--I believe I have named all the necessaries of life.
* * * * *
June 15th.
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.--
* * * * *
--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.
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.
* * * * *
--That is the way I shall spend next summer!--Up, up! Get to work!--
* * * * *
June 17th.
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?
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.
--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!
* * * * *
June 20th.
Oh, the joy of being out in the woods! I never knew of it before--I never
dreamed it!
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!
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
_alone_!
--Last night there was a gale, and the clouds sped over the moon, and the
wind roared in the trees--and I roared too!
--"For I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set!"
* * * * *
June 21st.
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.
And so the storm again, and the great waves speeding!
* * * * *
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.
I am tired out again; but oh, I am filled with my music! There was never
any poetry like it in the world!
* * * * *
And at the height of it I cry out: "I am free! I am free!
"I won't have to stop again!
"I can go to the very end of it!
"And I don't care who hears me!
"I am free!"
* * * * *
June 23d.
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.
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.
I shall have them all hard-boiled in the farmhouse after this.
--Twenty-eight lines to-day! I had more, but I lost them, and then I fell
down.
--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.
* * * * *
--That is as it should be, of course. One does not reckon by days in a
dungeon.
I notice also that the periods get longer; it has more sweep--it leaps
wider spaces--it is less easy to follow.
* * * * *
--Oh, let not any man read what I wrote this morning, except he stand upon
the heights!
* * * * *
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 _King Lear_!"
* * * * *
I brought about twenty phrases out of that, and one or two sentences. They
will fall into the verse the next time it comes.
* * * * *
June 24th.
--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 _real_; and they will last as long as
there is a man alive to read them!
When I let anything make me cease to believe in that scene, may I die!
--I will shout it aloud on the streets; they are _real_!
* * * * *
And there has been nothing like them done for some years, either.
* * * * *
June 25th.
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."
I had had nothing to eat but bread and apples for two meals, and I couldn't
stand that again.
I had fried squirrel and fried apples for supper. It was a very curious
repast.
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!
* * * * *
June 26th.
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!
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.
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.
* * * * *
And I am coming to the end--really to the end!
* * * * *
June 27th.
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.
Nearer! Nearer!
* * * * *
June 29th.
Wandering through the woods dreaming of a banquet-hall.--The guests are
witty.
* * * * *
I have put into the mouths of the guests all that the world has said to me,
since first I went poetical.
* * * * *
June 30th.
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.
* * * * *
--This book goes out into the world, not to be judged, but to judge!
* * * * *
July 1st.
You do not hear much from a man in a battle, just now and then a cry.
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.
--I believe I shall do it all in one day. I don't think I can lay it aside.
* * * * *
July 3d.
It is done!--
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.
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.
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!
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!"
* * * * *
July 4th.
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.
--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!
Ah, I have done it! I have done it! I am free! _Free!_ FREE!
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?
* * * * *
July 5th.
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.
* * * * *
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.
Good night, sweet prince,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
* * * * *
July 6th.
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!"
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!
* * * * *
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!
Come, come, my foes, where are ye now? What foes shall I be afraid of now!
Is it the world and its trials? Come!
* * * * *
I go back to conquer--I have forged my weapon! I have bared my arm! Where
are those foes of mine?
* * * * *
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!
I go back to the world. Come, world! I have but four dollars left--four
dollars!--and The Captive!
* * * * *
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!"
* * * * *
--It is not the sorrow, it is the struggle; so I read the tragedy. This man
is dead, but God lives, and Art lives.
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!
* * * * *
I am writing on the train. I write commonplaces. That is because I can not
shout.
But back there, coming out of the woods, I shouted--and not commonplaces
either!
Coming out of the forest--forest-drunk! Now I know all about Pan and his
creatures!
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
July 7th. [Footnote: Possibly an error in the date, as the day was Sunday.]
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.
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?
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
Go forth, oh my perfect song!
PART II
SEEKING A PUBLISHER
July 8th.
To-day I took it to the publisher's!
* * * * *
I had been pondering for a week who were the best publishers. To-day I
hardly had the courage to go in--I know nothing about such things--and my
hands shook so I could hardly hold the package.
* * * * *
I asked to see the manager. I told him I had a manuscript to submit. He
looked at me--I guess I must look rather seedy. "What sort of a
manuscript?" he asked. "A blank verse drama!"
Then he took it and glanced over it. "Blank verse dramas are difficult
things to publish," he said.
