me into one of the pack-horses + of society! I will fight while I have a breath in me, while my heart has + left one beat. + </p> + <p> + The time may come when I shall have to drag myself away like a sick beast + to die in the mountains; but if it does, I shall go defying you! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Bah! + </p> + <p> + —How I wish I could find a rich man who could spare it, and from + whom I could steal a thousand dollars. I would turn it into a thousand + songs that diamonds could not buy—that would build new empires—and + then I would pay the poor rich man back. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I read a poem of Matthew Arnold's last night: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From the world's temptations, + From tribulations; + From that fierce anguish + Wherein we languish; + From that torpor deep + Wherein we lie asleep, + Heavy as death, cold as the grave, + Save, oh save! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 10th. + </p> + <p> + A man was talking to me to-day about what I am doing. “I should think you + would try to get some work more congenial,” he said, “some literary work.” + Yes!—I sell wholesale-paper, and that is bad enough; but at least I + do not sell my character. + </p> + <p> + I to enter into the literary business world! I to forsake my ideals and my + standards—to learn to please the public and the men who make money + out of the public! Ah, no—let me go on selling paper, and “keep my + love as a thing apart—no heathen shall look therein!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + What could I do, besides? And who would give me a chance? I could not + review books—I know nothing about modern books, and still less about + modern book standards. Neither do I know anything to write that any + magazines would want. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —And besides, in four days more, shall I not have fifty or sixty + dollars? And what shall I want then? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Ah, how I count the days! And when I am out of this place, how I will run + away from it! The very books I read while I was there will always be + painful to me. + </p> + <p> + —They will be glad to get rid of me, too. Poor me—I have given + up trying to be understood. All these things pass. My business is with + God. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Cicero thinks that the remembering of past sorrows is a pleasure. Yes, + when the sorrows are beautiful, noble. But I have sorrows in my life, the + thoughts of which send through my whole frame—literally and + physically—a <i>spasm</i>. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 11th. + </p> + <p> + I told the bald-headed, grim-visaged senior-partner to-day that I was + going to leave. He seemed surprised—offered me a “raise.” I told him + I was going out of New York. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I am a liar. Sometimes I philosophize about that. I am an + unprincipled idealist. I have not the least respect for fact; I am doing + my work. If I could help my work, I would lie serenely in all the six + languages I know. And if I were caught, I would say, “Why, yes, of + course!” + </p> + <p> + I think I would rather have a finger cut off than say to a New York + business man, “I am a poet!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 12th. + </p> + <p> + I have been forcing myself to read Gibbon, but half of him was all I could + stand. I think with astonishment of the reputation of this history, a bare + recital of facts, without the least interest or importance, and a recital + by the shallowest of men! + </p> + <p> + The vulgarity of his character is more evident than ever since the + repressed parts of his biography have appeared. It is comical. And this + man, who has no more understanding of spirituality than a cow, to tell the + story of the greatest movement of the soul of man in history! + </p> + <p> + There is not one gleam of the Christian superstition left in me. I have + nothing to fear from the sneers of Gibbon any more than I have from those + of Voltaire; but I do not care to hear lectures on the steam-engine by a + man who does not believe in steam. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Some of these days—the last thing that I can see on the + horizon of my future—I am going to write a tragedy called Jesus. The + time is past, it seems to me, when an artist must leave alone the greatest + art-theme of the ages. + </p> + <p> + Is it not the greatest? Is there any story in history more sublime than + the story of this man? A humble, ignorant peasant he was, and out of the + faith of his soul he made the future of the world for centuries! It is a + thing that makes your brain reel. + </p> + <p> + I write it casually, but I have shuddered over it far into the deep, deep + night. I have dreamed of two acts—one of them Gethsemane, and the + other Calvary.—Poor fool, perhaps I shall never write them! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have burrowed into that soul, seeking out the truths of it; the truths, + as distinguished from the ten thousand fancies of men. When I write that + drama I shall deal with those truths. + </p> + <p> + The climax of the scene in the garden of Gethsemane will be a vision in + which looms up before him the whole history of Christianity; and that will + be the last agony. It will be then that he sweats blood. + </p> + <p> + That will be something, I think. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 13th. + </p> + <p> + To-morrow is the last time I shall ever go into that hellish place! + To-morrow is the last time in all my life that I shall ever have to say, + “We have this same quality in ninety-pound paper at four sixty-nine!” + </p> + <p> + Throughout all this thing it seemed to me that when I came out I should no + longer have a soul. But it is not so; I shall still keep at it grimly. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 14th. + </p> + <p> + And now to-day I make my plans. I must keep near a library; but I shall + hunt out a room uptown. There I can be near the Park, and I shall suffer a + little less from these hideous noises. I shall go over there and spend + every day—find out some place where there are not too many + nurse-girls! + </p> + <p> + I can not begin any other book; I must stand or fall by The Captive. I + shall be a “homo unius libri”! + </p> + <p> + But I can not attempt to write again—ever—in these + circumstances. It is not that my force is spent—I am only at the + beginning of my life, I see everything in the future. But I could not + wrestle with these outside things again—it took all my courage and + all my strength to do it once. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + There is no reason why I should worry about that. I have fifty-six + dollars, and I am free for four months, barring accidents. And surely I + shall have found some one to love my book by that time! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And so I set to work reading. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 15th. + </p> + <p> + A slight preliminary, of course. I spent a ghastly day hunting for a room. + I found one in a sufficiently dirty and cheap place, and then I spent + another hour finding a man who would take my trunk for a quarter. Having + succeeded in that, I walked up there to save five cents; and when the + trunk came the driver tried to charge me fifty cents! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Picture me haggling and arguing on the steps—“Didn't know it was so + far—Man didn't understand”—God knows what else! And then he + tries to carry off the trunk—and I rushing behind, looking for a + policeman! Again more arguing, and a crowd, of course. At last it appears + that I have to pay him what he asks and go down to the City Hall and make + my complaint—hadn't told him how many steps there were, etc. So + finally I agree to carry it up the steps myself, if he'll only leave it + for a quarter! + </p> + <p> + Next you must picture me breaking my back and tearing my fingers and the + damned wall paper—while the damned frowsy-headed landlady yells and + the damned frowsy-headed boarders stick out their heads! And so in the end + I get into my steaming hot room and shut the door and fall down on the bed + and burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + O God, the stings of this bitter, haunting, horrible poverty! The ghastly + weight that has hung about my neck since ever I can remember! Oh, shall I + ever be free from it? Shall I ever know what it is to have what I ought to + have, to think of my work without the intrusion of these degrading + pettinesses? + </p> + <p> + They are so infinite, so endless, so hideous! The thing gets to be a habit + of my thoughts; my whole nature is steeped and soaked in it—in + filthy sordidness! I plot and I plan all the day—I can not buy a + newspaper without hesitating and debating—I am like a ragpicker + going about the streets! + </p> + <p> + Sometimes the thing goads me so that I think I must go mad—when I + think of the time that I lose, of the power, of the courage! I walk miles + when I am exhausted, to save a car-fare! I wear ragged collars and chafe + my neck! I stand waiting in foul-smelling grocery shops with crowds of + nasty people! I cook what I eat in a half-dirty frying-pan because I can + not afford to pay the servant to wash it! So it is that I drag myself + about—chafing and goaded—crouching and cringing like a whipped + cur! + </p> + <p> + My God, when will I be free? My God! My God! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —The boarding-houses that I have been in! The choice collection of + memories that I have stored away in my mind, memories of boarding-houses! + The landladies' faces—the assorted stenches—the dark hallways—the + gabbling, quarreling, filthy, beer-carrying tenants! Oh, I wring my hands + and something clutches me in my heart! Let me go! Let me go! + </p> + <p> + Six times in the course of my life, when I have been starved sick on my + own feeding, I have become a “table-boarder”; and out of those six + experiences I could make myself another Zola. The infinite variety of + animality in those six vile stables—the champing jaws and the + slobbering mouths and the rank odor of food! The men who shoveled with + their knives or plastered things on their forks as hod-carriers do mortar! + The women who sucked in their soup, and the children who smeared their + faces and licked their lips and slopped upon the table-cloth! The fat + Dutchman who grunted when he ate, and then leaned back and panted! The + yellow woman with the false teeth who gathered everything about her on the + table! The flashy gentleman with the diamond scarf-pin and the dirty + cuffs, who made a tower out of his dirty dishes and then sucked his teeth! + O God! + </p> + <p> + And the loathsome food!—For seven years I have had my nose stamped + into this mud, and all in vain; I can still starve, but I can not eat what + is not clean. + </p> + <p> + —Some day I shall put into a book all the rage and all the hate and + all the infamy of these things, and it will be a book that will make your + flesh sizzle. And you will wonder why I did it! + </p> + <p> + It will be better than Troilus and Cressida, better than the end of + Gulliver's Travels—better than Swellfoot the Tyrant! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I wonder why nobody else ever reads or mentions Swellfoot the Tyrant? I + call it the most whole-hearted, thorough-going, soul-satisfying piece of + writing in any language that I know. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —When you think of my work you must think of these things! I do not + mention them often, but they are never out of my mind. If you should read + anything beautiful of mine, you must bear in mind that it is about half a + chance that there was a dirty child screaming out in the hall while I + wrote it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 20th. + </p> + <p> + It took me a couple of days to realize that I have still not to go + down-town. But I have a fine facility in making myself new habits! Just + now I am on a four months' studying campaign. It is monotonous—to + read about. I get up at six, and when I have had my breakfast and fixed a + lunch, I go over into the Park. There are only birds and squirrels and a + few tramps about then, and it is glorious. Sometimes I am so happy that I + do not want to read; later come the squalling children and the hot sun; + but I flit about from place to place. I wonder what they think of me!— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wer bist du, und was fehlt dir! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I read all day, right straight along, and all night, now that it is not + too hot. I have always done my reading by periods—I read our + nineteenth-century poets that way, sixteen hours a day; I read Shakespeare + in three weeks that way, and finished the month with Milton. So when I got + German, I read Goethe and Schiller, and Molière and Hugo again. + </p> + <p> + Now I am reading history; it gives me the nightmare, but one has to read + it. + </p> + <p> + Every night when I put down my book, I flee in thought to my own land as + to a city of refuge. A history where everything counts! A history that is + not a mad, blind chaos of blood and horror! A history that has other + meaning than the drunken lust and the demon pride of a Napoleon or a Louis + le Grand! + </p> + <p> + —Some day the ages will discern two movements in history: the first, + the Christian dispensation, and the second the American. + </p> + <p> + There is a great deal in knowing how to read, especially with such books + as history. I try to read as I write; to lash my author, to make him fill + my mind. If he gets sluggish I am soon through with him—I read whole + paragraphs in a sentence, and whole volumes in an hour. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 25th. + </p> + <p> + The third week of the publisher's month has gone by. God, how cruel is + waiting! I wonder if their readers knew how hungry I am if they would not + hurry a little! + </p> + <p> + I say to myself—“There has been enough of this nonsense! Oh, surely + there will not be any more, surely these men must take it!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 28th. + </p> + <p> + I still read the literary journals and tingle with excitement thinking of + the time when The Captive is discussed in them. Can I believe that this + book will not stir the world? If I did not believe it, I could not believe + anything! + </p> + <p> + I feel a new interest now in the authors that people talk about. I want to + know who they are and what they do. And all the time I find myself + thinking: “Have I more than this man?—More than that man?” That + always throws me into despair, because I am a great admirer; and because I + am always hypnotized by the last thing that I read. + </p> + <p> + But I find very little that is great in modern books. Books are better + made now than they ever were before—I mean in the way of literary + craftsmanship. As far as form goes, there is no author living who would + put together such a hodge-podge as Wilhelm Meister, or La Nouvelle + Heloïse. But they all imitate each other; they are all mild and tame; + there is no real power, no genius among them. They have even forgotten it + exists. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I came across this, for instance, the other day in a book of Mr. + Howells's: + </p> + <p> + “In fact, the whole belief in genius seems to me rather a mischievous + superstition, and if not mischievous, always, still always, a + superstition. From the account of those who talk about it, genius appears + to be the attribute of a very potent and admirable prodigy which God has + created out of the common for the astonishment and confusion of the rest + of us poor human beings. Do they mean anything more or less than the + mastery which comes to any man in accordance with his powers and diligence + in any direction? If not, why not have an end to the superstition which + has caused our race to go on for so long writing and reading of the + difference between talent and genius?” + </p> + <p> + Is not that simply blasphemous? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Have I genius? Ah, save the word! + </p> + <p> + How can I know? It is none of my affair—I do my work. + </p> + <p> + Genius is next to the last and most sacred word we know, next to God; and + next to the most abused word. Every man will possess it, in degree + proportionate to his vanity. I think if they knew the work and the terror + that goes with even a grasp at it, they would not make so free with it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + September 30th. + </p> + <p> + I wait—I wait for The Captive. I do all these other things—I + read, I think, I study—but all the while I am merely passing the + time. I am waiting for The Captive to win me the way. All my life hangs on + that, I can do nothing else but pray for that—pray for it and yearn + for it! + </p> + <p> + —Yes—and do you know it?—I am sinking down every day! + Down, down! The Captive is my high-water mark; where I was when I wrote + that I shall never come again in my life—until I am given my freedom + and new courage, and can set to work to toil as I did then! + </p> + <p> + Tell me not about future books, foolish publishers! I have told you I put + all that I had and all that I was into that book! And by that book I stand + or I fall. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + October 3d. + </p> + <p> + Their month is up. I walked down there to-day and saw them. “The + manuscript is now being read—we are awaiting a second report.” + </p> + <p> + A second! That made my heart go like mad. “Does that mean that the first + is favorable?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “It means that we are interested in it,” the man answered; “we will let + you know shortly.” + </p> + <p> + Oh this waiting, this waiting! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + October 8th. + </p> + <p> + Ah, God! I came home from the Park tonight, and I saw something that made + my heart go down like lead. It hurt me so that I cried out! + </p> + <p> + My manuscript! It was back again! + </p> + <p> + O Christ! How the sight of it hurt me! There was a letter with it, and my + hand shook as I opened it: + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “We are returning you the manuscript of The Captive by messenger herewith, + regretting exceedingly that we can not make you a publishing offer upon + it.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Is not this awful? Oh, it is terrible! It is beyond belief! A whole month + gone, and only a note like that to show for it! Four weeks of yearning and + hoping—of watching the mail in agony—of struggling and toiling + to forget! And then a note like this! + </p> + <p> + Oh, it drives me wild! I sat to-night in a chair motionless, forgetting + that I was hungry, forgetting everything. I looked to the future; I had a + feeling that I do not think I ever had in my life before—a horrible, + black, yawning despair—a thing so fearful that it took my breath + away. Suppose you were standing on a bridge over an abyss, and that + suddenly it gave way, and in one dreadful instant you realized that you + were going down—down like a flash—and that nothing could save + you! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + So it is to be this, so this is to be my life! I am to send this book to + publisher after publisher, and have it come back like this! And meanwhile + to spend my time alternating between this room—and the + wholesale-paper business! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Yes, I am getting to see the truth! I am a helpless atom, struggling to + survive—a glimmering light in the darkness—and I am going out! + I am losing—and what shall I do! Who will save me—who will + help me? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I was talking to a friend yesterday; he predicted just what happened. + “Make one rule,” he said, “expect nothing of the world. When you send out + a manuscript, <i>know</i> that it is coming back!—Otherwise you go + mad.” + </p> + <p> + But I should go mad <i>that</i> way. Why, what am I to do? How am I to + work unless I can get free? I can not live a single day unless I have that + hope. And if these blind creatures that make money out of books keep on + sending my poem back—why, it will kill me—it will turn me into + a fool! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + October 9th. + </p> + <p> + I did not go to bed last night until nearly daylight. I was desperate—I + was crazy with perplexity. This thing had never occurred to me as the + wildest possibility. + </p> + <p> + I would pace the floor for hours; and then again sink into a stupor. “They + send it back! They don't want it!”—I kept on muttering.—And, + poor fool that I am, I had pictured to myself how they would read it. I + saw the publisher himself glancing at a line of it by chance, and then + rushing on. I saw him declaiming it with excited eyes—as I used to + declaim it! Poor fool! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Well, I made another desperate attempt. I wrote last night to + another poet that I respect—(the list is not very long). I wrote in + the heat of my despair—I told him the whole story. I said that I was + crying for the judgment of some one who had love and enthusiasm; some one + who had another idea than making money out of it. I told him that I knew + he had many such requests, but that he never had one from a man who had + worked as I had. I pleaded that he need only read a few lines—I + begged him to let me hear from him at once. + </p> + <p> + —And now I shall wait. I can't do anything else but wait! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + October 10th. + </p> + <p> + I tried to read a novel to-day, but I could not fix my attention—I + could not do anything. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + October 11th. + </p> + <p> + “I answer your letter at once as you ask me to. In the first place let me + assure you of my sympathy. You are at a stage at which all poets—or + nearly all—have to pass. Do not let yourself be disheartened—keep + at it—and if you work as you write you will come out the victor in + the end. + </p> + <p> + “As to my reading the book, you must believe what I tell you—that I + am simply crowded. I have no time to explain, but I could not possibly do + it now, nor can I tell you when I could. Go ahead and try the publishers—there + are enough of them. And take my advice—do not go on clinging to that + book—do not pin all your hope to that—go on—go on! Maybe + it <i>is</i> young and exaggerated—what of it? Go on!—Meanwhile + your circumstances seem to you hard—but in future years when you + look back at them you will see, as all men see, that it was in that + struggle that you got your strength.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is a lie! It is a lie! It is silly cant—it is brutal stupidity! + What, you try to tell me that it is in contest with these degradations—these + horrors—that I am to find my enthusiasm and my hope! Am I a dog that + you must kick me to my task?—It is a lie, I say—it is a lie! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + If you could not find time to read my work, very well; but you did not + have to sugar the pill with silly platitudes such as those. “Go on, go + on!” My God, what a mockery! Is it not to go on that I am panting day and + night—is it not with the hunger to go on that I am mad?—You + fool—do you think I wrote to you because I wanted some one to admire + me—because I had the need of praise and encouragement in my work? + Give me a year's freedom—give me two hundred dollars—and I'll + show you how much I care for your praise. + </p> + <p> + But then you chain me here to your torture stake, and bid me “Go on! Go + on!” + </p> + <p> + —And it is in that struggle that I am to get my strength! That + sentence burns in my blood, it stings me! What is this struggle that you + prate about, anyway? And what do you mean by “getting my strength?” Did I + get my strength to write The Captive that day when those fishwives moved + in next door to me? Did I get my strength to dream of my new work that day + when I was chasing after an express-driver to save a quarter? Do I get it + now when I am sitting here panting and ill with a headache, and with + despair, and with lack of food? Damn such asininity, I say! + </p> + <p> + What do you mean, I cry—what do you mean? Would it have helped Kant + to solve the problems of the universe to have had a swarm of mosquitoes + buzzing about his face? Would it have helped Beethoven to compose his + symphonies to have had a dance hall over his head? What ghastly farce it + is! That a poet is helped to realize his dreams and his joys in this + hellish, reeking, market-place of a city! Why, I tell you, sir, that every + hour that I have lived in it I have known that I have paid out unmeasured + powers of my soul! And I know now, as every other poet knows, that when I + am out of it I come with what pittance of strength I have been able to + save from the horrible ordeal. Do you think that I am a fool that I do not + know what inspires me and what degrades me? Why, sir, I sit here and watch + my spirit wither like a frost-bitten plant! + </p> + <p> + Such things bring tears of indignation into my eyes. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —As a matter of simple reference, if any one wants to know what I + imagine helps a poet—it is to live in the woods, to think and to + dream, to read books and hear music, to eat wholesome food—and, + above all, to escape from hot asphalt streets, cable-car gongs, and + flaring advertisements of soaps and cigars. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + October 12th. + </p> + <p> + I had an adventure to-day. I woke up with a headache, dull, sick, + discouraged. I cared no more about anything. I got out The Captive and + made ready to take it to the publishers. + </p> + <p> + And then I thought I would read a little of it. + </p> + <p> + I sat down in the corner—I forgot the publishers—I sat reading—reading—and + my heart beat fast, and my hands shook, and all my soul rose in one hymn + of joy! + </p> + <p> + Oh world, do your worst, I do not care! You may turn me off—but the + gates of heaven are open! I will go on—I will bear anything—bear + all things! I will wait and live and learn meanwhile, knowing with all my + soul what this book is and what it must bring. So long as I can read it, I + can wake my soul again. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is at the publishers'. I will read books meantime and be happy. + </p> + <p> + I saw a manuscript clerk this time. She was very airy. I fear I am a + sad-looking poet—my buttonholes are beginning to wear out. “We never + read manuscripts out of turn,” she said. “It will take them three or four + weeks.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Yes, good poet, that is my answer to you. I can not take your + advice—I will cling to my book—I will pin all my hopes to it! + I will toil and strive for it, I will haunt men with it, I will shout it + from the housetops. No other book—no future book—<i>this</i> + book! It is a great book—a great book—it is—it <i>is</i>! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I am not ignorant of the price it costs to do that; it is my fate that I + have to pay it. I can see, for instance, how Wordsworth paid it—Wordsworth, + our greatest, our noblest poet since Milton. He had his sacred + inspiration, and the world laughed at it; and so, grimly, systematically, + he set to work to teach them—to say to all men—to say to + himself—to say day and night—“It <i>is</i> poetry! It is <i>great</i> + poetry! It is—<i>it is</i>!” + </p> + <p> + And of course at last he made them believe him; and when they believed + him, he—Wordsworth—was a matter-of-fact, self-centered, dull + and poor old man. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —It all rests with you, good world! How long must I stand here and + knock at the door? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + October 18th. + </p> + <p> + I am reading, reading—and trying to forget meanwhile! When I get + through my long list of histories I shall go back to my Greek dramatists + again. My Greek is getting better now—I expect to have a happy time + with Aristophanes.—He is the funniest man that ever lived, + Aristophanes. + </p> + <p> + Then I am coming back to read the French novelists. There are many of them + I do not know. (I do not expect to like them—I do not like + Frenchmen.) + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + October 22d. + </p> + <p> + I was glancing to-day over a volume of Shelley's, and the memory of old + glories thrilled in me. Ah, let me not forget what Shelley was to me in my + young struggling days! Let me not forget while I am wrestling with a dull + world—let me not forget what a poet is to young men hungering for + beauty! Let me not forget! + </p> + <p> + Yes, it is to such that my appeal is, it is by such that I will be judged! + It is for such that I toil! For hearts upon whom the cold world has not + laid its hand! For the poets and the seekers of all ages! Oh come to me, + poets and seekers of all ages—dwell in my memory and strengthen my + soul! That I go not down altogether—that I be not overcome by the + dull things about me! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + These thoughts are not becoming to a reader of history. But I am not a + good reader of history—the old beasts are still growling within me. + Something starts a longing in me—I cry out that I am getting dull, + that I am going down, that I am putting off—I, who never put off + before! And so the old storms rise and the great waves come rolling again! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + October 25th. + </p> + <p> + I read that over just now. Yes, it is this that I dread. I dread the habit + of not striving! When that becomes my habit it is my death! And here I + sit, day by day—doing just the thing I dread! “Let me go <i>now</i>!” + something shouts in me. “<i>Now</i>—or I shall never go at all!” + </p> + <p> + Oh, if I could find some word to tell men the terror of that thought! + </p> + <p> + —It is my life—that is what it is! To obey this thing within + me, to save this thing within me, to <i>find</i> this thing within me—that + is my life! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is a demon thing—it is a thing that has lifted me up by the hair + of my head and shaken me—that has glared at me with the wild eyes of + a beast—that has beaten me like a storm of wind and struck me down + upon the ground! It shakes me now—it shakes me all the time—it + makes me scream with pain—incoherently, frantically. “Oh save me!—Spare + me!—Let me go!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I rave, you say—yes, I know. That is because I can not say what I + feel. But what matters it? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Sometimes I say to myself, “I put all that in The Captive, and men have + not heard it! And now, what can I do that they <i>will</i> hear—shall + I have to go out in the streets and scream? Or what other desperate thing + is there?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Mark this, oh you world that I can not make hear me! Some desperate + thing I shall do—I will not sit here and be respectable always! + </p> + <p> + —I wonder what locusts taste like, and just where one could find + wild honey. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + October 29th. + </p> + <p> + I sang a song to-day—a mad, mad song! I wish I could bring it back. + It came to me unexpectedly, while I was kneeling by the bed, thinking. + </p> + <p> + I have forgotten it all now—one always forgets his best songs. I + have not a line of this one, except the chorus: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For I am lord of a thousand dollars! +</pre> + <p> + So it is that my best songs go. I can count them on my fingers. But I have + not yet learned how precious they are—that is why I lose them. + </p> + <p> + —Do you remember that time on the great cliffs by the ocean? There + was nothing left but the ending again— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh bear me away in thy bosom, + Thou wind of the mountain high! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + November 2d. + </p> + <p> + I am not always as I write here—I am not always angry. I have my + tender moments, when I see my woe as the world's woe—above all the + poverty. Oh let me always have a tender heart for the poor! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + November 6th. + </p> + <p> + I have a distant relative in this city, an old gentleman who belongs to + clubs and is what is known as a “man of the world.” He has quite a sense + of humor—is famous for good stories. He told me that he was + interested in me—that he would be glad to find a place for me in + life, if I would only get over my youthful follies. It has been years + since I saw him, but I can still hear him. + </p> + <p> + The last words he ever said to me were these—said with his quiet, + amused smile: “Never mind, my boy, leave it to time. You needn't argue + with me—just leave it to time, and it'll come out all right.” + </p> + <p> + Never have I sunk into a fit of despair that I have not thought of that; + and the quiet smile has become the sneer of an imp. It has become all the + world watching me, and knowing full well the issue; wise world! + </p> + <p> + That memory has never yet lost its power to make me grip my hands + suddenly. “So! And my life has no other purpose, then, than to point a + moral for a rich clubman!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Leave it to time! Leave it to time! O God, what a sentence that is—so + savage—and so true! Leave it to the long weary days that come one + after another—that never tire—that never are beaten—that + never are less—never faster—never slower—that wear you + out as water wears a stone! Leave it to time! Say nothing, fear nothing; + leave it to time! Leave it to the hours of dulness, the hours of sickness, + the hours of despair! Leave it to failure piled upon failure, to insult + piled upon insult, to rebuff upon rebuff, to sneer upon sneer! Leave it to + the endless, never-ceasing sight of ugliness; the endless, never-ceasing + sight of selfishness; of pettiness, emptiness, heartlessness, hatefulness! + Leave it to heat and to cold, to dust and to dirt, to hunger and penury, + to headache and heartache, and bitter, bitter loneliness! Leave it to + time! Leave it to time!—<i>Oh my Father in heaven!</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + November 8th. + </p> + <p> + —What am I doing? I am reading books full of facts—I am + reading books that do not make me wretched. I am <i>not</i> reading + poetry. + </p> + <p> + I am leaving it to time! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + November 10th. + </p> + <p> + It has been four weeks yesterday! I have been expecting to hear from the + last publishers every day for a week. I have been trembling while I + watched each mail. I have more than a hope that these publishers will take + it—they publish a deal of poetry. + </p> + <p> + But I have been practising my friend's plan, I have been saying to myself + all day: “You might as well know that it is coming back. What is the use + of trying to deceive yourself?” + </p> + <p> + It has been four months since I finished The Captive! If I had known then + what I know now, I do not believe I could ever have written a line of it. + </p> + <p> + What do I know <i>now</i>? + </p> + <p> + —I know more than I care to own to myself. There is a deadly growth + taking root in the depths of my soul. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + November 13th + </p> + <p> + It is two months to-day since I gave up my last place. I have gotten along + on just three dollars a week, including everything. I find it is not + possible to do better than that, there are so many odds and ends one + needs. I have spent twenty-seven dollars. I have twenty-nine dollars. That + means I can try two, or possibly three, publishers—after this one. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + November 16th. + </p> + <p> + My method did make it easier after all. The letter came this morning. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “We have read with care the manuscript of The Captive which you have + offered us. We are pleased to be able to tell you that we have found it a + very fine piece of work, but we are sorry to say that our previous + experience with publications of this character does not lead us to believe + that we could make a success of it. + </p> + <p> + “We are holding MS. subject to your order.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I did a desperate thing to-day—two of them. First I had to go and + get the manuscript, so I asked to see the publisher. I sat down and looked + straight into his face and said: “How is a man who is trying to write what + is fine to keep alive if the publishers won't publish what he writes?” + </p> + <p> + He was very kind—he seemed to be interested. He explained that a + publisher who published books that the public did not want would be driven + out of business in a year. Then he said he knew many who were facing the + same problem as I; that there was nothing to do but write for the + magazines and the papers, and that it was a bitter shame that society made + no provision for such men. “Your work is as noble and sincere as work can + be,” he said, “but I do not believe that you will find a publisher in this + country to undertake it, unless there be one who feels wealthy enough to + do it as a service to literature and a labor of love.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That made me turn white. I got my manuscript and I went out on the street, + and the houses reeled about me. “So,” I said, “and that settles it!” + </p> + <p> + As I walked along I stared into the future. It seemed very clear all of a + sudden. + </p> + <p> + I thought it all out. “No one will publish The Captive,” I said, “and no + one would heed it if it were published. Therefore I have but one question + to face, Have I the strength to go on, living as I have lived, distracted + and tormented as I have been—and still piling up new emotions in my + soul, daring new efforts, reaching new heights, producing new books? I can + have no idea that my second work will be any more available than my first; + on the contrary, I know that it would be just what The Captive is, only + more so. Therefore, perhaps it will be ten years—perhaps it will be + twenty years—before men begin to pay any heed to what I have + written! And so there is the question, Have I the strength to go on in + that way—have I the strength to face that future?” + </p> + <p> + Then I grew faint and had to lean against a railing. <i>I knew that I + could not do that!</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is no question of what I will do! It is a question of what I <i>can</i> + do! I am weakened and sick with the yearning that I have in me already. My + last “business” experience drove me mad. And I am to go on, I am to rouse + new hunger, new passion, new agony in my soul! Why, the work that I have + dreamed of next is so hard and so far-away that I hardly dared even + whisper it! It would take years and years of toiling! And I am to do it + here in this seething city—to do it while I sell wholesale-paper—to + do it while I am sick for lack of food! I can not do it! I <i>can</i> not! + </p> + <p> + I went home, and I was crazy; so it was that I did my second desperate + thing. + </p> + <p> + I sat down and wrote a letter to Mr. ——. I wrote a letter—I + can not see how it could fail to stir the soul of any man. I told him how + I had toiled—I told him how for four long months I had waited in + agony—I told him what the publishers had said to me. I begged him—I + implored him—for the sake of the unuttered message that cried out + day and night in my soul—not to throw the letter aside—to read + it—to give me a chance to talk to him. I said: “I will live in a + hut, I will cook my own food, I will wear the clothes of a day laborer! If + I can only be free—if I can only be free to be an artist! I could do + it, all of it, for two hundred dollars a year; and I could win the battle, + I know, if I had but three years. I am desperate as I write to you—I + look ahead and I can see only ruin; and not ruin for myself—I do not + mind that—but ruin for my art! I can tell you what that means to me + in but one way—I ask you to read my book. I have put all my soul + into that book—I will stake my all upon it. If you will only read + it, you will see what I mean—you will see why I have written you + this letter. You will see that it is not a beggar's letter, but a high + challenge from an artist's soul.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + So there is one chance more. I do not see how he can refuse, and if he + will only read the manuscript, I will be safe, I think. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + November 20th. + </p> + <p> + I have done nothing but wait for four days, but I have not heard from him + yet. To-day I made up my mind that I would take the manuscript to another + publisher's meanwhile. He is probably busy, and may not answer for a long + while; and I can get the manuscript from a publisher at any time. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + November 24th. + </p> + <p> + Still I have not heard anything from Mr. ——. My soul was full + of hope again, but it is sinking down as before. Is he not going to answer + me at all?—Can it be that he has not even read my letter? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + November 26th. + </p> + <p> + I wrote to him again to-day, inquiring. If he does not answer that, I + shall suppose his secretary threw it away. + </p> + <p> + There is nothing weakens my soul like this endless waiting. I wander + around desolate, helpless, I can not fix my mind on anything. Oh, the + shame of it! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + November 30th. + </p> + <p> + I could not give up that hope yet. It seemed to me so terrible that of all + the men of wealth in this city there should not be one willing to help me + save my message.—I wrote to-day the same letter to a clergyman who I + know is wealthy, and who I believe would be interested in my work. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 2d. + </p> + <p> + “I have received your letter, and I regret very much that I can not grant + the request you make. The pressure upon my time is such that I can not + possibly undertake to read your book. There would be no use in my doing + so, anyhow, for I tell you frankly it seems to me the situation you are in + is just what you need. My advice to you is to be a man and face it. I do + not see any reason why one person should be set free from the labor which + all of us have to share; and I assure you that you are entirely mistaken + if you think that an artist has nothing to expect but ruin from contact + with the world, and with suffering and toiling humanity.” + </p> + <p> + Isn't that a slap in the face for you? + </p> + <p> + Great God, I think that is the most insulting thing that has ever happened + to me in all my days. “Set free from the labor which all of us have to + share!”—What do you think I am—a tramp, or a loafer, you + hound! + </p> + <p> + “A high challenge from an artist's soul!” + </p> + <p> + I think I never had so much hatred in my heart in all my life as I have + to-day. Oh, my God, what a thing this world is! What stupid, blind + brutality, what hideous vulgarity! This man a <i>clergyman</i>! And this + is his faith, his nobility, his understanding! + </p> + <p> + Why, I came out of the forest with my naked heart in my hands! I came out + quivering with emotion, melting with love and with trust for all men! I + came all sensitive and raw—hungering for sympathy and kindness! And + oh, my soul!—my God!—you have beaten me and kicked me as if I + were a filthy cur! + </p> + <p> + Had I not offered up my heart for a sacrifice? Had I not burned it with + fire? Had I not made all my being one consecration? And all for men, for + men! For men I had torn myself—lashed myself—killed myself—for + men I had forgotten what self was—yes, literally that—forgotten + what self was! So little self had I left that I was willing to ask favors! + So much consecration had I, so much trust, that I would beg! I had wept—I + had suffered—I had starved! I had dreamed and sung, toiled until I + set fire to my very brain! And you have beaten me and kicked me as if I + were a filthy cur! + </p> + <p> + Those thoughts turn my whole soul into one wild curse! Have done with + laying bare your heart to men, have done with telling your life to men! + Why should you go on trying to be a poet, go on putting your secret soul + into books, to be spurned at by the rabble? Your soul is your own—it + is your God's—and what have the rabble to do with it! And all its + tenderness! all its shrinking ecstasy! all its holiest consecration!—You + will take them out to sell them to the rabble! + </p> + <p> + When will you get back into yourself, you fool? When will you have learned + your lesson, and let this hellish world boot you out of its way no more? + Let ever any man know a gleam of your heart again!—see one trace of + your joy! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —And I came to it on my knees—to this world—crouching, + cringing, begging! Oh, oh!—I scream it—Oh! + </p> + <p> + —And after that I sank down by the bed and hid my face and sobbed: + “Oh, Shelley! Oh, my Shelley!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 3d. + </p> + <p> + —I saw myself a business man to-day, clearing a path for myself! But + it does not last—I am not that kind of a man. My folly is my being—rest + assured that I shall climb back to the heights again where I am willing to + bear any insult. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + But it will be a long time before I write any more letters. I have come to + understand the world's point of view. + </p> + <p> + I suppose busy men get thousands of letters from cranks; they will get no + more from me. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 5th. + </p> + <p> + I was reading an essay on Balzac to-day. I read about Balzac's fondness + for <i>things</i>; and I put the book down and spent an hour of + perplexity. I fear I am a very narrow person in my sympathies and + understandings. Why should a man care about <i>things</i>! About all sorts + of houses and furniture, and pictures, and clothes, and jewels! + </p> + <p> + I can understand a man's caring about love and joy and aspiration. But <i>things</i>! + I can understand a child's caring about things, or a fool's caring; I see + millions of such; but an artist? A thinker? A <i>man</i>? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I am reading novels nowadays—reading all sorts of things that <i>entertain</i>. + I have not read a poem for a long time, I have no interest in reading + unless I can <i>go</i> with it. + </p> + <p> + I have been studying some of the French novelists—some of Maupassant + yesterday. What a strange creature is a Frenchman! A nervous, hysterical, + vain, diseased creature! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “The Gallic disease!” Let that be a phrase. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The Gallic disease is this: to see only one thing in life, to know only + one purpose, to understand only one pleasure; to have every road lead to + that, every thought, every phrase. To know that every character in a book + is thinking it; to know that every man who is introduced is looking for a + woman! And that as soon as he finds her, they must forthwith—whatever + be their age, rank, character, and position at the moment—begin to + burn with unclean desires! + </p> + <p> + That is what one might call the <i>convention</i> of French fiction. It + gets very monotonous when you are used to it; it takes all of the interest + out of the story. For there is but one ending to such a story. + </p> + <p> + One's whole being is lowered by contact with that incessant animal appeal. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 8th. + </p> + <p> + I have discovered another trouble—as if I did not have enough! I am + to suffer from indigestion! It plagues me continuously—I can not do + anything for an hour after a meal, no matter what simplest thing I have + eaten. + </p> + <p> + And so all through my life I am to be hindered in my work by having to + wrestle with this handicap! Just as if I had not been a clean man, but + some vulgar <i>bon vivant</i>. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 10th. + </p> + <p> + This is my fifth publisher. They said they thought it would take two + weeks, but it has been three already, and they have not even answered my + letter of inquiry. I see you can put no reliance on them in the matter of + time. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 11th. + </p> + <p> + In two days more it will be three months since I gave up my situation. I + count my little hoard day by day, as a castaway might, or a besieged + garrison. I have begun to try to get along on cheap foods again—(that + is the reason of my indigestion). Yesterday I burned a mess of oatmeal, + and now I shall live on burned oatmeal for I know not how long. I was + cooking a large quantity to save time. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I count my store. I have come the last month on eleven dollars! I have + been doing my own washing, and reading the newspapers at a library. I buy + nothing but food—chiefly bread and milk and cereals. Why is it that + everything that is cheap has no taste? + </p> + <p> + Sometimes I am angry because I can not have anything good to eat, but I + only write my dignified sentiments here. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I am getting down to the limit again; I sit shuddering. I shall have to + get some work again; I can not bear to think of it! What shall I do? If I + go to that slavery again it will be the death of my soul, for I have no + hope, and I can not fight as I did before. + </p> + <p> + And I can only try one or two publishers more. Oh, take it! Take it! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 14th. + </p> + <p> + I went down to see them to-day. The manuscript mislaid—very sorry—had + written readers to examine it at once—expecting report any instant—will + write me—etc. + </p> + <p> + And so I walked home again. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Yes, elegant ladies and gentlemen, I am a poor poet; and my overcoat is + out at one elbow, and I am sick. I look preoccupied, too; would you like, + perhaps, to know what is in my mind? I will tell you five minutes of it + to-day: + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “Bang! Bang! Look out of the way there, you fool!—Use Casey's Corn + Cure!—Extry! Extry! Evening Slop-Bucket and Swill-Barrel, six + o'clock edition!—And it was at seventy-two and the market—Cab! + Cab!—Try Jones's Little Five-cent Cigars!—Brown's Élite + Tonsorial and Shaving Parlors!—Have you seen Lucy Legs in the High + Kicker? The Daily Hullabaloo says—Shine, boss?—But she + wouldn't cut it on the bias, because she thought—Read the Evening + Slop-Bucket! Five hundred million copies sold every year! We rake all the + mud-gutters and it only costs you one cent! The Slop-Bucket is the paper + of the people!—Move along, young man, don't block up the passage! + Bang! Bang! Hurry up there, if you want to get aboard—Come along, my + honey-baby girl! (hand-organ)—If you will try Superba Soap—Simpkins's + Whisky is all the rage!—Isaac Cohenstein's Cash Clothing Store, + Bargains in Gents' Fall Overcoats! Look at these! Walk in, sir! Cash! + Cash!—The most elegant topaz brooches, with little—Read the + Daily Swill-Barrel!—Extry! Extry! He Cut Her Throat with a + Carving-Knife!—Bang! Bang!—Toodles' Teething Sirup—Look + at my elegant hat with the flamingo on it!—O'Reilly's Restaurant—walk + in and gorge yourself, if you can pay us. Walk in!—Get out of the + way there!—Have you read the Pirate's Pledge! The Literary Sensation—Cash! + Cash!—Just come and see our wonderful display of newly imported—Smith + and Robinson, Diamonds and Jewelry, latest and most elegant—Use + Tompkins's Tooth Powder! <i>Use Tompkins's Tooth Powder!!</i> USE + TOMPKINS'S—Read the Evening Slop-Bucket! We rake all the + mud-gutters!—Murphy's Wines and Liquors—Try Peerless Cocktails—Levy's + High-Class Clothing Emporium!—Come in and buy something—anything—we + get down on our knees—we beg you!—Cab, sir? Cab!—Bargains! + Bargains!—Cash! Cash!—<i>Yein, yein, yein</i>!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + So it keeps up for hours! And I put my fingers in my ears and run. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 17th. + </p> + <p> + To-day I happened to read in one of the magazines an article on a literary + subject by a college professor of some reputation. It was a fine piece of + work, I thought, very true; and I got to thinking of him, wondering if <i>he</i> + might not be the man. + </p> + <p> + I have no hope that these last publishers will take the book, and so I + made up my mind to write to him. + </p> + <p> + I wrote what I had written to all the others; I told him how I had + struggled, and how I was living. Perhaps he is less busy than the rest. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 19th. + </p> + <p> + The manuscript came back to-day. The letter was simple—the old, + meaningless form. I am waiting to hear from the professor. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 20th. + </p> + <p> + “I reply to your letter somewhat against my rule—chiefly because of + what you tell me about your circumstances. I will read your manuscript if + you still think it worth while to send it to me; but I must tell you at + the outset that I consider the chances very unfavorable, as regards my + finding the work what you believe it. I assure you that the literary + situation is not in the least what you picture it; the book-market was + never more wide-awake than it is now, the publishers are all as eager as + possible for the least sign of new power; and besides that, the magazines + afford outlet—not only for talent, but for mediocrity as well. You + are entirely mistaken in your idea that literary excellence is not + equivalent to commercial availability. If you could write one paragraph as + noble as the average of Dr. ——, or one stanza as excellent as + the average of Professor ——, you would find an instant and + hearty welcome. + </p> + <p> + “Moreover, I believe that you are entirely wrong in your ideas of what you + need. You will not make yourself a great artist by secluding yourself from + men—go out into the world, young man, go out into the world and see + what men are! + </p> + <p> + “As I say, it is not my rule to answer letters such as yours. The cry of + the suffering is in the air every instant, if we heeded it we should never + get our work done. But I am willing to read your poem, if this letter has + not chilled your ardor.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Last night I read The Captive again, and it brought the tears into + my eyes; and so my ardor is not chilled, good professor—and I will + send you the poem. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —But as for going out into the world—I think I am learning + what men are pretty fast! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 23d. + </p> + <p> + My poem stirs me, but it does not last. My whole habit of mind seems to me + to be changed—a deep, settled melancholy has come over me; I go + about mournful, haunted. I read—but all the time I am as if I had + forgotten something, and as if half my mind were on that. I have lost all + my ardor—I look back at what I was, and it brings the tears into my + eyes. It is gone! It is gone! It will not ever come back! + </p> + <p> + And each day I am drawing nearer to the rapids—to the ghastly + prospect of having to drag myself back to work! + </p> + <p> + Oh my God, what shall I do?—tell me anything, and I will do it! Give + me a hope—any hope—even a little one! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The last day I can stretch my miserable pittance to is the first of + February. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 25th. + </p> + <p> + Christmas Day—and I have no news, except that I am hungry, and that + I am sitting in my room with a blanket around me, and with a miserable + cold in my head. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is the agony of an unheated room, an old acquaintance of mine, that + comes with each bitter winter. I live in a house full of noisy people and + foul odors; and so I keep my door shut while I try to read, and so my room + is like a barn. + </p> + <p> + I could not accomplish anything to-day—I could not read. I felt like + a little child. I wanted nothing but to hide my head on some one's + shoulder and sob out all my misery. + </p> + <p> + I am nothing but a forlorn child, anyway, lost in this great, cruel city. + </p> + <p> + —I am not much at pathos; but it was Christmas night, and I had one + kind of cold in my head, and another kind in my feet. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 27th. + </p> + <p> + I tell you that my salvation was my impatience! My salvation was that I + wasted not an instant, that I fought—that I fought! And each hour + that I am forced to submit—that I am forced to endure and be still—that + is an hour of ruin! It was those fearful seven weeks that began it—and + now I shall have to go back to that again! Oh my God, how can I bear it? + What can I do? The pain of it heaps itself up in my soul—I am + desperate—I will go mad! Tell me what to do! Tell me what to do! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 28th. + </p> + <p> + I had a strange adventure to-night, a long, long adventure. I was free for + once in my life! Free and glorious—and delivered from earth! It + happened all in a dream; I sat crouching in the corner, thinking. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I had been walking down the street during the day and had seen a flower in + a window, and had been made happy for a minute, thinking of last spring. + My step had grown light, and I had forgotten the street around me. But + then I had heard two little girls, sitting in a doorway, whisper + excitedly: “Oh, look—he's laughing!” And instantly all my soul had + shrunk up, and my dream had fled, and I had hurried past and turned the + corner. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Is it not a strange thing? I mused—this as I sat by the window—that + deep instinct of secrecy—that cowardice! Why is it that I would die + before I would let any man see the life of my soul? What are these people + to me? I know them not at all, and never shall. But I crouch back—I + put on a mask—yes, think of it, I even <i>give</i> up the life of my + soul, rather than that any man should see me acting differently than + himself! + </p> + <p> + Somehow all at once that thought took hold of me with an overwhelming + power—I saw the truth as I had never seen it before in my life. I + saw how we live in society; and how social convention and triviality have + us in such a grasp that it never even dawns upon us that the laws it + dictates are not eternal and necessary! “You must be dignified, and calm, + and commonplace,” say social convention and triviality. + </p> + <p> + —But I am <i>not</i> dignified—I am <i>not</i> calm!—I + am <i>not</i> commonplace! + </p> + <p> + Well, then, you must <i>seem</i> so. You must walk quietly; you must gaze + around indifferently; you must keep a vacant face; you must try to look + innocent of a thought. If you can't manage that—if you really want + to think—why then you must flee away to the woods, where you are + sure no one will come upon you and find you out. And if you can't do that—why + then there's nothing for you to do but give up thinking, give up living, + become like everybody else! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That idea shook me all of a sudden, it made me quite wild—it made me + dig my nails into my hands. It was the truth—I saw that—it was + the truth! Here I was, a miserable, pining, starving wretch—and for + no reason in the world but that I was a coward, but that I was a coward—a + blind fool! Because I had not let the empty-headed and sodden, the placid + and smug, the fat and greasy citizens of our great metropolis, tell <i>me</i>—the + servant of the muses—how I ought to look, how I ought to act, what I + ought to be! The very breath of my body is prayer—is effort—is + vision; to dwell in my own light, to behold my own soul, to know my own + truth—that is my one business in this world! To assert my own force—to + be what I like—that is my duty, that is my hope, my one hope in all + the world! And I do not, I can not, I dare not do it! I am sick and + starved and dying, and I crouch in corners while I pray for help, and if a + gleam of sunshine comes from a flower to me, it goes because a child sees + me laughing! + </p> + <p> + I sat burning with the rage of that. What am I to do? I cried. How is it + to be changed? Shall I live my life in spite of all men? + </p> + <p> + And then I heard one of my devils—my commonplace devil—say, + “But people would think you were crazy!” + </p> + <p> + “What do I care what people think?” I burst out. + </p> + <p> + Then came another of my devils—my facetious devil—and he made + me laugh. “By all means,” said he, “let us get together a few eager poets, + and establish a Society for the Propagation of Lunacy. Let us break down + these conventions and confound the eyes of the fat and greasy citizens, + and win freedom for our souls at any price. Let us wear strange clothes, + and recite our poetry upon the streets. Let us—” + </p> + <p> + But I was not in a mood for my facetious devil—I flung him aside and + sprang up and fled out to the street (this in thought, of course). What do + I need with others? I exclaimed—with others to help me dare? This + has to do with <i>me</i>! And it has to do with me <i>now</i>—with + this moment! Am I to give up and let myself go down for such a phantom as + this! For such a dread as that wooden-headed men and women will think me + “queer”! Am I to stay in a prison such as that—to be bound by a + chain such as <i>that</i>? I—I, who go about trying to persuade + myself that this world is nothing to me—that this world is nothing + to any one—that it is a phantom—that the soul is truth! When I + say that the soul is truth, do I mean it? Do I <i>mean</i> it? And if I do + mean it, will I act by it—will I act by it now—<i>now</i>, + while I see it? Will I fling off this nightmare, will I tear my way + through these wrappings that have choked me? Will I say, once and for all + time, that I will be myself—that I will live my life—and that + no man shall stop me—that no man shall make me afraid? Will I take + the battle upon me and win it—win it <i>now</i>—fling off the + last rag of it—put the world straight behind me—<i>now</i>—<i>here</i>? + Spread the wings of my soul and take my flight into the far spaces of + myself! And dwell there—stay there—hold to the task and give + it not up though it kill me—now—<i>now</i>! + </p> + <p> + These thoughts took hold of me—they made my brain reel—and I + cried aloud in excitement. I had not been so much awake since the day I + came out of the woods! I said the word—I said it—the mad word + that I had not heard for six long months—that I had not heard since + I wrote the last lines of my poem and came back to the haunts of men. And + I clinched my hands, and stamped upon the ground, and shouted: “Come on! + Come on!”—to the legions of my spirit. And it was like the taking + flight of a great swarm of birds within me—a rushing of wings and a + surging upward, a singing for joy as of a symphony. And there was singing + in my soul, the surge of it caught me—and I waved my arms and went + striding on, shouting still, “Come on! Come on!— + </p> + <p> + “Now! <i>now</i>! We will have it out with them—here—<i>here</i>! + We will fight our fight and win it, and they shall not turn us back—no, + by God, they shall not! And they may take it as they please—my soul + is free—<i>free</i> once again! Away! <i>Away!</i>” + </p> + <p> + And I felt the breeze of the mountains about me, and heard the rushing of + the storm-wind and the trampling of the thunder. There awoke the old rush + in my heart, the old Valkyrie music that flies over the forests and + mountains. And I laughed as I sang it; I heard the war-horses neighing, + and yelled to them—faster and faster—higher and higher—away + from earth and all men!— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And then suddenly I felt some one seize me by the shoulder and shake me, + and heard a gruff voice say: “Here! Here! What's the matter with you?” And + I stared, half-dazed. It was a big policeman, and around me I saw a sea of + staring faces, wild-eyed children, women gazing in fright, boys jeering; + and the windows were filled with yet another crowd! + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with you?” demanded the policeman again. “Are you + drunk, or crazy!” + </p> + <p> + And then I realized. But the fire was still blazing in me, and a wild rage + whirled over me. “Then it is by this that I am to be stopped!” I gasped. + “By <i>this</i>! It is not possible after all, it seems; and I'm to be + dragged back after all!—By Heaven, we'll see!” + </p> + <p> + And so I gave the cry again—the cry of the Valkyrs that is madness + to me! Do you not hear it?—and I was away again and free! + </p> + <p> + What does a man want for his soul, if it be not just to strive, and to be + resisted, and still to strive? What difference makes anything else—time, + place or conditions? I was myself again—and what else did I care + about? I felt the policeman take me by the collar and march me down the + street; but I hardly knew that—I was on the mountains, and I laughed + and sang. The very hatefulness of what was about me was my desperation—I + would make head against such things or I would die in the attempt! I would + be free!—I would live! I would live my life; and not the life of + these people about me! I would fight and win, I would hold fast my heart, + I would be true though the heavens fell! I would have it out, then and + there, as I said—I would not come back to earth until I was master + of myself. + </p> + <p> + And so when I stood in the station-house and the sergeant asked me my + name, I said: “Desire is my name, and the soul is my home!” And then + because they shook me and worried me, I stretched forth my arms and cried + out: “O God, my Father—thou who art my help and my life—thou + soul of my soul—shall I go back for these things?—Shall I fear + for these things? No, no—while I have life I will not! I will live + for the truth, I will be crushed no longer!” + </p> + <p> + They led me to a cell, and when I heard the door shut I laughed like a + madman for joy. And then—ah, then—who can tell it? They came—all + my angels and all my demons! All my muses and all my nymphs! And the bases + of the earth rocked and the heavens danced and sang; and I mounted on the + wings of the ages, and saw the joys of the systems and the dancing of the + young suns. Until I could bear it no more, and fell down and sobbed, and + cried out to my soul that it was enough, enough! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And afterward I sat there on the stone floor, and ate bread and water and + ambrosial peace; and a doctor came in to see me, and asked me who I was. + And I laughed—oh, who ever laughed like that? And I said, <i>“I am + the author of The Captive!”</i> + </p> + <p> + He left me and I sat there, shaking my head and pounding the stone floor + for joy. And I sang again, and sang again. Yes, the author of The Captive! + And captive myself, and free at last! + </p> + <p> + It was far into the night when I stopped singing; and then I lay down and + never before had I known such peace; for I had found the way—I had + seen the light—I was delivered from all fear and dulness for the + rest of my days! I was so excited I could not sleep—when I fell + asleep at last it was from sheer exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + And when they roused me the next morning I bounded to my feet like a shot, + and shouted to my soul, and was up and away through the forest like a + startled deer again! They tried their very best to catch me, but they + could not. I had not lived in the woods for nothing, I knew the paths, I + knew where the mountains were. And when they thought they had me in court, + I was on the very summits—and laughing and drunk with the mountain + air! + </p> + <p> + I have a keen sense of humor,—and of course I am never so drunk that + I do not know I'm drunk, and know just what I'm drunk about—else how + could I write poems about it? Do you think that when Shakespeare cried out + his “Blow ye winds and crack your cheeks!” he did not know just what he + was saying? Ah!—And when I saw all these queer little men about me, + staring and wondering—and so solemn!—I laughed the + inextinguishable laughter of Olympus, and shouted so that they dragged me + out of court in a hurry. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And then there came the end! They took me to the insane asylum, and I sat + down on the floor of a cell and gazed at myself in amazement and panted: + So there <i>is</i> a way you can live, after all! There <i>is</i> a way + you can make them support you! There <i>is</i> a way you can do all your + work in peace, and worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness! I could + scarcely believe it all—it took half an hour for me to realize it. + And then I shouted that I was saved!—and fell to work at shaping + that mad Song of the West Wind I had been so full of. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And then suddenly I heard a muffled voice say: “What in the dickens are + you making all that rumpus for?” And I stared about me and saw that I was + still crouching by the window in my room! And I shrank back and quivered + with rage, because I knew that I had been making a noise and that some one + out in the hall had been listening to me! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And that was the end of my long adventure. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 30th. + </p> + <p> + “I am pleased to be able to tell you that your poem is a great deal better + than I expected to find it. I am forced to write briefly by reason of + pressure of business; but you have very considerable literary gifts. The + work is clearly made whole of sincerity; it shows a considerable command + of expression, and a considerable understanding of style. It has qualities + of imagination and of emotional insight, and is obviously the fruit of a + wide reading. But besides these things, it is exactly as I expected, and + as I told you—the work is very narrow in the range of its appeal; + you can not in the least blame the publishers for declining it, because it + is true that very few people would care for it. My own judgment is hardly + capable in the matter, because I myself am not an idealist. Recording my + own opinion, I found the poem monotonous, and not especially interesting; + but then, I say that of much that some other people consider great poetry. + </p> + <p> + “My advice to you is just what it was before—that you go out into + the world and become acquainted with life. Not knowing you personally, I + could not counsel you definitely, but I should think that what would + benefit you most would be a good stiff course in plain, every-day + newspaper reporting. Newspaper reporters have many deficiencies, but at + least they learn to keep in touch with their audiences, and to write in a + way that takes hold of the people. You may not welcome this advice—but + we seldom welcome what is good for us.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I am not dead yet, and I have not lost the power of getting angry. Such + things as that do me good, they make me fight, they get all my soul in + arms. Great God, the blindness, the asininity of it! + </p> + <p> + It is enough if you can classify a man; give him a name—and then + it's all out of the way. If he have faith and fire and aspiration and + worship—and you have not—why, say that he is an idealist, and + that you are something else, and let it go at that. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 31st. + </p> + <p> + The poem came back to-day, and I trudged off to another publisher's—the + sixth. I have no hope now, however; I send it as a matter of form. + </p> + <p> + I shudder at the prospect of to-morrow's coming; for it will be just a + month more to the time I said I should have to go to work! + </p> + <p> + And New Year's day—my soul, if I had foreseen this last New Year's! + I thank Heaven for that blessing, at least. + </p> + <p> + Who are these men that I should submit to their judgments? These men and + their commonplace lives—are they not that very world out of which I + have fought my way, by the toil of nights and days?—And now I must + come back and listen to their foolish judgments about my song! + </p> + <p> + —You felt what was in it, you poor, stupid man! But it did not take + you with it, for you are not a poet; you have not kept the holy fire + burning, you are not still “strenuous for the bright reward.” And so you + found it monotonous! Some men find nature monotonous. And some men find + music monotonous. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 5th. + </p> + <p> + Two days ago I was reading Menschen und Werke, by Georg Brandes. I was + glancing over an essay on Friedrich Nietzsche, and I came upon some things + that made my heart throb:— + </p> + <p> + “This man [Nietzsche's ideal] takes willingly upon himself the sorrow of + speaking the truth. His chief thought is this: A happy life is an + impossibility; the highest that man can attain is a heroic life, a life in + which, amid the greatest difficulties, something is striven for which, in + one way or other, proves for the good of all. To what is truly human only + the true men can lift us, those who seem to have come into being through a + leap of nature, the thinkers and discoverers, the artists and producers, + and those who achieve more through their being than their doing; the + noble, the good in a great sense, those in whom the genius of the good + works. These men are the goal of history. Nietzsche formulates the + sentence 'Humanity shall labor continually at this, to beget solitary + great men—and this and nothing else is its task.'— + </p> + <p> + “Here Nietzsche has reached the final answer to his question 'What is + Culture?' For upon this rest the fundamental principles of Culture, and + the duties which it imposes. It lays upon me the duty to place myself + actively in relation to the great human ideals. Its chief thought is this: + To every one who will look for it and partake of it, it sets the task; to + labor in himself and outside of himself at the begetting of the thinker + and the artist, the truth-loving and the beauty-loving man, the pure and + good personality—and therewith at the fulfilment of nature.... + </p> + <p> + “In our day a so-called Culture institution signifies only too often an + arrangement by which the cultured, moving in closed ranks, force to one + side all those solitary and contrary ones whose striving is directed to + higher things. Also among the learned there is so far lacking, as a rule, + all sense for the genius that is coming into being, and every feeling for + the work of the contemporary and struggling soul. Therefore, in spite of + the irresistible and restless advance in all technical and specialized + fields, the conditions for the originating of the great are so little + improved that the opposition to the highly gifted has rather increased + than diminished. + </p> + <p> + “From the government the superior individuals can not expect much. It + helps them rarely when it takes them into its service, very certainly it + will help them only when it gives them full independence. Only true + Culture can prevent their early becoming weary or exhausted, and protect + them from the exasperating battle with Culture-philistinism.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Those words made my blood tingle, they made me tremble. Alone, miserable, + helpless—here was a voice at last, a friend! I dropped the book and + I went to the library, and I was back with “Also sprach Zarathustra” in an + hour. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have been reading it for two days—reading it in a state of + excitement, forgetting everything. Here is a man!—Here is a man! The + first night that I read it I kicked my heels together and laughed aloud in + glee, like a child. <i>Oh</i>, it was so fine! And to find things like + this already written, and in the world! Great heavens, it was like finding + a gold mine underneath my feet; and I have forgotten all my troubles + again, forgotten everything! I have found a man who understands me, a man + to be my friend! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I do not know what the name Friedrich Nietzsche conveys to the average + cultured American. I can only judge by my own case—I have kept pace + with our literary movements and I have read the standard journals and + reviews; but I have never come upon even a reference to Friedrich + Nietzsche, except as a byword and a jest. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I had rather live my own life than any other man's life. My own vision is + my home. But every great man's inspiration is a challenge, and until you + have mastered it you can not go on. + </p> + <p> + I speak not of poets, nor of philosophers, but of religious teachers, of + prophets; and I speak but my opinion—let every man form his own. I + say that I have read all those that men honor, and that a greater prophet + than this man has not come upon the earth in centuries. I think of Emerson + and Carlyle as the religious teachers, the prophets, of this time; and + beside this mighty spirit Emerson is a child and Carlyle a man without a + faith or an idea. I call him the John Baptist of the new Dispensation, the + first high priest of the Religion of Evolution; and I bid the truth-seeker + read well his Bible, for in it lies the future of mankind for ages upon + ages to come. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Half that I love in my soul's life I owe to the prophet of Nazareth. The + other half I owe,—not to Nietzsche, but to the new Dispensation of + which he is a priest. Nietzsche will stand alone; but he is nevertheless + the child of his age—he sings what thousands feel. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is a disadvantage to be the first man. If you are the first man you see + but half-truths and you hate your enemies. When you seek truth, truly, all + systems and all faiths of men—they are beautiful to you—born + of sorrow, and hallowed with love; but they will not satisfy you, and you + put them by. You do not let them influence you one way or the other; you + can no more find truth while you are bound to them by hatred than while + you are bound to them by love. There are dreary places in “Also sprach + Zarathustra,” narrownesses and weaknesses too; they come whenever the + writer is thinking of the evils of the hour, whenever he is gazing, not on + the vision of his soul, but on the half-truths of the men about him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + When I speak of Christ let no man think of Christianity. I speak of a + prince of the soul, the boldest, the freest, the noblest of men that I + know. With the thousand systems that mankind has made in his memory, I + have simply nothing in any way to do. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To me all morality is one. Morality is hunger and thirst after + righteousness. Morality is a quality of will. The differences that there + are between Christ and Nietzsche are differences of the intellect—where + no man is final. + </p> + <p> + The doctrine of each is a doctrine of sacrifice; with one it is a + sacrifice of love, with the other it is a sacrifice of labor. For myself, + I care not for the half-truths of any man. I said to my soul, “Shall I + cast out love for labor?” And my soul replied, “For what wilt thou labor + but love?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Moral sublimity lies in the escape from self. The doctrine of Christ is a + negation of life, that of Nietzsche an affirmation; it seems to me much + easier to attain to sublimity with the former. + </p> + <p> + It is easier to die for righteousness than to live for it. If you are to + die, you have but to fix your eyes upon your vision, and see that you do + not take them away. But the man who will <i>live</i> for righteousness—he + must plant and reap, must gather fire-wood and establish a police-force; + and to do these things nobly is not easy; to do them sublimely seems + hardly possible at all. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Twenty centuries ago the Jewish world was a little plain, and God a loving + Father. He held you in his arms, he spoke to you in every dream, in every + fantasy, in every accident. Life was very short—but a little trial—you + had only to be patient, and nothing mattered. Society did not exist—only + your neighbor existed. Knowledge did not exist, nor was it needed—the + world was to end—perhaps to-night—and what difference made all + the rest? You took no heed for the morrow—for would not your Father + send you bread? You resisted not evil—for if you died, was not that + all that you could ask? + </p> + <p> + It was with such a sweet and simple faith as this that the victory of + Jesus Christ was won. These were his ideas, and as the soul was + all-consuming with him, he lived by them and died by them, and stands as + the symbol of faith. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And now twenty centuries have gone by. And a new teacher has come to whom + also the soul is all-consuming. What ideas has <i>he</i>? And what task + does he face? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I speak not to children. I speak to men seeking truth. + </p> + <p> + In twenty centuries we have learned that God is not a Father who answers + prayers and works miracles and holds out his arms at the goal. We have + come shuddering to the awful mystery of being; strange and terrible words + have been spoken—words never to be forgotten—“phenomenon,” and + “thing-in-itself”; not knowing what these words mean, you are ignorant and + recreant to the truth; <i>knowing</i> what they mean, you tug no more at + the veil. Also we have learned that time and change are our portion, “the + plastic dance of circumstance”; we talk no more of immortality. We have + turned our hopes to the new birth of time, to the new goal of our labor, + the new parent of our love, that we name Society. + </p> + <p> + And likewise Evolution has come, which is the whole of knowledge. And we + have learned of starry systems, of the building of worlds, of the pageant + of history and the march of mind. Out of all these things has come a new + duty, which is not peace, but battle—which is not patience, but will—which + is not death, but life. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + There is no room in the world of Evolution for the doctrine of + non-resistance to evil. Non-resistance to evil is the negation of life, + and the negation of life is the negation of faith. How shall you resist + not evil when life is action and not passion? When not a morsel of food + can you touch except by the right that you are more fitted to survive than + that morsel? How when you know that you rose from the beast by resistance? + And that you stay above the beast by resistance? Will you give up the farm + land to be jungle again? Or will you teach the beasts your non-resistance? + And the trees of the forest to crowd no more your land! + </p> + <p> + It is no longer possible to build a heaven and reject the earth. Such as + life is you have to take it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And you have to live it. The huge machinery of Society is on your hands, + with all its infinite complications, its infinite possibilities of beauty + and joy. Your life is, as ever, a sacrifice; all life is, as ever, a + sacrifice; but it is a sacrifice to man—a sacrifice to the best. + Once your task was self-abnegation, and that was easy; now it is + self-assertion, and that is hard. Knowing what you are, you will dare to + live, not for your own sake, but that strength and beauty may be in the + world. Knowing what you might be, you choose infinite toil for your + portion, and in the humility of toil you find your holiest peace. Your + enemy you resist with all your soul, not for hatred of your enemy, but for + love of the right. If he were not evil he could not be your enemy; and + being evil, he has no right to be. Your conscience to you is no longer a + shame, but a joy; you think no more of infinite sin, but of infinite + virtue.—And for the rest, you do not attain perfection, and you are + not worshiped as a god; you are much troubled by trivialities, and the + battle tries your soul. But you make no truce with lies, and you never lay + down your sword; you keep your eyes upon a far goal, and you leave the + world better than you found it. When you come to die you have no fear, but + a song; for you are master of yourself, and you have learned to know that + which you are. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —And there is only to add—that whether you believe these + things or not, they are what you actually <i>do</i>. It seems to me not + desirable that one's belief should be less than one's practise. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 6th. + </p> + <p> + Has any one, at this end of the nineteenth century, a clear idea of what + the poets of the ages called <i>Inspiration</i>? If no one have, I will + describe it. With the least remainder of superstition in him a man would + scarcely be able to put aside the idea that he was merely the Incarnation, + the mouthpiece, the medium of overwhelming powers. The idea of Revelation + in the mind describes exactly the state of affairs—that suddenly, + with unspeakable certainty and fineness, something became visible and + audible, something that shakes and pervades one to the depths. One hears—he + does not seek; he takes—he does not ask who gives; like lightning + gleams out a thought, of necessity, formed without hesitation—I have + never had a choice. An ecstasy, whose colossal strain breaks in the middle + with a stream of tears, in the course of which the step becomes, + involuntary, now raging, now slow; a state in which one is completely + beside himself, with the distinctest consciousness of countless + shudderings and quiverings, even to the toes of his feet; a depth of joy + in which all that is painful and somber serves, not as a contrast, but as + conditioned, as demanded, as a necessary color in such an overflow of + light; an instinct of rhythmic relations which overleaps vast spaces of + forms; all happening in the highest degree involuntarily, but as if in a + storm of sensations of freedom, of infinity, of power, of divinity.—This + is my experience of Inspiration; I doubt not but that one must needs go + back thousands of years to find one who might say, “It is also mine.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Do you think that <i>I</i> wrote that—I, Arthur Stirling? No, I did + not write that. The man who wrote that is known to you as an atheist. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 7th. + </p> + <p> + When Zarathustra came into the next city, which lay beside the forest, he + found in that place much people gathered together in the market; for they + had been called that they should see a rope-dancer. And Zarathustra spoke + thus unto the people: + </p> + <p> + <i>“I teach ye the Over-man.</i> The man is something who shall be + overcome. What have ye done to overcome him? + </p> + <p> + “All being before this made something beyond itself: and you will be the + ebb of this great flood, and rather go back to the beast than overcome the + man? + </p> + <p> + “What is the ape to the man? A mockery or a painful shame. And even so + shall man be to the Over-man: a mockery or a painful shame. + </p> + <p> + “Man is a cord, tied between Beast and Over-man—a cord above an + abyss. + </p> + <p> + “A perilous arriving, a perilous traveling, a perilous looking backward, a + perilous trembling and standing still. + </p> + <p> + “What is great in man is that he is a bridge, and no goal; what can be + loved in man is that he is a going-over and a going-under. + </p> + <p> + “I love them that know not how to live, be it even as those going under, + for such are those going across. + </p> + <p> + “I love them that are great in scorn, because these are they that are + great in reverence, and <i>arrows of longing toward the other shore!”</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And here ended the first speech of Zarathustra. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “The air thin and clear, the danger nigh, and the spirit filled with a + joyful mischief; these things go well together. + </p> + <p> + “I will have gnomes about me, for I am merry.... + </p> + <p> + “I feel no more with you; these clouds which I see under me, these clouds + black and heavy over which I laugh—just these are your storm-clouds. + </p> + <p> + “You gaze upward if you long for exaltation. I gaze downward because I am + exalted. + </p> + <p> + “Who among you can both laugh and be exalted? + </p> + <p> + “Who climbs upon the highest mountains, he laughs at all sorrow-play and + sorrow-reality. + </p> + <p> + “Bold, untroubled, mocking, full of power—so will wisdom have us; + she is a woman and loves always but the warrior. + </p> + <p> + “You say to me: 'Life is hard to bear.' But for what had you your pride in + the morning, and in the evening your submission?... + </p> + <p> + “I would believe only in a god who knew how to dance. + </p> + <p> + “And when I saw my devil, I found him earnest, profound, deep, solemn; he + was the Spirit of Heaviness—through him fail all things. + </p> + <p> + “Not by anger, but by laughing, one kills. Up, let us kill the Spirit of + Heaviness!...” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “Free dost thou call thyself? Thy ruling thoughts will I hear, and not + that thou hast escaped a yoke. + </p> + <p> + “Art thou such a one that <i>can</i> escape a yoke? + </p> + <p> + “Free from what? What is that to Zarathustra! Clear shall your eye tell + me: free <i>to</i> what? + </p> + <p> + “Canst thou give to thyself thy good and thine evil, and hang thy will + above thee as thy law? Canst thou be thine own judge, and avenger of thy + law? + </p> + <p> + “Fearful it is to be alone with the judge and the avenger of thy law. So + is a stone flung out into empty space and into the icy breath of + isolation.— + </p> + <p> + “Dost thou know truly, my brother, the word scorn? And the pain of thy + righteousness, to be just that which thou dost scorn?...” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “As I lay in sleep a sheep ate up the ivy crown of my head—ate and + then said: 'Zarathustra is no more a scholar.' + </p> + <p> + “Said it and went strutting away, and proud. A child told it to me.... + </p> + <p> + “This is the truth. I am gone out of the house of the scholars, and have + slammed to the door behind me.... + </p> + <p> + “I am too hot, and burning with my own thoughts; oft will it take away my + breath. I must into the open and out of all dusty rooms. + </p> + <p> + “But they sit cool in cool shadows; they wish in all things to be but + spectators, and guard themselves lest they sit where the sun burns the + steps. + </p> + <p> + “Like those who stand upon the street and stare at the people who go by; + so they wait also and stare at the thoughts that others have thought. + </p> + <p> + “If one touches them with the hands, they make dust around them like + meal-sacks, and involuntarily; <i>but who could guess that their dust + comes from corn and the golden rapture of the summer fields?</i>” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “Too far away into the future I flew; a horror overcame me. And as I + looked around me, there was Time my only companion. + </p> + <p> + “Then I flew backward, homeward—and ever faster: so I came to you, + men of the present, and to the Land of Culture. + </p> + <p> + “For the first time I brought an eye for you, and good wishes; truly, with + longing in my heart I came. + </p> + <p> + “And what happened to me? Frightened as I was—I had to laugh. Never + had my eyes seen anything so color-besprinkled! + </p> + <p> + “I laughed and laughed while my foot still trembled, and my heart too: + 'Here is the home of all paint-pots!' said I. + </p> + <p> + “Painted over with fifty spots in face and limbs; so sat ye there, to my + amazement, ye men of the present!... + </p> + <p> + “Written all over with the signs of the past, and also these signs painted + over with new signs; so you have hidden yourself well from all + sign-readers!... + </p> + <p> + “All Times and Principles look piebald out of your coverings; all Customs + and Faiths speak piebald out of your features.... + </p> + <p> + “How <i>could</i> ye believe, ye color-besprinkled!—who are pictures + of everything that ever was believed!... + </p> + <p> + “Ah, whither shall I go now with my longing?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “Who are pictures of everything that ever was believed! Who are pictures + of everything that ever was believed!” I read that and I slapped my knees + and I lay back and laughed like a very Falstaff. “Pictures of everything + that ever was believed!” Ho, ho, ho! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —That is some of Nietzsche! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 8th. + </p> + <p> + To-day it snowed hard, and it occurred to me that I might add to my money. + I bought a second-hand shovel and went out to shovel snow. It is not so + bad, I said, you are out of doors, and also you can think of Nietzsche. + </p> + <p> + I made a dollar and a half, but I fear I did not think very much. My hands + were cold, for one thing, and my shoes thin, for another. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + There is nothing that brings me down like physical toil. It is madness to + believe that you can do anything else—you drudge and drudge, and + your mind is an absolute blank while you do it. It is a thing that sets me + wild with nervousness and impatience. I hate it! I hate it! + </p> + <p> + And I find myself crying out and protesting against it; and then I see + other men not minding it, and I hear the words of my dear clergyman + friend: “The labor which all of us have to share.” So I say to myself: + Perhaps I am really an idler then! A poor unhappy fool that can not face + life's sternness, that is crying out to escape his duty! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That I could say such a thing—O God, what sign is that of how far I + have fallen! Of how much I have yielded!— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A vapor, heavy, hueless, formless, cold! +</pre> + <p> + Leave it to time! Leave it to time! + </p> + <p> + —I hear that, and I hear around me the laughter of mocking demons. + It startles my soul—but no longer to rage as it used to. I sit and + stare at it with a great, heavy numbness possessing me. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 12th. + </p> + <p> + I am still reading Nietzsche. I think I shall read all that he has + written. I am always kept aware of the limitations, but he is a tremendous + man. Can you guess how this took hold of me?— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h3> + THE GRAVE-SONG + </h3> + <p> + “There lies the island of graves, the silent; there are also the graves of + my youth. Thither will I carry an evergreen wreath of life.” + </p> + <p> + Thus resolving in my heart, I went over the sea.— + </p> + <p> + Oh ye visions and apparitions of my youth! Oh all ye glances of love, ye + godlike moments! How swiftly you died in me! I remember you to-day as my + dead. + </p> + <p> + From you, my dearest dead, there comes to me a sweet odor, heart-melting, + tear-melting. Truly it shakes and melts the heart of the lonely seaman. + </p> + <p> + Still am I the richest and the most to be envied—I, the most lonely. + For I <i>had</i> you, and you have me still; say, to whom fell, as to me, + such rose-apples from the trees?... + </p> + <p> + <i>Me</i> to kill, they strangled you, you song-birds of my hopes. Yea, at + you, the dearest, shot wickedness its arrows—to strike my heart!... + </p> + <p> + This word will I speak to my enemies: “What is all murder of man beside + that which ye did to me?” + </p> + <p> + Thus, in the good hour, spake my purity: “Godlike shall all being be to + me.” + </p> + <p> + Then ye fell upon me with your foul spirits; ah, whither now hath the good + hour fled? + </p> + <p> + “All days shall be holy to me”—so spake once the wisdom of my youth; + truly the speech of a happy wisdom. + </p> + <p> + But then you enemies stole away my nights and sold them to sleepless + torment; ah, whither now hath the happy wisdom fled?... + </p> + <p> + As a blind man once I went a blissful way; then you threw rubbish in the + blind man's way; and now he is weary of the old blind ascendings.... + </p> + <p> + And once would I dance as never had I danced before; above all the heavens + away would I dance. And then you lured away my dearest singer!... + </p> + <p> + Only in the dance can I speak metaphors of the highest things:—and + now my highest metaphor remained unspoken in my limbs! + </p> + <p> + Unspoken and undelivered remained my highest hope! And there died all the + visions and solaces of my youth! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + That thing brought the tears down my cheeks. It is what my soul has cried + all day and all night—that I see all my joy and all my beauty going! + </p> + <p> + It is the fearful, the agonizing <i>waiting</i> that does it. I know it—I + put it down—there is nothing kills the soul in a man so much as + that. When you wait your life is outside of yourself; you hope,—you + are at the mercy of others—at the mercy of indifference and accident + and God knows what. + </p> + <p> + But again I cry, “What can I do? If there is anything I have not done—tell + me! Tell me!” + </p> + <p> + Here I sit, and I have but seven dollars left to my name, including what I + made by the shoveling. And I sit and watch the day creep on me like a wild + beast on its prey—the day when I must go back into the world and + toil again! Oh, it will kill me—it will kill me! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I sit and wait and hang upon the faint chance of one publisher more. It is + my only chance,—and such a chance! I find myself calculating, + wondering; yes, famous books have been rejected often, and still found + their mark. Can I still believe that this book will shake men? + </p> + <p> + Ah, God, in my soul I do not believe it, because I have lost my + inspiration! I have let go of that fire that was to drive like a + wind-storm over the world. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Yes, I ask myself if such things can be! I ask myself if they were real, + all those fervors and all that boldness of mine! If it was natural, that + way that lived! + </p> + <p> + —Oh, and then I look back, and my heart grows sick within me. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + So I spend my time, and when I turn and try to lose myself in Nietzsche, + his mercilessness flings me into new despair. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 18th. + </p> + <p> + I have the terrible gift of insensibility; and I think my insensibility + torments me more than anything else in the world. + </p> + <p> + I have no life, no power, no feeling, naturally—it is all my will, + it is all effort. And now that I am not striving, I sink back into a state + of numbness, of dull, insensible despair. I no longer feel anything, I no + longer care about anything. I pass my time in helpless impotence—and + day by day I watch a thing creeping upon me as in a nightmare. I must go + out into the world again and slave for my bread! + </p> + <p> + —Oh, <i>then</i> I will feel something, I think! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Another week and more is gone, and I have but a little over four dollars. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 20th. + </p> + <p> + I have stopped reading Nietzsche. I could not stand any more of it. It + does not satisfy me. + </p> + <p> + It is not merely that I am so weak now, and that his mocking goads me. I + would have been through with him in any case. He is so narrow—so + one-sided. + </p> + <p> + It is reaction from the present, of course, that accounts for it. Too much + gazing upon the world, that has led him to believe that love of man + necessarily implies compromise. + </p> + <p> + There are two words that are absent from his writings—they are love + and humanity; and so it never satisfies you, you are always discontented, + you have always to correct and supply. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 22d. + </p> + <p> + Oh why do those publishers take so long! I wait and yearn; I grow sick + with waiting and yearning. + </p> + <p> + I never allowed any weakness in my soul before; I never made any terms + with it. I blamed everything upon myself. And now that my whole life is + weakness and misery, I writhe and struggle—I turn back always on + myself, suspecting myself, blaming myself. I can not lay it to the world, + I can not get into the habit—it is such a miserable habit! How many + millions there are of them—poor, querulous wretches, blaming their + fate, crying out against the world's injustice and neglect—crying + out against the need of working, wishing for this and that—discontented, + impotent, miserable! Oh my God—and I am one of such! + </p> + <p> + I can not bear the sound of my own voice when I complain! I hear the world + answering me—and I take the part of the world! “Why don't you be a + man and go out and earn your way? Why don't you face your fate? You prate + about your message—what business has a man with a message that is + too much for him? What business have you with weakness—what <i>excuse</i> + have you for weakness?” + </p> + <p> + And so I came to see it. The world is right and I am all wrong! And the + truth of it burns me like an acid in my brain. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 24th. + </p> + <p> + And all the time my whole being is still restless with the storms that + raged in it last spring! I have all those memories, all that poignancy. I + can not realize it—any of what I was and had—but I know it as + a <i>fact</i>, a memory, and I crouch and tremble, I grow sick with it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Why don't they write to me? My money is going! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 26th. + </p> + <p> + The reason that I shudder so at the prospect of having to face the world + again, is that I have no hope. <i>I have no hope!</i> Once I could go out + into that hellish market. I could be any man's slave, do any drudgery—because + I saw a light ahead—I saw deliverance—I had a purpose! + </p> + <p> + And now what purpose have I—what hope have I? I tell you I am a man + in a trap! I can do nothing! I can do no more than if I were walled in + with iron! + </p> + <p> + I say that my business in this world is to be a poet! I say that there is + only one thing I can do—only one way that I can get free—and + that is by doing my work, by writing books. And I have done all that I can + do, I have earned my freedom—and no one will give it to me! Oh, I + shall die if I am penned here much longer! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I eat out my heart, I burn up my very entrails in my frenzies. Set me + free! <i>Set me free!</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I thought to-day if I only had a little money—if I could only + publish that book myself! I can not believe that men would not love it—I + can not—no, you may crush me all you please, but I can not! And I + would take it and shout it from the housetops—I would peddle it on + the streets—I would <i>make</i> the world hear me! + </p> + <p> + —And then I sink back, and I hear the world say, “You poor fool!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 28th. + </p> + <p> + I have only a dollar and a half left! I have sat, shuddering and waiting, + all that I dare; the end is come now, I must look for work to-morrow. It + is like a death-sentence to me. I could do nothing to-night. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 29th. + </p> + <p> + Providence came to help me to-night for once! It snowed to-day and I have + been hard at work again. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 30th. + </p> + <p> + Some more snow. My hands were nearly frost-bitten, but I keep at it; for + at least it is out in the air, and it gives me a little longer respite. + </p> + <p> + In the afternoon I made up my mind to go and see the publishers and ask + them if they could not read the story at once—it has been a month. I + saw their literary manager; he said he was going to read it himself. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 31st. + </p> + <p> + More snow again to-day. And I have made over five dollars. But I have come + out of it more dead than alive—dulled, dispirited, utterly worn out. + </p> + <p> + If I could only be an animal for a time. But each day of the drudgery only + makes me wilder with nervousness. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 1st. + </p> + <p> + They regret, of course, and hold the MS. at my disposal. I went up to get + it this afternoon, and half by accident I met the man I had seen before. I + had a talk with him. He was a very curious personage. + </p> + <p> + He seemed to have been interested in The Captive. “I'll tell you,” he + said, “you know there's really some extraordinary work in that poem. I + believe that you have it in you to make some literature before you get + through, Mr. Stirling.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he replied, “I feel pretty sure of it. You ask me to tell you about + it—so you mustn't mind if I speak frankly. And of course it's very + crude. You haven't found your voice yet, you're seeking for mastery, and + your work is obviously young. Anybody can see in a few lines that it's + young—it's one of those things like Goetz von Berlichingen, or Die + Räuber—you tear a passion to tatters, you want to rip the universe + up the back. But of course that wears off by and by; it isn't well to take + life too seriously, you know, and I don't think it'll be long before you + come to feel that The Captive isn't natural or possible—or desirable + either.” + </p> + <p> + The publisher was smoking a cigar. He puffed for a moment and then he + asked, “What are you doing now?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing just at present,” said I. + </p> + <p> + “I should have supposed you'd be writing another poem,” he replied,—“though + of course as a matter of fact the wisest thing you can do is to wait and + learn. Your next book will be entirely different, you can be quite sure—you + won't be so anxious to get hold of all the world and make it go your way.” + </p> + <p> + I smiled feebly. “Possibly not,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “I'll tell you a story,” said the publisher—“speaking about youthful + aspirations! I was talking to Mr. X—— last night, the author + of ——. [Footnote: The manuscript names an extremely popular + historical novel.] You wouldn't think X—— was the sort of man + to be reforming the world, would you? But he told me about his earliest + work, that he said he had tucked away in a drawer, and it turned out he + was like all other authors. This was a socialist story, it seems, and the + hero delivered fiery speeches six pages long. And X—— said + that he had written it and taken it to a publisher, expecting to upset the + world a week after it appeared, but that he never could get anybody to + publish it, and gave it up finally and went into journalism. The funny + part of it was that he had sent it here, and when he told me about it, I + remembered looking it over and writing him just about what I'm telling + you.” + </p> + <p> + The publisher smoked for a moment or two. “You see, Mr. Stirling,” he said + at last, “he had to wait ten years before he 'arrived.' So you must not be + discouraged. Have you read his book?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I have not.” + </p> + <p> + “It is a very pretty piece of work—it's been many months since it + came out, but they say it's still selling in the thousands. Don't get + discouraged, Mr. Stirling, keep at it, because you have real talent, I + assure you.” + </p> + <p> + I rose to go, and he shook my hand. “Take my advice,” he said, “and write + something more practicable than a tragedy. But of course don't forget in + any case that we shall always be very happy to read anything of yours at + any time.” + </p> + <p> + —I walked down the street meditating. I will get over it again, of + course; but to-night I sat in the dark and the cold, shivering. And I + asked myself if it must not be so after all. “<i>Is</i> it true, the thing + that I did; is it <i>natural</i>?” I said. “Or must it not be exaggerated + and crude, as they all tell me! And uninteresting!—What is the use + of it? I tormented myself that way and tore myself to pieces, but it does + not stir any one else.” + </p> + <p> + Ah, of course it's all dead in me—and I'm prepared to believe + anything they tell me! It's overwrought, it's young, it's pitched in too + high a key, it's strained and unnatural, it takes life too seriously! + Certainly at any rate they are right that I shall never, never do the same + thing again. + </p> + <p> + But unfortunately I don't feel like writing anything else. I don't know + anything about historical novels. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I would have read some of the poem again to-night, but I'm too + discouraged. I am tired of it. I know it by heart, and it doesn't take + hold of me. + </p> + <p> + I have been too long among men, I groan. I see their point of view too + well! + </p> + <p> + Why, there are things in that book that when I read them now make me + shudder. I have hardly the courage to offer it to any one else to read. I + don't know any one to take it to, besides. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + O God, I'm so unhappy! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 3d. + </p> + <p> + To-day an idea occurred to me, one that should have occurred before. Once + upon a time I was introduced to the editor of the ——. Perhaps + he will not remember it, I said. But anyhow, why not try? I will take him + The Captive—perhaps he can use it in the magazine—who knows? + </p> + <p> + I knew nothing better to do, so I went there. He was very polite—he + did remember my face. He was fearfully busy, it seemed. He did not think + there was much likelihood of a magazine's publishing a blank-verse + tragedy; but I told him how I had worked, and he said he'd read it. + </p> + <p> + And so there's one chance more! + </p> + <p> + My poor, foolish heart is always ready to tremble with new hope. But faith + in that book was so <i>ground</i> into it! + </p> + <p> + —I asked him to read it at once, I explained that I was in great + haste. I think he understood what I meant. My clothes show it. + </p> + <p> + I have been hoarding my money—counting every cent. I dread the world + so! Now that I am so broken, so laden with misery, it sounds about me as + one jeer of mockery. But I shall have to be hunting a place soon—you + never can tell how long it may take you, and the chances are so terrible. + </p> + <p> + I will not do anything until I hear from this one man, however. He + promised to let me know in a week. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I did not see him at the publisher's—he has another office besides. + He had huge piles of papers and books about him; he is an important man, I + guess; can it be that he will be the one to save me? + </p> + <p> + I think: “Oh if he knew, he would!” I find myself thinking that of all the + world—if I could only make them understand! Poor, impotent wretch, + if I could only find the <i>word</i>! + </p> + <p> + —Or is it simply my blind egotism that makes me think that? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 6th. + </p> + <p> + I do not think that what I write can be of much interest. It must be + monotonous—all this despair, this endless crying out, this endless + repetition of the same words, the same thought. + </p> + <p> + Yet that is all that my life is! That is just what I do every day—whenever + I am not reading a book to forget myself. + </p> + <p> + It is all so simple, my situation! That is the most terrible thing about + it, it is the same thing always and forever. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have lived so much agony through this thing—it would not startle + me if I saw that my hair had turned white. I know I feel like an old man. + I am settled down into mournfulness, into despair; I can do nothing but + gaze back—I have lived my life—I have spent my force—I + am tired and sick. + </p> + <p> + I! I! I!—do you get tired of hearing it? It was not always like + that; once you read a little about a book. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 8th. + </p> + <p> + This is the fifth day. I am counting the days, I have been counting the + very hours. He said he would be a week. And I—only think of it—I + have but two dollars and sixty cents left! + </p> + <p> + Hurry up! Hurry up! + </p> + <p> + —And then I say with considerable scorn in my voice: “Haven't you + learned enough about that manuscript yet? And about publishers yet?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 10th. + </p> + <p> + Just imagine! I went to see him to-day, and he stared at me. “Why, sure + enough, Mr. Stirling!—It had slipped my mind entirely!” + </p> + <p> + I have learned to bear things. I asked him calmly to let me know as soon + as possible. He said: “I am honestly so rushed that I do not know where to + turn. But I will do the best I possibly can.” + </p> + <p> + I said—poor, pitiful cringing, is it not terrible?—that I'd be + up his way again in three days, and did he think he could have it read by + then. He said he was not sure, but that he'd try. + </p> + <p> + And so I went away. Now I have two dollars and twenty-three cents. I have + to pay my rent to-morrow, and that will leave me a dollar and a half. I + can make that do me seven or eight days—I have one or two things at + home. I'll wait the three days—and then I'll have to set out in + earnest to find something to do. + </p> + <p> + Oh, the horror of not knowing if you can pay your next week's room rent in + this fearful city! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 11th. + </p> + <p> + I sat and looked at myself to-day. I said: “When a soul is crushed like + this, can it ever get up again? Can it ever be the same, no matter what + happens? Don't you see the fact, that you've been tamed and broken—that + you've <i>given in</i>! And how will you ever rise from the shame of it, + how will you ever forget it? All this skulking and trembling—how + will you ever dare look yourself in the face again! Will not it mock your + every effort? Why, you poor wretch, <i>you've got a broken back!”</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 12th. + </p> + <p> + And to-morrow again I must go there, trembling and nervous, hanging on a + word! + </p> + <p> + There is not much sense in it, but I have learned to hate all men who have + ease and power. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 13th. + </p> + <p> + I knew it! I could have told it beforehand. “I am awfully sorry, Mr. + Stirling, but it is no use talking, I simply can not! I will write you + just as soon as ever I get it read.” + </p> + <p> + And so I came out. I had a dollar and twenty cents. My rent would be due + in four days again. So even if I got some work at once I should have to + pawn something. + </p> + <p> + —Thus I began my search for a situation. I could not choose—I + was willing to take anything. + </p> + <p> + I fear I look like a tramp; but I have several letters from places where I + have worked. Still, I could not find anything. I have tramped all day + until I could hardly move. I bought a paper, but everything advertised was + gone by that time. + </p> + <p> + If it would only snow again, so that I could shovel some more! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 14th. + </p> + <p> + Again I have been pacing the streets the whole endless day, beaten back + and rebuffed at every turn. I have been drilled for this, this is the + climax! First take every gleam of heart out of me, and then set me to + pacing the streets in the cold, to be stared at and insulted by every kind + of a man! + </p> + <p> + And still nothing to do. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 15th. + </p> + <p> + I take my lunch with me—I have cut myself down to twenty cents a day + for food. I walk and walk, and I am so hungry I can not do on less than + that. I have but sixty cents left to-night. I failed again to-day. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 16th. + </p> + <p> + It is not as desperate as it sounds, because I have a few books and things + that I can sell—I do not believe that I will actually starve—I + have always done my work well, and have gotten references. But O God, the + shame of it—the endless, heaped-up bitterness! + </p> + <p> + I have sunk into a beast of burden. I trudge on with my mind torpid—I + take whatever comes to me, and go on mechanically. Oh it cows me, it wears + me down! I have learned to bear anything—<i>anything</i>! A man + might kick me and I would not mind. + </p> + <p> + I think I went to fifty places yesterday. Nothing to do—nothing. + To-day is Sunday, but I tried even to-day. I came home to get some dinner.—I + might have been a porter in a hotel, and carried trunks—that was my + one chance. But I have not the physical power for that. + </p> + <p> + —And then after all—toward evening—when I was so tired I + was almost wild—I had an offer at last! And guess what it was—of + all the things that I had made up my mind I could not bear—to be a + waiter! + </p> + <p> + It is, I believe, what a man should call a rare opportunity. It is a + fairly good restaurant just off Broadway; and I get ten dollars and tips. + Poor me! My heart bounded for a moment, and then I asked myself, And what + do you want with money any more? I took the place, and I am to begin the + day after to-morrow. I am so tired I can hardly move. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 17th. + </p> + <p> + Was it not irony? I have watched day by day for snow; and now that I have + taken the other place—behold, to-day it snows a foot! + </p> + <p> + —I went to see the editor in the afternoon. I was desperate at the + thought of to-morrow. I said I would tell him!—But when I got there + I only had the courage to inquire about the poem. He had not read it. I + feared he seemed annoyed. + </p> + <p> + I shall not go there again for a week. I can not make him hurry. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 18th. + </p> + <p> + To-day I had to begin by apologizing to my landlady, and begging her to + let me pay her a week later. I had to go into an elaborate explanation—she + wanted to know why I had not been working all these months, and so on. She + has a red face, and drinks, I think. + </p> + <p> + Then I had to take a load of my best books—my poor, few precious + books that I have loved—and sell them at a second-hand bookstore. + When I had sold them I had to hire a waiter's suit for a week, until I had + money to buy it. And then with that awful thing on I went down to the + restaurant. + </p> + <p> + Can you imagine how a pure woman would feel if she had to go into a + brothel to live? That was just how I felt—just how! Oh my God, the + indignity of it! Is there <i>anything</i> that I could do more + humiliating? + </p> + <p> + —But I have lost the power of getting angry. Only my heart is one + great sob. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 20th. + </p> + <p> + Oh, that hellish place! What is there in this whole city more brutal than + that restaurant? + </p> + <p> + Day and night, day and night, to see but one thing—to see flashy, + overdressed, fat and vulgar men and women gorging themselves! Oh, this + will teach me to feel—this at least! I go about with my whole being + one curse of rage—I could throttle them! And to bow and smirk and + lackey them—all day! All day! Oh, what shall I do—how shall I + bear it? + </p> + <p> + They offer me tips. At first I thought I should refuse; but no, I dare not + do that, even if I wanted to. And since I have stooped to do it, I will + take all I can get. To get money is my one passion now. Oh my God, how can + I bear it! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 21st. + </p> + <p> + I said to-day, I must fight this thing—I must, or it will kill me; I + can not let myself go to wreck in this fashion—<i>I've got to fight!</i> + </p> + <p> + And so I got my note-book; and I fell to work to drive myself as of old. + The effort that it cost me made me ill, but I did it. I shall keep on + doing it—I am like a man faced by a fiend—I <i>must</i> keep + on—I must! + </p> + <p> + But then, why do you want to have new languages? Do you not know enough + now to keep you in reading matter for all the time you are ever likely to + have? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 24th. + </p> + <p> + Oh, one can get used to even a flashy restaurant! It is your fate—you + take it. This is how I pass all my time there. I struggle to resist the + deadening of it, and the horror of it; while I am going about the + loathsome grind I try to think—try to have some idea in my head. And + something comes to me—something beautiful, perhaps; and then in a + few moments, in the clatter and confusion, I lose it; and after that I go + about haunted, restless, feeling that I have lost something, that I ought + to be doing something. What the thing is, I do not even know—but so + it drives me and drives me! + </p> + <p> + I spend literally hours that way. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 25th. + </p> + <p> + When are you going to read that poem—<i>when</i>? The week was gone + yesterday—but I will not trouble you, even now! I wait, I wait! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 27th. + </p> + <p> + There is another torment about this fearful place that I am in, one that + you could not imagine. I had thought that it would be a pleasure, but it + tears my soul. They have music in the evening; and fancy a person in my + state listening to a violin! + </p> + <p> + Chiefly, of course, they play trash; but sometimes there comes something + beautiful, perhaps only a phrase. But it takes hold of my soul, it makes + my eyes grow dim, it makes me shudder. It is all my pent-up agony, it is + all my sleeping passion—why, it overwhelms me! And I am helpless—I + can not get away from it! + </p> + <p> + Remember that I have not heard any music for a year. It is like the voice + of a dead love to me. I thought to-night that I could not bear it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 1st. + </p> + <p> + To-day I had a day off, and I went to see the editor. I have been waiting, + day by day, for a letter; it has been a month since I left it with him, + and I found that he had not read it yet! + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Stirling,” he said, “it is not my fault, it has simply been + impossible. Now I will tell you what to do. I am going out of the city + Sunday week, and I shall have a little leisure then. I do not see how I + can get to it before that, so you take it and see if you can find some one + else to read it meanwhile. If you will bring it to me Saturday, a week + from to-day, I will promise you faithfully to read it on Sunday.” + </p> + <p> + So I took the manuscript. I tried four publishing houses, but I could not + find one that would read it in a week. I had to take the manuscript home. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 3d. + </p> + <p> + To-morrow ends my second week at the restaurant. It took me five days to + find that place, but I am going to give it up to-morrow. I could not bear + it, if it were to save my life. I can not bear the noise and the grease + and the dirt, and the endless, endless vulgarity; but above all I can not + bear the music. + </p> + <p> + I can bear almost any degradation, I have found; but not when I have to + listen to music! + </p> + <p> + Besides, I can afford to give it up. I have made a fortune. I shall have + over thirty dollars when I leave! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have always been paid, I find, in proportion to the indignities I bore—in + proportion to the amount I humiliated myself before the rich and the + vulgar. These vile, bejeweled, befeathered women, these loathsome, swinish + men—<i>these</i> are the people who have money to spend. They go + through the world scattering their largess with royal hand; and you can + get down and gather it up out of the mud beneath their feet. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I come home at night worn out and weak, sometimes almost in a stupor; but + I am never too ill to brood over that hideous state of affairs. I gaze at + it and I wring my hands, and I cry: Oh my Father in heaven, will it always + be like this? + </p> + <p> + Think of it—this money that these people squander—do you know + what it is? It is the toil of society! That is what it is,—it is <i>my</i> + toil—it is the toil of the millions that swarm in the tenements + where I live—it is the toil of the laborers, the beasts of burden of + society, in the cities and in the country. + </p> + <p> + Think about it, I cry, think about it!—Can I not find any word, is + there nothing I can do or say now or at any time, to make men see it? Why, + you take it for granted—<i>I</i> have taken it for granted all my + days—that money should belong to the brutal rich to squander in + whatever inanity may please them! But it never dawns upon you that this + money is <i>the toil of the human race</i>! Money is the representation of + all that human toil creates—of all <i>value</i>; it is houses that + laborers build, it is grain that farmers raise, it is books that poets + write! And see what becomes of it—see! <i>see</i>! Or are you blind + or mad, that you <i>will</i> not see? Have you no more faith in man, no + more care about the soul? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + You think that I have been made sick by my work in that one haunt of vice. + But it is not only that, it is not only that fever district where all the + diseases of a city gather. I have been all <i>over</i> the city, and it is + everywhere the same. Go to the opera-house any night and you may see + blasphemous vanity enough to feed the starving of this city for a year. + Walk up Fifth Avenue and see them driving; or go to Newport and see them + there. Why, I read in the papers once of a woman who gave a ball—and + the little fact has stuck in my mind ever since that she wore a dress + trimmed with lace that cost a thousand dollars a meter! I do not speak of + the infinite vulgarity of the thing—it is the monstrous <i>crime</i> + of it that cries to me. These people—why, they have society by the + <i>throat</i>! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I bury my face in my pillow and sob; but then I look up and pray for + faith. I say we are only at the beginning of civilization, we can see but + the first gleams of a social conscience; but it will come—it must + come! Am I to believe that mankind will always submit to toil and pant to + make lace at a thousand dollars a meter to cover the pride-swollen carcase + of a society dame? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + How is it to be managed? I do not know. I am not a political economist—I + am a seeker after righteousness. But as a poet, and as a clear-eyed soul, + I stand upon the heights and I cry out for it, I demand it. I demand that + society shall come to its own, I demand that there shall be intelligence + in the world! I demand that the toil of the millions shall not be for the + pride of the few! I demand that it shall not be to buy diamonds and + dresses and banquets, horses and carriages, palaces and yachts! I demand + that it shall be for the making of knowledge and power, of beauty and + light and love! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Oh, thou black jungle of a world!—What know you of knowledge and + power, of beauty and light and love? What do you dream of these things? + The end of man as you know it is to fight and struggle like a maniac, and + grab for his own all that he can lay his claws upon. And what is your + social ideal—but to lavish, each man upon himself, all that he can + lavish before he dies? And whom do you honor save him who succeeds in + that? And whom do you scorn save him who fails? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Oh thou black jungle of a world!—I cry it once again— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Where savage beasts through forest midnight roam, + Seeking in sorrow for each other's joy! +</pre> + <p> + I sit alone and think of these things, until my breath comes hard with + rage. I say: “It is these that I serve—it is these who own the + fruits of my toil—it is these for whom I am starved and crushed—it + is these by whom my God-given power is trampled into annihilation!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 4th. + </p> + <p> + I gave the place up this morning. I have thirty-one dollars. I think such + a sum of money never made me less happy. + </p> + <p> + I have nothing to do but drag myself back to my room and wait there until + the eighth, to take back my manuscript. It will be five weeks that he has + kept me—I suppose that is not his fault. + </p> + <p> + And then I say: “Fool, to torment yourself with such hopes! Don't you <i>know</i> + that he will say what all the rest have said? He is a clever man, and he + knows everything; but what use is he going to have for your poetry?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I wandered about almost all of to-day, or sat stupid in my room. I have + lost all my habits of effort—I have forgotten all that I ever knew, + all my hopes, all my plans. I said: “I will study!” But then I added: “Why + should I? Shall I not only make myself miserable, get myself full of + emotion, and to no purpose but the carrying of dishes?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is terrible to me to have to acknowledge any change in my way of living—I + never did that before. Compromises! Concessions! Surrenders!—words + such as those set me mad. But what am I to do? What <i>can</i> I do? I + writhe and twist, but there is no escape. I struggle upward, but I am only + beaten back and back? How should I not stop striving? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Circumstances made no difference to a man. So I used to prate! + </p> + <p> + No difference! Why, I was a giant in my soul, swift and terrible as the + lion. I leaped upon my task, I seized upon everything that came my way. I + passed whole classes of men at a bound, I saw, I felt—I bore the + world in my soul. I would dare everything, learn everything, live + everything—take it all into myself. And every day I was stronger, + every day I was more!— + </p> + <p> + And now see me! You have penned me here, you have starved me, stunted me, + crushed me—I sit shivering and staring at my own piteousness! Why, I + can not even be angry any more—I am too shrunken, too impotent for + that! And was it my fault? Have I not fought till I was ill? + </p> + <p> + —But never did I put forth a hope that it was not withered in the + bud! My every enthusiasm you stamped into the ground; every advance that I + made—why you smote me in the face! And all my ardor, my confidence, + my trust—has it ever met with anything but jeers? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Yes, and now you turn away—this revolts you! This is bare, + painful egotism—this is whining—this is querulous misery. It + offends you like the sight of raw flesh! + </p> + <p> + —It is my raw soul. My poor little naked, pitiful, beaten soul!—groveling, + and begging, too! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —But whose fault is it—merciful Heaven, whose fault is it? It + is my nature to live in myself—to live from myself. And this that is + unbearable egotism, why, it would have been exulting power! Joy in a + vision! Mastery of a life and an art! + </p> + <p> + But here you shut me up! You crush me down! I try to escape—I cry + out: “I am <i>not</i> an egotist—I am a worshiper! I want nothing in + the world so much as to forget myself—my rights, my claims, my + powers, my talents! I want to think of God! Only give me a chance—only + give me a chance to do that, and I care not what you do with me! Here I + stand with my poor little work, begging, pleading for some one to heed it! + Thinking of it only, living for it only, insisting upon it day and night! + But do you think that I do that of choice? My God, no—you are mad—I + only want to go on! Give me but the chance to go on—and do you think + that I would care whether any man admired my work?” + </p> + <p> + —Why, I would not even know it—I would be out in the mountains + alone! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “But for what had you your pride in the morning, and in the evening your + submission?” + </p> + <p> + Can you guess how that jeer rings in my ears, how it goads me? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 5th. + </p> + <p> + Sinking down! Sinking down! To see yourself one of the losing creatures, + to know that there is no help for you in this world—that no one will + heed you, no one will stretch out a hand! To see yourself with every + weakness, to see yourself as everything that you hate—to be mad with + rage against yourself, and still to be able to do nothing! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Understand what I mean—poor fools, do not think it is for + myself that I fear. If I wanted to fight a way for myself—I could do + it yet—never fear. But ah, you will save the mother and not her + child! What I weep for, what I die for, is my ART! + </p> + <p> + My vision, my life, my joy, my fire! These are the things that are dying! + And when the soul is dead do you think that I shall care about the body? + Do you think that I will stay in this world a shell, a mockery, a corpse? + Stay either to putrefy with pleasure or to be embalmed in dulness? Nay, + you do not know me! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I said to myself to-night, “If I perish in this world it will be + because I was too far ahead of my environment—that and that only. It + will be because I was pure, single-hearted, consecrated, and because of + such you neither know nor care.” Do I fear to say that? I am done with + shame—I think that I am dying—let me speak the truth. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —And I have really said the word then—the word that can not be + recalled—that my hope is dead, that I give up—that I can not + live my life? Nay—I do not have to say the word, the word says + itself. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 6th. + </p> + <p> + To-day I shook myself together. I could not stand such wretchedness. I + said, I will get a novel, and I will put myself into it—grimly—I + will read in spite of everything. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And such a book as I lighted on by chance!—Once I had whole yawning + vistas of books toward which I stretched out my arms; but somehow I had + forgotten them all to-day. I could do no better than pick up a book by + chance.— + </p> + <p> + I picked up Tess of the D'Urbervilles, and I found myself in the midst of + the same misery that haunts me here. I read it, but it did not help me. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —It is strange what poverty has ground into my soul. I find myself + reading such a book with but one feeling, one idea crying out in me. I + discover that my whole being is reduced to the great elemental, primitive + instinct of self-preservation. Love is dead in me, generosity, humanity, + imagination is dead,—everything but one wild-beast passion; and I + find myself panting as I read: “Get some money! Get some money! Hold on to + it!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —After a while I think suddenly: “And I am a poet!” That brings a + moan from me and I sit shuddering. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 7th. + </p> + <p> + Tess of the D'Urbervilles is one of the most unconvincing books I ever + read. I neither believed in it nor cared about it in the slightest. + </p> + <p> + I am shown a “pure woman,” and by and by I learn, to my perplexity, that + she has been seduced; after which she continues the “pure woman” again, + and I am asked to agonize over her troubles! But all the time I keep + saying, “This is not a woman that you are showing me at all—a woman + with a soul; it is a puppet figure that you suppose 'seduced' for the sake + of the story.” + </p> + <p> + It is our absurd English ideas of “propriety” that make possible such + things. If the author had had to show the seduction of “Tess” the weakness + of the thing would have been plain in an instant. That he did not show it + was his lack of conscience. There is no propriety in art but truth. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 8th. + </p> + <p> + I took the manuscript to the editor again to-day. He told me to come in on + Monday. + </p> + <p> + Deep in my soul I can have no more disappointments about it. I take it + about from habit. I sat and looked it over last night, but one can not + read emotional things in cold blood. I said, Is this true? Is it natural? + Is there any <i>use</i> in it? + </p> + <p> + I was tempted to cut out one or two things; but I decided to let it stay + as it was. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 10th. + </p> + <p> + I have been sitting to-night in my room, half-dazed, or pacing about the + streets talking to myself in a frenzy. I can hardly believe that it is + true, I can hardly realize it! I laugh with excitement, and then I cry. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I went to-day to get back my manuscript. And the editor said: “Mr. + Stirling, it is a most extraordinary piece of work. It is a most + interesting thing, I like it very much.” + </p> + <p> + I stared at him gasping. Then I waited to hear him say—“But I + regret”—But he didn't! + </p> + <p> + “I can't tell you anything definite about it,” he said. “I want to submit + it to the firm. I wouldn't undertake to accept any such unusual thing for + the magazine without consulting them, and especially seeing if they will + bring it out afterward—” + </p> + <p> + “You are thinking of using it in the magazine!” I cried. + </p> + <p> + “As I tell you, I can't say positively. I can only tell you what I think + of it. I will have them read it at once—” + </p> + <p> + “I will take it to them to-day!” I put in. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he said, “you need not, for I am going there this afternoon, and I + will take it, and ask them to read it immediately.” + </p> + <p> + I can't remember what else he said. I was deaf, crazy! I rushed home, + talking to myself incoherently. I remember sitting here in a chair and + saying aloud, “Oh, it can't be! It is impossible! That it should be good + enough to publish in a magazine like that! It is some mistake—it + will all come to nothing. It's absurd!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + So I sat, and I thought what such a thing would mean to me—it would + make my reputation in a day—I should be free—<i>free</i>! But + I thought of it and it did not make me happy; I only sat staring at + myself, shuddering. The endless mournfulness that is in my heart surged up + in me like a tide, and suddenly I began to cry like a child. + </p> + <p> + “It has come to me too late,” I exclaimed, “too late! I can't believe it—it + doesn't mean anything to me. I don't care anything about it—I mean + the poem! <i>I don't believe in it myself</i>!” + </p> + <p> + God, do you know I said that, and <i>meant</i> it? I said more—I sat + and whispered it to myself: “Let them take it, yes, let them! I don't care—it + will set me free—I shall have some money! But they're fools to do + it, they're fools!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 11th. + </p> + <p> + I tremble with excitement all the day, dreaming about that thing. I go + about half-mad. “Oh, just think of it,” I whisper, “just think of it!” + </p> + <p> + I linger about it hungrily! He spoke as if he really meant to make them + take it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 13th. + </p> + <p> + I went to see him to-day to ask. No, they had not let him know yet, but + they had the manuscript. He would write me. + </p> + <p> + I made up my mind that I would not bother him again. I will wait, hard as + it is. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I sat asking myself to-day, “Do you really mean that you believe that poem + is going to stir the world—this huge, heedless world you see about + you? Have you truly that blind, unreasoning faith that you try to persuade + yourself you have?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Ah, I don't know what I believe now. Only, once I had my young courage,—I + feared not the world, I could do anything. Now I am but one among a + million. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 16th. + </p> + <p> + I force myself to read these things that half-interest me; but I think I + spend a quarter of my time wandering about whispering that they are going + to publish it. I cry out, “Oh, they must!” I go into the library and stare + at the magazine and think of it there. I walk past the publishers', and + think of it there! I have been inquiring all about publishing, about terms + and all that sort of thing. It makes my brain reel—why, they might + pay me five hundred dollars for it! Think of it—five hundred + dollars!—I could go crazy with such a thought as that. + </p> + <p> + And then I think what the reviews will say of it, and I cry, “Oh, no, it + can't be true!” + </p> + <p> + Again I find myself saying, “Only let them take it! I don't care about the + rest, whether it succeeds or not—let them take it!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 18th. + </p> + <p> + I walked past the editor's office to-day. It took just every bit of will + that I had, not to go in. I said: “He might know even now, and I wouldn't + hear till to-morrow!” + </p> + <p> + But I didn't do it. I said I would wait a week, anyhow. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 20th. + </p> + <p> + I don't know what in the world to make of it. + </p> + <p> + The week ended to-day, and nothing yet; and I hit upon another scheme, I + went to the publishers. I said: “I will ask them, and he needn't know + anything about it and it won't bother him.” So I went in and they referred + me to the manuscript clerk. She said she had never heard of The Captive. + </p> + <p> + “But it's here somewhere,” I said, “the editor brought it here.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no manuscript ever comes here,” she answered, “that is not + entered on my books.” + </p> + <p> + “But,” I said, “some member of the firm must have it.” + </p> + <p> + “If any member of the firm got it,” she said, smiling, “the first thing he + would do would be to bring it to me to enter in the books.” + </p> + <p> + I insisted. I wanted to see somebody in the firm, but she answered me + there was no use. Finally she suggested that they might know something + about it up in the offices of the magazine. I went there, but no, no one + had ever heard of it there. + </p> + <p> + I came home dazed. I don't know what in the world to make of it. He + certainly said that the firm was reading it. I wrote to-night to ask him + about it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 23d. + </p> + <p> + I have waited day by day in the utmost perplexity to hear from him about + that. I should have heard from him yesterday. I don't know what in the + world to make of it. Can he have gone in to them privately? Or can he have + forgotten it—he is so busy! + </p> + <p> + I dread the latter circumstance—but I dread as much to anger him in + the other case. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 27th. + </p> + <p> + I waited four days more. I went up to see him. Just as I feared. I have + annoyed him. I could see it. I know he must be tired of seeing my face. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Stirling,” he said, “I have told you that the poem is being read by + the firm, and that I will let you know the moment I hear from them.” + </p> + <p> + “I only came,” I said, “because the clerk told me—” + </p> + <p> + “There are some things clerks don't know,” he put in. + </p> + <p> + I tremble at the thought of making him angry. I will not go near him + again. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 30th. + </p> + <p> + I am doing my best to keep my mind on some reading, so as not to make the + agony unbearable. But it is very hard—the mails disturb you. I can + only read in the middle of the day, and at night. In the morning I expect + the first mail, trembling; but after that I know a city letter can't come + till afternoon, so I can read. Then again at night I know it can't come. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I am reading The Ring and the Book. I have always found that it + doesn't do to take vulgar opinions. I had supposed I should find The Ring + and the Book hard reading. + </p> + <p> + It <i>is</i> skippable—the consequence of having a foolish scheme to + fill out. But the story of Pompilia and Giuseppi is one of the finest + things I know of anywhere. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 3d. + </p> + <p> + It has been another week. I could not stand it any more. I am going over + to the publishers' again this afternoon. + </p> + <p> + —What in Heaven's name does this thing mean? I met the satisfied + smile of the clerk again. “We have never seen the manuscript, Mr. + Stirling!” + </p> + <p> + If you could only see how positive she is! “I don't know anything about + what the editor told you, I can only tell you positively that he has never + submitted any such manuscript to the firm, or to anybody connected with + the firm.” + </p> + <p> + That thing drove me wild. I don't know what to make of it. Surely he's + given it to some one, for he told me so. + </p> + <p> + I went up to the magazine rooms, and he was in his office; but he had left + word that he would not see any one, and they would not even take in my + name. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 4th. + </p> + <p> + I can do nothing but haunt that place till I find out what it means! It + has been three weeks and a half since he gave it to them, and he said I + would hear at once. What in the world does he think it means to me? Can't + I presume the slightest gleam of interest, of care, on his part? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 5th. + </p> + <p> + To-day I could not stand it any longer. I went to the place again. I saw + the manuscript clerk once more—the same answer. I went upstairs; he + was there again, but busy. I wrote a note and left it. I explained that I + did not in the least wish to trouble him, but that the thing meant a great + deal to me, and that I had the utmost need of promptness; that it had been + almost four weeks since he gave it to the firm, and that nobody there + seemed to know anything about it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 7th. + </p> + <p> + He did not answer my letter! I thought I should hear to-day. O God, this + is the most tormenting thing! Think what it means! And what in Heaven's + name has he done? Surely some one—he must have given it to some one! + </p> + <p> + Only why in the world doesn't he understand my perplexity and explain? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 9th. + </p> + <p> + No letter yet. I went back to the publishers' again this morning. I have + been wandering by the place every day since. They had not seen it yet. She + said she'd have the firm inquire, but I said not to, as it might annoy + him. “He surely has given it to some one, you know.”—She laughed at + me. + </p> + <p> + I went up to the magazine office again. He was not there, but I saw his + associate. The associate did not know anything about it either. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 10th. + </p> + <p> + I waited one day more and no answer. I wrote to him again to-night, + begging him to please reply. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I have begun several novels, but I can't get interested in them. I + am simply sick. I came out of that horrible restaurant with money enough + to do me for ten weeks, and here are over five of them gone in this + hideous way. Oh, it is monstrous! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 12th. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + So! It is a relief at any rate to know that the thing is all right. I can + wait a little better now. + </p> + <p> + Of course I knew it must be there. A plague on that foolish clerk! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 14th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 17th. + </p> + <p> + 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. <i>They + have never seen that manuscript</i>! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 18th. + </p> + <p> + And to-day I can only wait. Once I lay down upon the bed and cried. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 19th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + I stared at the man simply speechless with astonishment. “Why,” I panted, + “what do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “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—” + </p> + <p> + 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—” + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn't know,” I said, “I didn't know anything about it. But I have been + starving.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + I stood there, feeling almost like crying, I was so nervous. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not want you to go to any such trouble,” I stammered. + </p> + <p> + “That's all right,” he said, “don't mention it. Now they will have decided + in a few days, and I will write you—” + </p> + <p> + “No, please do not,” I said, still with my abject humility. “Don't take + any more trouble—let me go there and find out—” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, heavens!” I gasped. “That was horrible! Horrible!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>that</i> day—had he not told me to come there? And had he not + said I should have a report? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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 <i>that</i> 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 <i>when he had a telephone connecting with + the firm right there in his office</i>! + </p> + <p> + And so I saw it—all in one instant the thing flashed over me! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “He has sent the manuscript now,” I said, “hasn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “He sent it in yesterday?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “He sent it by his secretary, didn't he?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said again. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” I answered, and went out. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>done</i> to him—why should he have treated me so? What + does it mean? I am baffled every way I turn. + </p> + <p> + The thing is like flame in my blood—like acid in my veins. It makes + me hysterical with pain. I cry aloud. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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! <i>Eleven weeks!</i> + And you have lied to me—and you have kicked me about like a dog! + </p> + <p> + What do you mean? What do you mean? Tell me, above all, <i>why</i> 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? + </p> + <p> + And then to-day! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! <i>The delays, the routine</i>! + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —But <i>why</i> did you do it? That is the thing I ask myself in + consternation. Why? <i>Why?</i>—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? + </p> + <p> + —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!— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 20th. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + A black, horrible gloom has settled down upon me. I am utterly lost in + despair. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 21st. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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 <i>never</i> know the truth about it? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 24th. + </p> + <p> + “We regret that we are not advised to undertake the publication of The + Captive. We return the manuscript by express.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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! <i>Eleven + weeks</i>! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I can do no more—I do not know where to turn. I believe I + shall go mad with my misery. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 25th. + </p> + <p> + 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 <i>demand</i> + to know why you treated me thus? I say I demand it! Before God, how <i>dared</i> + you—or don't you believe in a God?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 26th. + </p> + <p> + I see myself crying this out from the housetops. I even wrote a letter to + a newspaper, but I did not send it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 28th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It will take two or three weeks. This will be the eighth publisher. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 1st. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + If one took it I should think I was making a fool of him. I offer it on + that chance! + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 3d. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + —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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 6th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Why, once an apple spray in blossom was to me a drunken ecstasy. + </p> + <p> + —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? + </p> + <p> + 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—<i>money!</i>—It + is everything in this world to me. I can never think of anything else + again until I have it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I see myself going out into the world and fighting as other men fight, and + making a place in it for myself. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 8th. + </p> + <p> + 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 + <i>can</i> I do? Can I write anything? I ask. I have nothing in me but a + naked, shivering longing. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 9th. + </p> + <p> + I walked over there to-day to save a postage-stamp. They had not heard + from the reader yet. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 10th. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 12th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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.” + </p> + <p> + And here I am, having my life beaten out of me, spark by spark,—and + I can't find him—I <i>can't</i>! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I cry out for money—for money! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + But no, it is others who have it.—And the way that they use it—O + God, the way that they use it! + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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?” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 14th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I have two dollars and seventy cents. I imagine that is a safe margin. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 15th. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I have not been able to find anything to-day. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 16th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 18th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 19th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + But they said I was too old. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 22d. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I must manage to get out and get some work to-morrow, or I shall go mad. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + I could not argue with her; she can turn me out when she likes. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 24th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 26th. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 27th. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + I said to-day: I will eat nothing but bread and oatmeal till I get + something to do. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 29th. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + May 31st. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + I sha'n't go back to the other place, of course, until I get more money. + Besides, she has probably rented the room. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I am so relieved at having gotten something to do. I believe I am even + proud of the soap. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 2d. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + On June 6th I am going to die. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —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.” + </p> + <p> + If they will publish the poem, I shall wait. If not, I shall die on June + 6th. That is settled. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART3" id="link2H_PART3"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART III + </h2> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <p> + Listen to me now. I must soon get to the end of this. I mean to tell you + about it. I have spent yesterday and to-day going over this journal, + explaining things that I had written too briefly, putting in things that + ought to be there. I mean to tell everything. + </p> + <p> + When I began this journal it was with the idea that I should be famous, + and that then it would be published. Of late I have written it from habit, + mainly, never expecting that any one would see it. Now I write again for a + reader, <i>to</i> a reader. I know that it will be published. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The night before last I went down by the river. As well as I can remember, + these were the thoughts that came to me. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It was a calm, still night, and I sat watching the lights on the water. + Then suddenly I recollected the night when the yacht had passed, and I had + heard the woman singing. It came back to me like an apparition, that voice + and that melody. I heard it again more plainly than words can tell, dying + away over the water; and a perfect sea of woe rolled over my soul. + </p> + <p> + I thought of that night, what I had been that night, what hopes I had had, + what fervor, what purpose, what faith. That was, you remember, just when I + was at the height of my work; and the memory came back to me, as it has + never come back to me since the day that I came out of the forest with my + book. It simply overwhelmed me, it shook me to the very depths of my + being. I buried my face and burst out sobbing. It shook away from me all + the hideous dulness that had mastered me. I saw myself as I was, ruined, + lost. I cried out: “Oh, my Father in heaven, it is gone! It is gone, and + it will never come back! I am a lost soul! I am a traitor, I am ruined!” + </p> + <p> + So I went on, feverishly, twisting my hands together. “I have given up the + fight! I have been beaten—oh, my God—beaten! Think of those + raging hours in the woods, those hours of defiance, of glory! I gazed at + commonplaceness and dulness—I mocked at it; and now it has conquered + me! I am trampled down, beaten! It is all gone out of me!” And then I + cried out in despair and terror: “Oh, no, it can't be! It <i>can't</i> + be!” + </p> + <p> + But even while I cried that, my thoughts fled back to the horror to which + I was tied, to the samples of soap and to the filthy hole next to a + drunken laborer. The thing overwhelmed me, even while I stood there trying + to resolve. + </p> + <p> + I was frenzied. “I have done everything,” I panted, “I have fought and + toiled and struggled—I have wept and prayed, and even begged. And + yet I have been beaten—I have gone down—down! And what more is + there that I can do? I shall be beaten down again! Oh, what shall I do? Is + there any hope, any new plan that I can try? Shall I go through the + streets and shriek it; shall I lay hold upon some man and <i>make</i> him + hear me? Is there anything—<i>anything</i>?” + </p> + <p> + To make them understand what I have! To make them understand what they are + doing! God gave me a vision—it may not come again for a century, it + can never come again—it is mine—<i>mine only</i>! And they + grind it into the dust! This demon power that is in me—don't you + suppose I know what it is? This thing that roars like the wind upon the + mountains, that runs like the great billows on the sea! + </p> + <p> + I was pacing back and forth in the silent night. I had all the world about + me, I cried out to it, I gripped it, to make it hear me. “Fools! oh + fools!” I cried, “what is it that you <i>do</i> believe in? Blind + creatures that you are, this raging faith of mine—this fervent ardor—you + do not believe in <i>that</i>! You do not believe in enthusiasm, you do + not believe in ecstasy, you do not believe in genius! You think that I am + mad, poor raving poet! You see me sick, haggard, dragging myself about. + </p> + <p> + “But I am caged, I tell you,—I am caged! You are killing me as you + would kill some animal; and I am never to sing that song—I am never + to sing that song!” + </p> + <p> + The thing was a madness to me. “No, no!” I rushed on, “I will! I will get + free—I say I will! If I must, I will go out and beg on the streets, + before I will let this thing die! Show me the vilest of you—I will + get down upon my knees before him—I will kiss his feet and beg him + to let me live! There is no degradation of my <i>self</i> that I will not + bear! I!—what am I? I am a worm—I am filth—I am vanity + and impertinence and delusion. But <i>this</i> thing—this is <i>God</i>! + Oh you man with a carriage, will <i>you</i> not give me a little? For a + hundred or two of dollars I can live for a year! And you—why, see + that ring on your finger! You would not think twice if you lost it; and + yet think what I could do with that bauble! Oh, see how you abuse life—how + you mock it, how you trample upon it—how you trample upon <i>God</i>! + </p> + <p> + —“So I go about all day, haunted all the time, raging, lusting for + my task. And you who believe in genius in the past, and do not believe in + it in the present! Some of you had this faith when you were young; but I + have it always—it is <i>I</i>! I was born for that, I will die for + that! It is my love, my food, my health, my breath, my life! It comes to + me wherever I am—carrying trays in a restaurant—pacing back + and forth by the river—sitting here in my room and writing of it!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + So I thought, so I cried out; and each time as the thing surged in me, I + sank down and moaned and sobbed. “No, it is all lost. I am helpless. I am + beaten! I am walled in and tortured! I am a slave, I am a prisoner—I—” + </p> + <p> + —And so the torrent of my thoughts sped on, and so I rushed with it—rushed + to my fate. For suddenly I came to four words—four fearful words + that roared in my soul like the thunder!— + </p> + <h3> + “I AM A CAPTIVE!” + </h3> + <p> + It was like the falling of a bolt from the sky. It came with a sound that + stunned me, with a flash that lit in one instant the whole horizon of my + mind. + </p> + <p> + “I am a captive! I am <i>The</i> Captive! Fool that I am,—pent here + in these prison-walls of tyranny, and beating out my brains against them! + Panting—praying—cursing—pining to be free! And I am The + Captive!” + </p> + <p> + The thing struck terror into the last chambers of my soul. I stood stock + still; I felt my flesh quiver, I felt my very hair move. I saw a pair of + demon eyes glaring into mine—I saw all the wildness and the + fearfulness of life in that one instant. + </p> + <p> + “I wrote a book, I tried to make it true—and, oh, my God, how have I + succeeded!” + </p> + <p> + I do not know what I did, I was half-crazed, as in a nightmare. I fought + and struggled; but I was in the grip of a truth, and though it set my + brain on fire, I had to face it. + </p> + <p> + I was The Captive! I was The Captive! And I was crying out against + circumstances—I was crying out against my fate—and all the + time there it stood and faced me—the truth, the iron truth: + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —<i>I was to die!</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + A sudden fury swept over me—my whole being flamed with wrath. + “What!” I cried. “I shall go on in this servitude—in this + degradation! I shall go on playing the lackey to the filthy pleasures of + men, cringing, crouching before any insult—begging for my bread—begging + to keep my miserable self alive! And I shall see one by one my virtues die + in me, my powers, my consecrations! I shall sink into a beast of burden, + into a clod of the earth, into a tool of men! + </p> + <p> + “And I, who wrote The Captive—my God, who wrote The Captive! I, who + stood upon that height, drank in that glory, sang with those angels and + gods! I, who was noble and high-born—pure and undefiled—seer + and believer—I! I walked with Truth—and now I am a slave; a + whimpering, beaten hound! They have made a eunuch of me, they have cut + away my manhood! They have put me with their swine, they have fed me upon + husks, they have bid me drink their swill! And I bear it, by God, I bear + it! And why?—” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “<i>I bear it that I may live!</i>” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + “Come here, come here! Look at this!” The thing seized me by the shoulders + and shook me, the thing with the fiery eyes. “Did you <i>mean</i> it, all + that you wrote in that book—did you mean it, those vows that you + swore in the forest? Were they the truth of your soul as you faced your + God—or were they shams that you dallied with to please your vanity? + Answer me! <i>Answer</i>!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I sank down upon the ground as I heard that voice. I was shuddering with + fear; and I moaned aloud: “I don't want to die! I want to live, I want to + do my work!”—And then I heard the voice say, “You hound!” + </p> + <p> + And so I shut my hands like a vise; and I panted: “No, no! Come! Take me! + I will go!” I think it must have been hours that I lay there, wrestling in + horrible agony. I cried again and again: “Yes, yes,—I will do it! I + will do it!” I fled on breathlessly, whispering, panting to myself. Before + I knew it I was saying part of The Captive—the first fearful lines + of the struggle: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Spirit or fiend that led me to this way! +</pre> + <p> + Oh, tell me, was ever poet so taken at his word before? + </p> + <p> + I thought of that then, and I shook like a leaf with the pain of it. Again + and again I faced it, again and again I failed. It was physical pain, it + was a thing that I could feel like a clutch at my heart. Was it not + tearing out my very soul? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + But the voice cried out to me: “You have been a slave to the world! You + have been a slave to life! You have been crucified upon the cross of Art!”—Yes, + and all things a man may sacrifice to Art but one thing; he may not + sacrifice his soul! + </p> + <p> + “What!” it rushed on. “Have you so much faith in your art, and no faith in + your God? Is it for <i>Him</i> that you have so much need to fear, to + crouch and tremble, to plot and to plan—for <i>Him</i>? And when he + made you, when he gave you your inspiration—his soul was faint?” + </p> + <p> + “He that sendeth forth the surging springtime, and covereth all the earth + with new life! He that is the storm upon the sea, the wind upon the + mountains, the sun upon the meadows! He that poureth the races from his + lap! He that made the ages, the suns and the systems throughout all space—he + that maketh them forever and smiteth them into dust again for play! He + that is infinite, unthinkable, all-glorious, all-sufficient—<i>He + hath need of thee</i>! + </p> + <p> + “He hath need that thy wonderful books should be written, that mankind + should hear thy wonderful songs! Thy books, thy songs, that are to last + through the ages! And when this earth shall have withered, when the sun + shall have touched it with his fiery finger, when it shall roll through + space as silent and bare as the desert, when the comet shall have smitten + it and hurled it into dust, when the systems to which it belongs—the + sun into which it melted—shall be no more known to time—<i>where + then will be thy books and thy songs</i>? Where then will be these things + for which thou didst crouch and tremble, didst plot and plan? For which + thou didst lick the feet of vile men—<i>for which thou didst give up + thy God</i>!” + </p> + <p> + And then I leaped up and stretched out my arms. “No! No!” I cried aloud: + “I have done with it! Have I not fought this fight once, and did I not win + it—this fight of The Captive? And can I not fight it and win it + again? Away, away with you, world, for I am a free man again, and no + slave! Soul am I, <i>will</i> am I, unconquerable, all-defying! In His + arms I lie, in His breath I breathe, in His life I live—I am <i>He</i>! + Fear I know not, death I know not, slavery and sin and doubt and fear I + will never know again!” + </p> + <p> + Nay,—nay. Go thy road, proud world, and I go mine!— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In dem wogenden Schwall, + in dem tönenden Schall, + in des Welt-Athems + wehendem All!— + ertrinken— + versinken— + unbewusst— + höchste Lust! +</pre> + <p> + Oh, think not of that poetry! Think of the music! The surging, drunken, + overwhelming waves of music! Do you not hear them—do you not hear + them?— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wie sie schwellen, + mich umrauschen! + Soll ich athmen, + soll ich lauschen! +</pre> + <p> + So the thing went; and I panted and throbbed, and sank down upon the + ground for weakness. There came to me all that mad poetry that I had + written myself, all that victory that I had won, that freedom, that + vision, that glory! It came to me ten times over, for was it not + everything to me now? It was more than I could bear, it split my brain. + </p> + <p> + And it would not leave me. All through the long, long night I prayed and + wept with it; and in the morning I reeled through the street with it, and + men stared at me. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + But here was one time when I did not fear men! I was free—I was a + soul at last. I had won the victory, I went my way as a god. I had + renounced, I had given up fear, I had given up my <i>self</i>. My mind was + made up, and I never change my mind. I had passed the death-sentence upon + myself, I walked through the streets as a disembodied soul—as the + Captive dragged to the banquet-hall. + </p> + <p> + But no, I went to my torture of myself. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I went to the store. It was early Sunday morning, and the place was just + open.—I got my papers and put them under my arm—my original + draft of The Captive, and all my journal. I went down the street and came + to a place where a man was burning some trash. + </p> + <p> + I was a demon in my strength just then; my head reeled, but I went with + the dancing step of new-born things. I stood upon the heights, I “laughed + at all Sorrow-play and Sorrow-reality”! “Ho, sir,” I cried, “I have things + here that will make a fire for you!” + </p> + <p> + And so I knelt down and unwrapped The Captive. “There is much fire in + this,” I said; “once I thought it would explode, I did. It was a shot that + would have been heard around the world, sir! Only I could not pull the + trigger.” + </p> + <p> + The man stared at me, and so I burned it, page by page, and laughed, and + sang a foolish song that I thought of: <i>Stride la vampa!</i> + </p> + <p> + And afterward I unwrapped the journal. I laughed at my journal—'tis + a foolish thing; but then all at once my conscience touched me. I said: + “Is it not a shame? Is it not small of you? They would not heed you!—fool, + what of it? Perhaps it is not their fault—certainly it is their + sorrow. But you will not get much higher than you are now by trampling + upon them.” + </p> + <p> + And so I stopped; and I wrapped up my journal again. “You have fire enough + now, sir,” I said to the man. “I will keep this to build another fire + with.” + </p> + <p> + I went on. “Let them have it,” I said, “let them make what they can out of + it.” And then I laughed aloud: “And they will discuss it! And there will + be reviews of it! And wise articles about it! And learned scholars will + write tomes upon it, showing how many sentences there are in it ending + with a punctuation mark; and old ladies and Methodist ministers will shake + their heads over it and say: 'See what comes of not believing in Adam!'” + </p> + <p> + I walked on, singing the Ride of the Valkyries, the children staring at + me, going to Sunday-school. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + But I was glad that there was another copy of The Captive left. I love + even that wicked editor now. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —All that was a day and a half ago. I am not so happy now, but I am + very calm. I have found my righteousness again, and I can take whatever + comes. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And tasks in hours of insight willed + Can be in hours of gloom fulfilled! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 3d. + </p> + <p> + I have now three days more to wait, to learn if The Captive is accepted. I + have money enough to last me till then. If it is not accepted I should + obviously have to starve, should I not? For I will never serve the world + again. And am I a sheep that must be driven? No, I shall find a quicker + way of dying than by starvation. In the meanwhile I live my life and say + my prayer. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have thought a great deal about the thing, and it seems by no means best + for the world that it should treat all the men who have my gift as it has + treated me. Let the world take notice that I perish because I have not + cheap qualities. Because I was born to sing and to worship! Because I have + no alloy, because I will not compromise, because I do not understand the + world, and do not serve its uses! If I only knew all the book-gossip of + the hour, and all the platitudes of the reviews! If only I knew anything + of all the infinite frivolity and puerility that occupies the minds of + men! But I do not, and so I am an outcast, and must work as a day laborer + for my bread. + </p> + <p> + —The infinite irrationality of it seems to me notable. Why, upon the + men of genius of the <i>past</i> you feed your lives, you blind and + foolish men! They are the bread and meat of your souls—they make + your civilizations—they mold your thoughts—they put into you + all that little life which you have. And your reviews have use enough for + <i>them</i>! Your publishers publish enough of <i>them</i>! <i>But what + thoughts have you about the NEW teacher, the NEW inspirer?</i> + </p> + <p> + The madness of the thing! I read books enough, it seems to me, telling of + the sufferings of the poets of a century ago!—of the indifference of + the critics, the blindness of the public, of a century ago. And those + things pain you all so cruelly! But the possibility of their happening to + the poets of the <i>present</i>—it never seems to enter into your + heads! Why, that very man who sent me back his curt refusal by his + secretary—he writes about the agonies of Shelley and Keats in a way + that brings the tears into your eyes! And that is only one example among + thousands. + </p> + <p> + What do these men think? Is it their idea that the public and the critics + are now so true and so eager that the poets have nothing more to fear? + That stupidity and blindness and indifference are quite entirely gone out + of the world? That aspiration and fervor are now so much the rule that the + least penny-a-liner can judge the new poet? + </p> + <p> + And they think that the soul is dead then! And that God has stopped + sending into this world new messages and new faiths! + </p> + <p> + Oh you civilization! You society! You critics and lovers of books! Why, + that new message and that new faith ought to be the one thing in all this + world that you bend your faculties to save! It is that upon which all your + life is built—it is that by which this Republic, for one thing, is + to be made a factor in the history of mankind. But what do you do? What <i>have</i> + you done? Here I am; and come now and tell me what it is that you <i>think</i> + you have done. <i>For I have the message!—I have the faith</i>! And + you have starved me, and you have beaten me, until I am too ill to drag + myself about! + </p> + <p> + And what can I do? Where can I turn? What hope have I, except, as Swift's + phrase has it, to “die like a poisoned rat in a hole”? I could wish that + you would think over that phrase a little while, cultivated ladies and + gentlemen. It is not pleasant—to die like a poisoned rat in a hole. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + You ask me to believe in your civilization; you ask me to believe in your + love of light! Let me tell you when I would believe in your civilization + and your love of light. + </p> + <p> + I say that the last and the highest thing in this world is <i>Genius</i>. + I say that Religion and Art and Progress and Enlightenment—that all + these things are made out of Genius; and that Genius is first and last, + highest, and best, and fundamental. And I say that when you recognize that + fact—when you believe in Genius—when you prepare the way for + it and make smooth the paths for it—I say that then and then alone + may you tell me that you are civilized. + </p> + <p> + The thing shrieks against heaven—your cruelty, your stupidity. Since + ever the first poet came into this world it has been the same story of + agony, indignity, and shame. <i>And what do you do?</i> + </p> + <p> + It is poverty that I talk about, poverty alone! The poet wants nothing in + this world but to be let alone to listen to the voices of his soul. He + wants nothing from you in all this world but that you give him food while + he does it—while he does it, miserable people—not for himself, + but for <i>you</i>. + </p> + <p> + This is the shame upon you—that you expect—that you always + have expected—that the poet, besides doing the fearful task his + inspiration lays upon him—that he shall go out into the coarse, + ruthless world and slave for his bread! That is the shame! That is the + indignity, that is the brutality, the stupidity, the infamy! Shame upon + you, shame upon you, world! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The poet! He comes with a heart trembling with gladness; he comes with + tears of rapture in his eyes! He comes with bosom heaving and throat + choking and heart breaking. He comes with tenderness and with trust, with + joy in the beauty that he beholds. He comes a minstrel, with a harp in his + hand—and you set your dogs upon him—you drive him torn and + bleeding from your gates! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The poet! You make him go out into the market and chaffer for his bread! + You subject him to the same law to which you subject your loafers and your + louts—that he who will not work can not eat! Your drones, and your + drunkards—and your poets! Every man must earn for himself, every man + must pay his way! No man must ask favors, no man must be helped, no man + shall be any different from other men! For shame! For shame! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And you love letters! You love poetry! You are civilized, you are liberal, + you are enlightened! You are fools! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I tell you the agony of this thing is in me yet—it has heaped itself + up in my soul all my days. It was my life, it was my <i>life</i> that + cried out! And now that I can not save my own self—oh, let me at + least save the others! O God, let me not die till I have said one word + that reaches their hearts, till I have done something to change this + ghastly thing! The voices of the ages cry out to me. Not only the hundreds + who have gone before—but the hundreds and the thousands who are to + come! What are <i>we</i> to do? they cry—who shall save <i>us</i>? + Are we to share the same fate—are we too to struggle and die in + vain? And in this world that is civilized! In this world that seeks + progress! In this world that wants nothing but light! Not to the mob I + speak, not to those who once mocked me; if none but they lived, I should + hold my tongue and go. But you men who are leaders, you men who stand upon + the top, you men who see!—can I not find some word to reach <i>you</i>? + You men who really love books—who have money—who want nothing + but to put it to use!—can I not find some word to reach <i>you</i>? + </p> + <p> + O God! And it is all so simple. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I tell you this land will never be civilized, this land will never lead + mankind, it will never be anything but the torture-house that I have found + it, until it makes some provision for its men of <i>Genius</i>! Until this + simple fundamental thing be true—that a man may know that if he have + <i>Genius</i>—that the day he shows he has <i>Genius</i>—he + will be honored and protected by society and not trampled and kicked like + a dog. That he will not have to go out into the market-place and vend his + wares! That he will not have to make sick his soul haggling for his bread! + That if he turns his strength to higher things, and exposes himself to the + world thereby, he will not be trodden down in the struggle for existence! + That he will not have to bear indignities and insults; that he will not + have to write till he be ripe, or be stunted and deformed by early + deprivation. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Genius. And am I not to die now?—And what matters the world? + </p> + <p> + Therefore let me write it: that I was a man of Genius. And that you have + trodden me down in the struggle for existence. That I saw things that no + other man has ever seen, I would have written things that no other man can + ever write. And that you have trodden me down in the struggle for + existence—that you have trodden me down because I could not earn my + bread! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + This is what I tell you—this is what I cry out to you, that the man + of Genius <i>can not</i> earn his bread! That the work by which he + develops his power is something absolutely and utterly different from the + work by which he earns his bread! And that every hour which he gives to + the one, he lessens his power and his capacity for the other! Every hour + that he gives to the earning of his bread, he takes from his soul, he + weakens his work, he destroys beauty which never again can he know or + dream! + </p> + <p> + And this again is what I tell you, this again is what I cry out to you: + that the power by which a man of Genius does his work, and the power by + which he earns his bread, are things so entirely distinct that <i>they may + not occur together at all</i>! The man may have both, but then again he + may only have the former.—And in that case he will die like a + poisoned rat in a hole. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + What is the first principle of the democracy of which we boast, if it be + not that excellence, that power, that <i>Genius</i>, is not the attribute + of the rich or the noble, but that it may make its appearance anywhere + among men? And you who sigh for men of talent to raise American letters—what + do you <i>do</i> about it? I will tell you something right now, to begin + with; it will startle you, perhaps, and you may not believe it; but I mean + to prove it later on. For the present I say this: that of the seven poets + who constitute the glory of the literature of England in the nineteenth + century, four of them were rich men, five of them were independent, one of + them was endowed when he was a youth, and the seventh, the greatest of + them all, died like a poisoned rat in a hole. + </p> + <p> + And what do you <i>do</i> about it? What you do is to lean back in your + chair and say: “The literary market was never so wide-awake as it is now, + and the publishers never so anxious for new talent”! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Fools! And you think that the publishers are in business for the + developing of talent, and for the glory of literature! And that they care + about whether a man of Genius dies in the streets, or not! Why, have I not + heard them tell me, with their own lips, that “a publisher who published + books that the trade did not want would be driven out of business in a + year”? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And you tell me that the author is an independent man nowadays! And can + earn his living with his books! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is your privilege to think that, if you choose; but perhaps you will + not mind hearing what <i>I</i> tell you—that the author can find no + way to a living more degrading to him than the earning of it with his + books. I have shoveled snow, and shoveled manure too, in the streets, and + shoveled food for swine in a restaurant. But I never did anything so + degrading as I should have had to do if I had tried to earn my living with + my books. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Oh, the author may be independent, may he! And you will escape with that + fine platitude, and with that bitter mockery! And never think that the + author's independence is but the fine phrase for your own indifference! + </p> + <p> + Again it is your privilege to think what you choose; but again perhaps you + will not mind hearing what I tell you—that there can never be any + man in this world more dependent than an author, if he be a true author. A + true author is the singer and dreamer of society; and who is there more + dependent than the singer and the dreamer—who is there less powerful + and less cunning in the things of the body? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Why, the author gives up his whole life for your joy and help, he + consecrates himself, he lashes and burns and tortures himself—for + your sake! And you spurn him from you, and tell him he is “independent”! + </p> + <p> + Here is the truth, here is the crux, here is the whole thing in a + sentence. A publisher is not in business for the furtherance of Art, or + for the uplifting of humanity, or for the worship of God. He doesn't mind + doing these things incidentally, of course, when the fortunate occasion + arises; but do you think if he had his choice between publishing a new + Paradise Lost to be read fifty years from date, and publishing a biography + of a reigning prince, or a treatise on gastronomy, or a new dime novel by + Marie Corelli in a first edition of a hundred thousand copies—do you + think he would hesitate, now really? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + You say that “literary excellence is identical with publishing + availability”! I tell you that they are as far apart—why, that they + are just exactly this far apart—as far as what mankind likes is from + what mankind ought to like. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And you ask the man of Genius to cringe and tremble before the standard of + what the reading public likes! You ask him to tame the frenzy of his + inspiration, to pull your pleasure-carriages with his wingèd steed! He + shall be no more the seer and the prophet and the leader—he shall be + mountebank and public-entertainer. + </p> + <p> + And you call yourself civilized! O God! + </p> + <p> + And the poet! Again the poet! Is he not <i>vital</i> to your society? Is + he not, in the last analysis, the lawmaker, the law-enforcer—this + seeker, this inspirer, this man with the new vision of right? I look at + this society—body enough I see, bone and muscle, and a good, large, + capable stomach. Brain enough I see, too, or nearly enough; but Soul? + Soul? Who will dare to tell me that there is Soul enough? And your poet—why, + <i>he</i> is your Soul! He is the man who fills the millions with the + breath of life, who makes the whole vast machine a living, rejoicing, + beautiful thing. <i>He</i>—every noble impulse that you have has + come originally from him—the memory of his words thrill in the + hearts of men—pupils gather to study them—tired hearts seek + them for refreshment—they grow and they fill all the earth—and + never through the centuries do they die! They blossom into noble impulses, + into new movements,—into reforms that reach down to the lowest + wretches of the gutter, who never even heard of a poet. Why, they have + reached to the very dogs, that are beaten less than they were. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And what is it that makes civilization in the end? What is it that the + world really honors in the end? You Americans, you who love your country, + you who believe in your country's institutions, who believe that your + country holds in her womb the future of mankind! You who want the world to + believe that!—how are you going to <i>get</i> the world to believe + that? Is it—poor, impotent, foolish creatures—by covering your + land until it is a maze of twenty-story office buildings? By lining it + with railroads six feet apart?—Do you not know that this very hour + the reason why Europe does not believe in America is that it has not a man + to sing its Soul? That it has been a century in the eyes of the world, and + has not yet brought forth one single poet or thinker of the first rank? + </p> + <p> + The poet! And I sought to be that man, my heart burned to sing that song! + And look at me! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Who will dare to say that I might not have sung it? What chance have I had—have + I not been handicapped and stunted, beaten and discouraged, punished as if + I had been a loafer—by <i>you</i>, the world? Here I am—I am + only a boy—and thrilling with unutterable things! And I am going + down, down to destruction! Why, for what I had to say I needed years and + years to ripen; and how can I tell now—how can any man tell now—what + those things would have been? + </p> + <p> + And I—what am I?—a worm, an atom! But what happens to me + to-day may happen to another to-morrow, and may happen to a hundred in a + century. And who knows?—who cares? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + What do you do with your railroad presidents? You take good care that <i>they</i> + get their work done, don't you? They have secretaries to catch every word, + they have private cars to carry them where they would go, men to run and + serve them, to make smooth their paths and save their every instant for + them! But your poet, your man of genius—who makes smooth <i>his</i> + paths, who helps <i>him</i>? He needs nobody to run and serve him—he + needs no cars and no palaces, no gold and precious raiment—no, nor + even praise and honor! What he needs—I have said it once—he + needs but to be left alone, to listen to the voices of his soul, and to + have some one bring him food to keep him alive while he does it. That—only + that!—think of it—for the most precious things of this life, + the things that alone save this life from being a barren mockery and a + grinning farce! And he can not have them—and you, you enlightened + society, you never care about it, you never <i>think</i> of it! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + If he comes a master, he can force his way; or if he be rich, or if some + one honor him, then he can live his life and heed nothing. But when he is + poor! And when he is weak! And when he is young! God help him, God help + him!—for you, you great savage world, you <i>crush</i> him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + You send him to the publishers! And he is young, and crude, and + inexperienced! He has not found himself, he has not found his voice, he + stammers, he falters, he is weak! And you send him to the publishers! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have said it once, I say it again: that the publisher is part of the + world and his law is a law of iron—he publishes the books that will + sell. And this feeble voice, this young love, this tender aspiration, this + holy purpose—oh, it is a thing to make one shudder! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And these things higher yet, these things so precious that we dare not + whisper them—this new awe of righteousness—this new rage at + what the world loves best—this flash of insight that will astound a + new age! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + You send it all to the publisher! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + But what <i>can</i> you do? I will tell you what you can do—I will + tell you what you <i>will</i> do when you come finally to honor what is + truly precious in this life—when you are really civilized and + enlightened—when you really believe in and value Genius. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + You will provide it that your young poet, your young worshiper, come + elsewhere to receive a judgment than to the money-making publisher, and to + the staring, vulgar crowd. You will provide it that he does not measure + his voice against the big-drum thumping of the best-selling pomposities of + the hour. You will provide it that he come, with all honor and all + dignity, to the best and truest men that you can engage for the service; + and that he come to be judged by one standard, and that not the standard + of sales. Whether it be true, whether it be noble, whether it be sincere; + whether it show imagination, whether it have melody, beauty, love, + aspiration, knowledge; whether, in short, in those forms or in any other + forms, it have <i>power</i>! Whether the man who wrote it is a man worth + training, whether he will repay society for its trust, whether he will + bring new beauty into the world!