"You had best read it, I think," I answered, "you will find it worth
while."
"Very well, if you wish," said he, "we always read everything that is
offered to us."
"How soon shall you be able to let me know?"
"Oh, in a week or ten days."
* * * * *
And then I went out--shuddering with excitement. A week or ten days!
Well--I can wait. I have done all _my_ duty, at any rate.
* * * * *
July 9th.
I have certainly played a bold game with my poem! At the publisher's at
last--and I, having paid my room-rent, have just a dollar in my pocket!
* * * * *
I have been tramping about all day to-day, looking for some work. I don't
care what it is--I can do anything to keep alive for a week or ten days.--I
wonder if they will advance me some money at once.
* * * * *
They all stare at me suspiciously. I think some of the wildness of the
woods must still hang about me.--Anyway, I walk along on air, I fear
nothing. I could hug all the passers-by. My book is at the publisher's! I
could beg, I think, if I had to, and do it serenely, exultingly. I have
only a dollar--but have I not all the stars?
* * * * *
I was thinking to-day about Carlyle, and that ghastly accident to his
manuscript. Let others blame Carlyle for his sins--for those days of agony
and horror I forgive him all things, and love him.
I have the original manuscript of The Captive put safely away. If that poem
were destroyed it would kill me. I can think of anything else in the world
but such a thing as that.
* * * * *
July 10th.
What will they write me about it? I picture to myself all the emotions of
a publisher when he discovers a poem like that! Ah yes, good publisher,
I have scanned your lists for many months back; but you have published
nothing like The Captive.
And then I shall taste my first drop of success.
--I do not want it for myself--it is not that--I want it for the book! I
want people to love it--I want it to stir their souls! I want brothers and
friends and lovers in that great glory of mine! That is why I want all the
world to shake with it.
* * * * *
And then I can go on!
* * * * *
--I wonder if they will write to me sooner, when they find out what it
is.--
* * * * *
I have been picturing myself with some money! It is all over now--and I can
do that--will it not be strange to have some money! I have been thinking
where I should live, and what I should do.
The first thing I shall do is to get somebody to teach me music. And then
all the concerts that I long for! How long has it been since I have heard a
note of music?
* * * * *
I think that is all I want. I want no toys in my life. I want my freedom,
and my soul, and the forest once again.--
* * * * *
I read some of the psalms to-night--far, far into the morning. My heart is
a psalm.
* * * * *
--I have gotten something to do! I am a waiter in a restaurant on Sixth
Avenue! I got the place this morning. Ugh!--it is nasty beyond words. But I
do not care, it will keep me alive.
* * * * *
July 11th.
What a thing is hope! I have been for two days chained in the most horrible
kind of a place. Picture it--to stand all day and see low people stuffing
themselves with food--the dirt and the grease and the stench and the
endless hideous drudgery! And I five days out of the springing forest and
the ecstasy of inspiration!--Truly, it is a thing to put one's glory to a
test! But I hardly feel it--I walk on air--deep back in my soul there is an
organ song, I hear it all day, all day!
How soon will they write? I fly up-stairs each night, looking for a letter.
Hurry up! Hurry up!
--"_Pegasus im Joche_!"
* * * * *
July 13th.
The book! The book! I go thinking about it--when I come home I throw myself
down on the bed and laugh with suppressed excitement. I think all day--they
are reading it now, perhaps! Ah, my book! And perhaps I'll find somebody at
home there to see me about it to-night!
I look at the reviews--I am interested in all the books of the day
now--because The Captive is going to be among them! How will it seem to see
it there, in big letters?
* * * * *
And how will it seem to be known? I am not a fool--I know what will help
me to my peace when I am out there in the woods again--and it will not be
that the newspapers have been talking about me, and that the dames of high
society have asked me to their tea-parties. But there are one or two men in
this world that I should like to know. Perhaps as the author of a book that
is known it would be possible.
* * * * *
--Yes, before I was one of the mob, and now I have shown what I can do.
* * * * *
July 15th.
The horror of that awful "eating-joint" grows on me every hour. I could not
bear it much more--physically it makes me ill, and no amount of enthusiasm
can make that better. I will not sell a second more of my time than I have
to. I made up my mind that I would give up the place at the end of the
week. The money will do me for another week after that, and by that time I
will surely have heard from the publishers.
* * * * *
I'll have to tell them, that's all,--it is nothing to be ashamed of.
They'll have to give me some money in advance. I can not live in that
cesspool.
* * * * *
Yes, to-morrow and half of the next day,--that is all I will bear!
* * * * *
--I long sometimes to go and see them; but no, I can wait.
* * * * *
July 17th.
I treated myself to a long holiday this afternoon. I went up to the park,
and walked and walked. Everything was in a tumult within me--I was clear
of that last prison. And all the excitement and the power of that poem are
still in me. I am restless, all on fire, stern, hungry, like a wind-storm.
Come not near me unless you wish for truth! Come not near me if you fear
the gods!
To-day my thoughts went surging into the future. I shall have money!--I
shall be free!--And what shall I do next? I counted up what I might
have--even a slight success for the book would mean a fortune such as
turned my head to think of. What would I do?
My mind pounced upon a new work--a work that I have dreamed of often. Would
it be my next work? I thought--would I be able--would I dare? It is a grand
thing.
I went on, and got to thinking of it; I almost forgot that I was not still
in the woods. What a sweeping thing I see it!
The American! It would have to be a three-volume novel, I fear--it would be
as huge as Les MisГ©rables!
It is the Civil War! I am haunted by that fearful struggle. Is there
anything more fearful in history, any more tremendous effort of the human
spirit? And so far it has not made one great poem, one great drama, one
great novel!
* * * * *
It was the furnace-fire in which this land was forged--this land which
holds in its womb the future of the world--this land that is to give laws
to the nations and teach mankind its destiny. I search the ages, and I find
no struggle so fraught with meaning, with the woe and the terror and the
agony of a desperate hope.
It must be all put into an art-work, I say! There is no theme that could
thrill the men of this country more, that could lift them more, that could
do more to make their hearts throb with pride. We sent all the best that we
had--armies and armies of them--and they toiled and suffered, they rotted
upon a thousand fields of horror. And their souls cry out to me, that it
must not be for naught, that the fearful consecration must not be for
naught.
The world is filled with historical fiction; it is the cant and the sham of
the hour.--Bah!
* * * * *
--This is what I long to do; to take the agony of that struggle and live it
and forge it into an art-work; to put upon a canvas the soul of it; to put
it there, living and terrible, that the men of this land might know the
heritage that is come down to them.
It would take years of toil, it would take money, too--I should have to go
down there. But some day I shall do it!
I saw some of it to-day, and it made my blood go!
I saw a poet, young, sensitive, throbbing at the old, old wrong, at the
black shame of our history; I saw him drawn into that fearful whirlpool of
blood and passion, driven mad with the pain and the horror of it; and I saw
him drilled and hammered to a grim savageness, saw him fighting, day by
day, with his spirit, forging it into an iron sword of war. He was haggard
and hollow-eyed, hard, ruthless, desperate. He saw into the future, he saw
the land he loved, the land he dreamed of--the Union! She stretched out her
arms to him; she cried with the voices of unborn ages, she wrung her hands
in the agony of her despair. And for her his heart beat, for her he was
a madman, for her he marched in sun and in snow, for her he was torn and
slashed, for her he waded through fields of slaughter. Of her he dreamed
and sung--sung to the camps in the night-time, till armies were thrilled
with his singing.
* * * * *
This was the thing of which he sang, the gaunt, grim poet: There is a
monster, huge beyond thought, terrible, all-destroying; the name of it is
Rebellion, and the end of it is Death! Day by day you grapple with it, day
by day you hammer it, day by day you crush it. Down with it, down with it!
Finish it!
I heard that as a battle-cry: "Finish it!" I saw a man, wild and
war-frenzied, riding a war-frenzied horse; he rode at the head of a
squadron, bare-headed, sword in hand, demon-like--thundering down-hill upon
a mass of men, stabbing, slashing, trampling, scattering! Above the roar of
it all I heard his cry: "Finish it! Finish it!"
And afterward he staggered from his horse and knelt by the men he had
killed, and wept.
* * * * *
--I saw him again. It was when the man of the hour had come at last;
when the monster had met his master; when, day by day, they hammered it,
the fire-spitting, death-dealing monster; when they closed with it in
death-grapple in a tangled wilderness, where armies fought like demons in
the dark, and the wounded were burned by the thousands. I saw companies of
fainting, starving, agonized men, retreating, still battling, day by day;
and I saw the wild horseman galloping on their track, slashing,
trampling--and still with the battle-yell: "Finish it! Finish it!"