—And then, if these things be true, + so long as he works, and grows, and proves his value, so long shall he + have the pittance that he needs until he be the master of his voice. + </p> + <p> + Yes, you never thought of that before! I read everything—everywhere—and + I never heard it before. And what does that tell about the poverty and + blindness and stupidity of this world? Are we not rich enough? Are we not + the richest nation in the world? Have we not railroads and houses, food + and clothing and bank-stocks enough to make the brain reel? And do we not + call ourselves a Christian land? And worship as divine the Teacher who + said that “man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that + proceedeth out of the mouth of God”? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Oh, you world! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And what would it do? What would it mean? I will tell you a few things + that it would mean. + </p> + <p> + First of all it would mean that the man who felt in him the voice of God + would know that there was a road he could travel, would know that there + was a home for him. He would no longer face the fearful alternative of + mediocrity or starvation. He would no longer be tempted, he would no + longer be forced to turn from his faith, and stunt his development, and + wreck his plans, by base attempts to compromise between his highest and + what the world will pay for. Can you have any idea what that would mean to + an artist? You say that you love art! Can you have any idea of the effect + which that would have upon art? Upon the art of your country—upon + American literature! To have a band of perhaps a hundred—perhaps a + thousand, proved and chosen—the best and strongest that could be + found—and set free and consecrated to the search for beauty! Try it + for fifty years—try it for ten years—try the method of raising + your poets in your gardens instead of flinging them into your weed-beds—and + see what the result would be! See if in fifty years American literature + would not have done more than all the rest of the world! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And what would it cost?—O God! Is there a railroad in this country + so small that its earnings would not pay for it—for the whole of the + thousand? Why, pay a poet five hundred dollars a year, and he is a rich + man; if he is not, he is no poet, but a knave. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And there would be waste?—Yes—where is there not waste? But + grant that in the whole thousand there is just <i>one</i> who is a master + mind; and that him you set free and keep from defeat—that him with + all his glory you make yours—and then tell me if there be any other + way in this world that you could have done so much for man with your + money! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —No, these are not your ways, oh you cruel world! You let every man + go his way—you let him starve, you let him die in any hole that he + can find. The poet—tenderest and most sensitive of all men! The poet—the + master of the arts of suffering! Exposed on every side, nervous, haunted, + unused to the world, knowing how to feel and knowing that alone! Is not + his life an agony under any conditions,—is he not tortured for you—the + world? And you leave him helpless, despairing! + </p> + <p> + What is the matter with you?—How can you be so blind? There are some + of you who really love books—look and see the story of genius—if + it be not a thing to make you shudder and turn sick. It has been so + through all the ages, and it will be so through all the ages to come, + until society has a conscience and a soul. Tell me if there is anything in + this world more frightful than the lot of the poets who have been born + poor—of Marlowe and Chatterton and Goldsmith, Johnson and Burns and + Keats! And who can tell how many were choked before even their first + utterance? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I can not talk of that, for it makes me sick; but I will talk of the poets + who were born rich. Is it not singular—is it not terrible—how + many of the great stalwart ones were rich? To be educated, to own books, + to hear music, to dwell in the country, to be free from men and men's + judgments! Oh, the words break my heart! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —But was not Goethe rich, and did he not have these things? And was + not Hugo rich? And Milton? When he left college he spent five years at his + father's country place and wrote four poems that have done more to make + men happy than if they had cost many millions of dollars. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + But let me come to what I spoke of before, the seven poets of this century + in England. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I name Wordsworth and Byron, Tennyson, Browning and Swinburne, Shelley and + Keats. I said that six of them were independent, and that the other—the + greatest—died like a dog. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Wordsworth came first; he was young and poor and struggling, and a friend + left him just such an independence as I have cried for; and he consecrated + himself to art, and he revolutionized English poetry, he breathed truth + into a whole nation again. And when he was clear and looked back, he made + such statements as these: that “a poet has to <i>create</i> the taste by + which he is to be enjoyed,” and that “my poetry has never brought me + enough to pay for my shoe-strings.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And see how the publishers and critics—how the literary world—received + him! How they jeered and jibed, and took fifty years to understand him! Oh + think of these things, think what they mean, you who love literature! + Think that the world owes its possession of Wordsworth's poetry to the + accident that a friend died and left him some money! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I name Byron; he was a rich man. I name Tennyson; he had a little + competence, and he gave up the idea of marriage and for ten years devoted + himself to art; and when he was thirty-two he published his work—and + then they gave him a pension! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I name Browning; Browning went his own way, heeding no man; and he never + had to think about money. I name Swinburne; and the same was true of him. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I name Shelley; and Shelley was wealthy. They kept him poor for a time, + but his poems do not date from then. When he wrote the poetry that has + been the spiritual food of the high souls of this century, he lived in a + beautiful villa in Italy, and wandered about the forest with his books. + And oh, you who love books, stop just a moment and listen: I am dying, and + the cry of all my soul is in this. Tell me, you who love Shelley—the + “pardlike spirit, beautiful and swift”—“thyself the wild west wind, + oh boy divine!”—tell me how much you think you'd have had of that + glorious burst of music—that golden rain of melody, of heavenly + ecstasy—if the man who wrote had been a wholesale-paper clerk or a + cable-car conductor! How much do you think you'd have had if when he'd + torn himself free to write Queen Mab—or even if he'd been ripe + enough and written his Prometheus—if he'd had to take them to + publishers! If he had had to take them to the critics and the literary + world and say, “Here is my work, now set me free that I may help mankind!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —And when I wrote that I sank down and burst into tears. It can not + be helped. It is very hard for me.— + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Oh, but come face this thing—you that are responsible! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —“But who is responsible?” I hear a voice. Every single man is + responsible—every single man who has money, who loves letters, and + who faces these facts—<i>you</i>—YOU—are responsible! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Perhaps you are weary of my pleading, you think that I perish of my own + weakness. But come and tell me, if you can, what it is that I have not + done? What expedient is there that I have not tried, what resource, what + hope? Have I not been true enough, have I not worked enough? Have I been + extravagant, have I been dissipated? Did I not make my work my best? Come + and reason with me—I shall be dead when you read this, but let us + talk it over calmly. Put yourself here in my place and tell me what you + would do. Have I not tried the publishers, the critics, the editors, the + poets, the clergymen, the professors? Have I not waited—until I am + sick, crazy? Have I not borne indignities enough? Have I not gotten myself + kicked enough for my efforts? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —But you say: “I know nothing about The Captive!” Yes—so it is—then + let us go back to Shelley. A fair test would be Queen Mab or The Revolt of + Islam—he was my age then; but I will go ten years later and take + Prometheus Bound. Would he have found any one to publish it? <i>Did</i> he + find any one to <i>read</i> it? Why, ten or twenty years after Shelley + died, Browning (then a boy) records that he searched all England for a + copy of that queer poet's works! Why, Shelley's poetry was a byword and a + mockery; and Shelley himself—first of all he was insane, of course, + and afterward he was exile, atheist, adulterer, and scoundrel. They took + his children away from him, because he was not fit to take care of them! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And he would not have been welcomed with open arms, I think! And he + wouldn't have been set free—consecrated soul that he was. And + sensitive, nervous, fragile, hysterical boy—do you think he would + ever have written his poems, that he would ever have uttered his message? + </p> + <p> + I have to make somebody understand this thing, somehow. I suggest that you + think what that would have meant to you—to you who love poetry. + Think that you would never have read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh wild west wind, thou breath of Autumn's being!... + Oh lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud, + I fall upon the thorns of life, I bleed! +</pre> + <p> + Think that you would never have read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Teach me half the gladness + That thy brain must know! +</pre> + <p> + That you would never have read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On a poet's lips I slept! +</pre> + <p> + I repeat that I have to make somebody understand this thing. I try that + plan a little more. Listen to me now—think what it would have meant + if that wise friend had not died when he did; think that you would never + have read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And then my heart with rapture fills, + And dances with the daffodils! +</pre> + <p> + Think that you would never have read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The light that never was on sea or land, + The consecration and the poet's dream! +</pre> + <p> + Think that you would never have read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Blank misgivings of a creature + Moving about in world not realized; + High instincts before which our moral nature + Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised! +</pre> + <p> + That you would never have read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Will no one tell me what she sings? + Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow + For old, unhappy, far-off things + And battles long ago. +</pre> + <p> + I say a third time that I have to make somebody understand this thing. Let + us try it again now, just once again. Let us suppose that there had not + been any little independence or any pension. Who can think what it would + have meant to us? Who can think what it would mean never to have read + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ring out, wild bells, +</pre> + <p> + or + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When the war-drum throbs no longer, +</pre> + <p> + or + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Crossing the bar. +</pre> + <p> + Never to have read + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Blow, bugle, blow! +</pre> + <p> + Never to have read + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My strength is as the strength of ten, + Because my heart is pure! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Oh, think not of what these things are to <i>you</i>—think of what + they are to <i>men</i>! How many railroads would pay for them?—one, + do you think? The work of how many libraries have they done, do you think? + <i>How much money do you think could be raised in the world to-day to save + them?</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <i>And not one cent to create them!</i> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I have saved the chief thing to the last. I have spoken of the six + fortunate ones who had money; I have not spoken of thee, oh my poor, poor + Keats! The hours that I have hungered with thee, the hours that I have + wept with thee, oh thou <i>my</i> poet, oh thou <i>my</i> Keats! Oh thou + most wretched, most miserable of poets, oh thou most beautiful, most + exquisite, most unthinkable of poets! Most inspired poet of England, since + Milton died!—It was given to others to be beautiful, it was given to + thee alone to be perfect! It was given to thee to be ecstasy incarnate, to + be melody too sweet to hear! It was given to thee, alone of all poets, to + achieve by mere <i>language</i> a rapture that thrills the soul like the + sound of an organ. And they mocked thee, they spit upon thee, they cursed + thee, oh my poor, poor Keats! Thou, the hostler's son—thou, the + apothecary's clerk! Thou, sick and starved and helpless—thou, dying + of disease and neglect and despair: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh for a draft of vintage! That hath been + Cool'd a long age in the deep-delvèd earth, + Tasting of Flora and the country green, + Dance and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! + Oh for a beaker full of the warm South, + Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, + With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, + And purple-stainèd mouth; + That I might drink and leave the world unseen, + And with thee fade away into the forest dim! +</pre> + <p> + “Go back to thy gallipots, Mr. Keats!” Think not of Gifford—poor + fool—but think of yourself, oh world! Think what you lost in that + man! You killed him, yes, you trampled him, and you throttled him! And he + was only twenty-five! And he had never finished <i>Hyperion</i>—because + he had not the heart! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —Come, now, all you who love books, come quickly, and let us take up + a subscription, <i>that we may save for men the rest of Hyperion</i>! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, + And feeds her grief with his remembered lay! + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have been sitting here from seven in the evening until three in the + morning, and I can not write any more. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Only—think about this thing. Look up the facts and see if they are + not true. These seven men <i>made</i> England's poetry for a century; they + made England's <i>thought</i> for a century—they make it to-day! + They are the inspiration of whole peoples, the sources of multitudes of + noble deeds and purposes. What do you think in money would be represented + by the value of these books alone? Enough to support ten thousand poets + for a lifetime, do you think? And how many hundreds of thousands of + students are hearing about them this day? How many young men and maidens + are going out into the world owing all that they have that is beautiful to + them? And all these authors of the day, all these critics and teachers, + novelists and poets—how much of what they have that is true do they + not owe to these men? Go ask them, go ask them! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —And you have it all because of the accident that these men were + independent! You have all from six of them for that, and from the seventh + you have nothing—yes, almost nothing—because he was poor! + Because he was a hostler's son, and not a gentleman's son; and you sent + him back to his gallipots and to his grave. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 4th. + </p> + <p> + I wait to hear from the publisher merely as a matter of duty. I have never + had the least idea that he will take the book. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have made up my mind to drown myself. There is no mess about it, and men + do not have to know of it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have often read of murder cases. They tie a rope around the body and a + stone to the rope; but the stone slips out, or the rope wears, and then it + is unpleasant. I used to say they were fools; why did they not get a + dumb-bell or something like that, and a small chain. Then there would have + been no trouble. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + When I thought of that I smiled grimly. I am living on dry bread, and + saving my money to buy a dumb-bell and a chain on Friday. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I pray most of the time. I have no longer the old ecstasy—such + things do not come often in cities. But it will come once again before I + die, that I know. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have a strange attitude toward death. To me it is nothing. There is, of + course, the pain of drowning—it probably hurts to be strangled, but + I do not think it will hurt as much as ten lines of The Captive hurt. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + About the physical part of it, the “invisible corruption,” I never think; + it is enough that it will be invisible. And for the rest, death is + nothing, it is the end. I have never shrunk from the thought of it, it + does not come as a stranger to me now. I take it simply and naturally—it + is the end. It is the end that comes to all things in this phantom-dance + of being; to flowers and to music, to mountains and to planets, to + histories, and to universes, and to men. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I said: “It must come some day. It may come any day. Love not thy life too + much—know what thou art.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + God can spare me. He got along without me once, and doubtless he can do it + again. There are many things that I should like to see—I should like + to see all the ages; but that was not my fate. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + When I was young they taught me to be orthodox. And I see them stare at me + now in horror. “Suicide!” they gasp. “Suicide!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Yes!—Why not? Am I not the lord of mine own life, to end it as well + as to live it? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And the law! Prate not of laws, I know of no laws, either of man or God; + my law is the right and my holy will. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + And the punishment! Well, and if your hell be a reality, why, it is my + home—it is the home of all true men. The sublime duty of being + damned is ever my reply to theological impertinences. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —No, the sight of death does not thrill me in the least—when I + stand upon the brink it will not thrill me. It is not fearful; what the + weakest of men have done, I can do. And it is not sublime. Life is + sublime, life thrills me; death is nothing. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 5th. + </p> + <p> + To-day I wished that it were winter. A wonderful idea came to me—I + am almost tempted to live and wait for winter. I said: I would choose one + place where the money-blind and the folly-mad assemble—where I have + seen them and had my eyes burned by the sight. I would go to the + opera-house on the opening night! I would go to the top gallery, and I + would put my journal, my story, under my coat; and in the midst of the + thing I would give one cry, to startle them; and I would dash down that + long flight of steps, and shoot over the railing headfirst. + </p> + <p> + —Ha! That would make them think! They might read the book, then. + </p> + <p> + What place could be more fitted? In an opera-house meet, as nowhere else + in this world that I know of, the two extremes of life—God and the + devil. I mean on a Wagner night! Here is the inspiration of a sainted + poet, here is ecstasy unthinkable, flung wide and glorious as the dawn; + and here is all the sodden and brutal vulgarity of wealth, deaf, blind, + and strutting in its insolent pomposity. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I am very ill to-day—I have a splitting headache and I am + weak. It is from trying to save too much money for the dumb-bell, I fear. + But I laugh—what care I? My body is going to wreck—but what + care I? Ah, it is a fine thing to be death-devoted, and freed from all the + ills that flesh is heir to! I go my way—do what I please—hammer + on and on, and let happen what will. What, old head!—wilt ache? I + guess I can stop thy aching before long! And all ye mechanical + miscellaneities—stomachs and what not! <i>Thou</i> wilt trouble me + too? Do thy pleasure, go thy way—I go mine! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + There is a kind of intoxication in it. I climb upon all these ills that + used to frighten me—I mock at them, I am a god. I smite my head—I + say, “I am done with thee, old head! I have thought with thee all the + thoughts I have to think!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have made me right drunk upon life, yes, that is the truth; and now the + feast is over, and I will smash the crockery! Come, boys, come!—Away + with it! Through the window here with the head—look out of the way + below there for the stomach—ha, ha! + </p> + <p> + —Is not that Shakespearian humor for you? Such a thing it is to be + death-devoted! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —But there is a deeper side to this wonderful thing—this + prospect of peace—this end of pain. All these solemn realities that + were so much to thee—this “world” and all its ways—its + conventions and proprieties, its duties and its trials; how now, do they + seem so much to thee after all? Cynical relative that wouldst “leave it to + time”—was I so wrong, that I would not hear thy wisdom? Suppose thou + wert coming with me to-morrow—hey? And to leave all thy clothes and + thy clubs, thy bank-account, and thy reputation, and thy stories! Ah, thou + canst not come with me, but thou wilt come after me some day, never fear. + This is a journey that each man goes alone. + </p> + <p> + Oh, it is easy to be a man when you are sentenced to die. Then all things + slip into their places, power and pride, wealth and fame—what + strange fantasies they seem! What tales I could tell the world at this + minute, of how their ways seem to me!—Oh, take my advice, good + friend, and pray thy God for one hour in which thou mayst see the truth of + all those foolish great things of thy life! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I read Alastor this afternoon. What a strange vision it is! And I, too, in + awe and mystery shall journey away unto a high mountain to die. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —And then later I went out into the Park. I saw a flower; and + suddenly the wild ecstasy flashed over me, and I sank down upon a seat, + and hid my face in my hands, and everything swirled black about me. I + cried: “I do not want to die! Why, I am only a boy! I love the flowers—I + want to see the springtime!” + </p> + <p> + And then I felt some one take me by the shoulder, and heard a grim voice + within me say, “Come! Come!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Oh, it will be all right, never fear! Never yet have I failed to do what I + resolved to do. And thou world, thou wouldst have me thy slave; but I am + no man's slave—not I! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + My death-warrant is ready. I go for it to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 6th. + </p> + <p> + Last night I knelt by the bedside, far into the deep hours, far into the + dawn. The whole drama of my life rolled out before me, I saw it all, I + lived it all again; and Him in whose arms I lay—I blessed Him for + the whole of it. Now that the pain is gone I see that it was beautiful, + that flower of my life. Other flowers the plant might have borne; but this + flower was beautiful; and each flower is for itself. + </p> + <p> + I stretch out my arms, I float upon a tide, back, back, into the rolling + source of things. Weep not for me, you who may love me; I can not die, for + I never was; that which I am, I was always, and shall be ever; I am <i>He</i>. + Go out into the world, you who may love me, and say, “This flower is he, + this sunset cloud is he; this wind is his breath, this song is his + spirit.” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + What is my faith, the faith in which I die? It is the faith of modern + thought; it is the faith of the ages. It is a spiritual Pantheism, an + impassioned Agnosticism. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + A Presence am I; what is my source I know not, nor can I ever know. The + moral fact I know, my will; and I take it as I find it, and rejoice in the + making of beauty. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Do I believe that I ever shall live again? I know that I shall not. I do + not insult His perfection and my faith, with the wish that such as I + should be immortal. What I have He gave me; it is His, and He will take + it. I have no rights, and I have no claims. I see not why He should give + me ages because He has given me an hour. He never turns back, He never + makes over again—that I know. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —And neither do I ask rewards; my life was beautiful, I bless Him + for every prayer. I ask Him not that He cover the fair painting with + whitewash. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have no fear of Oblivion. I have no thoughts about it. There are no + thoughts in Oblivion. + </p> + <p> + <i>The days when thou wert not, did they trouble thee? The days when thou + art not shall trouble thee as much</i>. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + —I have made up my mind that I will get some work this morning, or + sell my coat, or something. I will go out into the country, I will be + alone with Him to-night. I will fling off every chain that has bound me. I + will fling off the world, I will fling off pain, I will fling off health. + I will say, “Burst thyself, brain! Rend thyself, body, as thou wilt!—but + I will see my God to-night before I die!” + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + I have been to the publishers. They gave me back The Captive. “It is + done.” + </p> + <h3> + THE END + </h3> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The Journal of Arthur Stirling, by Upton Sinclair + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE JOURNAL OF ARTHUR STIRLING *** + +***** This file should be named 7774-h.htm or 7774-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/7/7/7774/ + + +Text file produced by Distributed Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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