* * * * *
I saw him yet a third time. It was done, it was finished; and he lay
wounded in a dark room, listening. Outside in the streets of Washington
a great endless army marched by, the army of victory, of salvation; and
the old war-flags waved, and the old war-songs echoed, and he heard the
trampling of ten thousand feet--the rumbling of the old cannon--and the
ocean-roaring of the vast throngs of men! A wild delirium of victory
throbbed in his soul,--burned him up, as he lay there alone, dying of his
passion and his wounds. Born of the joy that throbbed in the air about him,
born of the waving banners and the clashing trumpets and the trampling
hosts and the shouting millions--a figure loomed up before him--a figure
with eyes of flame and a form that towered like the mountains--with arms
outstretched in rapture and robes that touched the corn-fields as she
sped--angel, prophetess, goddess!--Liberty!
* * * * *
--And at her feet he sobbed out his life.
* * * * *
--The American!
* * * * *
July 18th.
Still another day, and no news from the publisher's. The time is nearly
up--I can not wait much longer.
* * * * *
They have rejected The Captive! They have rejected The Captive! In God's
name, what does it mean? They have rejected The Captive!
I stared at the paper in blank consternation! I couldn't realize the words,
I couldn't understand what they meant. Such a thing never occurred to me in
my wildest moment.
What is the matter with them--are they mad? Great God, that any human
creature!--And without a line about it!
--"We have carefully considered the MS. which you have kindly offered us,
and regret that we are not advised to undertake its publication. We are
returning the MS. with thanks for your courtesy in submitting it."
* * * * *
That letter came to me like a blow in the face.--I have spent hours
to-night pacing the streets, almost speechless. Fools!
--But I will not let such a thing disturb me for an instant. Yes, they are
a great publishing-house--but such things as I have seen them publish! And
they "regret." Well, you _will_ regret, some day, never fear!
* * * * *
July 19th.
The manuscript arrived this morning. I took it up-stairs and sat down,
trembling, and read it all again.
I wish that I could see the man or woman who read that poem and rejected
it--just that I might see what kind of looking person it is. Oh, the
wildness of it, the surge and the roar of it! The glory of it!
* * * * *
I can not afford to waste my time worrying about such things. I only say
"Fools!"
* * * * *
--I took it to another publisher. I don't know any in particular, but I
will try the best. This publisher didn't seem very anxious to read it. Go
ahead, try it!--Or are you a fool too?
--Of course I shall have to begin tramping around, looking for some work
again. I must find something better than the last.
* * * * *
July 20th.
Nervous, impatient--it is so that I have lived. Never to waste an instant
has been my passion. I have struggled, watched, fought for a minute. If
ever I were held back or kept idle it drove me wild, and I burst through
everything. It has always been a torture to me not to be thinking
something.
But less of that torture than I have now, I think I never had; it seems as
if I had won the mastery--I mind nothing any more. I walk upon the air,
and I never tire. Thoughts--endless thoughts--come to me without ever the
asking; nothing disturbs me, nothing hinders me--I take everything along
with me.--I am full of impulse, of life, of energy!--
I am the owner of the sphere,
Of the seven stars and the solar year,
Of Cæsar's hand and Plato's brain!--
And this when I have spent all the day looking for work!--answering
advertisements, and tramping to this place and that! Discouraging?--what
does the word mean?
* * * * *
--I am the man who has never learned to shiver and shake!
* * * * *
I thought of a young Irishman I worked with a long time ago. "Once I went
into a place, and says I, 'I'd like to be havin' a job.' An' he looked me
over, an' he says, says he, 'Git oot!' An' so I thought I'd better git
oot!"
* * * * *
It might take me some time to find a publisher, I was thinking to-day. I do
not know anything about publishers. But once get it before the world, that
is the thing! I fear nothing, I can wait. It is done, that is all I can
think of. --The rest "must follow, as the night the day."
* * * * *
July 21st.
To-night I sat by the bedside trembling, thinking of what I had learned.
Oh, this faith that I have gained, it must go forth among men! A prayer
welled up in my soul--I have learned what I can do--I have learned that I
can do what I will! I have seen the infinite heights that lie beyond--oh,
let me not fail! The hopes of unborn generations are in my soul.
* * * * *
--That is true. What systems shall come of this vision of mine, what new
ways of beauty, what new happiness and new freedom! That thought has shaken
the very depths of my soul.
It makes me leap up--it makes me wish to go! Why should I not start now?
Why should I waste to-day?
* * * * *
July 22d.
I have been making plans. I must get to work. I was racing through all
sorts of vast schemes to-day as I walked about the streets hunting for
something to do. I will make my Greek perfect first--I can do that while I
am walking.
I made an athlete of myself pacing up and down with The Captive! I honestly
think I walked ten or twelve hours some days. I have walked all day to-day,
but I do not feel tired. I answered advertisements in the papers.
* * * * *
--Why are men impolite? I do not believe I could ever learn to speak
rudely.
* * * * *
July 23d.
The impossible occupations that I have thought of, in trying to solve
my problem! To-day I saw myself a lighthouse-keeper! What does a
lighthouse-keeper do, anyway? And could I manage to get such a place
where I could be alone by myself?
* * * * *
--But no, some one would have to attend to the light!--
* * * * *
I thought of being a hall-boy. But you are not paid very much.--I said,
however, that I would at least get some sort of a place up-town. I could
not stand it down in the "business" world.
* * * * *
God, how horrible it is! All that seething effort--and for what? All this
"business"--is it really necessary to the developing of the souls of men?
Does each man in that rushing mob need more money yet, to begin developing
his soul?
* * * * *
--Another occupation! I saw myself a lonely hunter, living by a mountain
lake, and shooting game for a living! I wonder if that wouldn't be
possible. I never shot any game, but I could learn.
It would suit me perfectly to sit by a mountain lake and read Greek and
watch for ducks.
* * * * *
July 27th.
I was getting down pretty close to the limit again, but I got something to
do to-day. I had to take what I could find; it is what would be called a
good position, I suppose; I am in a wholesale-paper store. I get twelve
dollars, and that is quite something.
* * * * *
The business of the will is to face the things that come--not any other
things. Now I have to drill and discipline myself anew, to learn to save my
soul alive in a wholesale-paper store!
It is a great, dingy place, full of chaffering, hungry-looking men. They
are all desperately serious; it is a great "business house," I believe; the
very atmosphere of it is deadly poison.
--Oh bald-headed, grim-visaged senior-partner, that didst gaze at me over
black-rimmed spectacles--so I have "an opportunity to rise," have I?
Yes,--I shall rise upon wings of a sapphire sheen, and toss myself up in
the wind and shake down showers of golden light into thy wondering eyes, oh
bald-headed, grim-visaged senior-partner!
* * * * *
--It is my business to show samples of paper. I shall learn all about them
in a few days, and then I shall go at the Greek.
* * * * *
July 28th.
Whenever I feel weary I run off into a corner and whisper into my ear, "It
is done! Be not afraid!" Instantly my heart goes up like swift music.
* * * * *
July 31st.
Twelve days since I left The Captive; they said it would take three weeks.
* * * * *
Something strange flashed over me to-day, something that sent a shudder
through me; I have done a strange thing to myself this summer, not in
metaphor, but in fact. I have seen a ghost; I have drunk a potion; I have
gazed upon a nymph; I have made myself mad!
* * * * *
I am no longer a man among men--I am "the reed that grows never more
again"!
* * * * *
--I try to lose myself in a book, but the book does not hold me. Nothing
satisfies me as it used to,--I am restless, hungry, ill at ease. Why should
I read this man's weak efforts--what profits me that man's half-truths?
* * * * *
--And all the time I know too well what I want--I want to fight!
I want to get back into the woods again! I want that vision again! That
work again! I want _myself_!
* * * * *
--And here I am, a bird in a cage, beating the bars. What folly to say that
I can be strong and endure this thing! That I can endure anything, dare
anything. Yes, so I can--if I can strive! Put me out there alone, and set
me a task, and I will do it though it kill me. But how can I conquer when I
can not strive?
Here I am, tied! I am tied--not hand and foot--but tied in soul. Tied in
time! Tied in attention! How can I be anything but beaten and wretched? How
can I expect anything but defeat and ruin? A song comes to me, it calls
me--and I can not go! I must stare at it and watch it leave me!--How can
that not drive me wild?
The great wings of my soul begin to beat--I go up, I am wild for the
air,--and then suddenly I am struck back by the hideous impertinences of
the wholesale-paper business! How can I endure such things as that--how can
I _conquer_ Why, it is like the clashing in my ears of twenty trumpets
out of tune!
* * * * *
Do not keep me here long! Do not keep me here long!
* * * * *
--It is something that I find very strange and curious to watch--how
spontaneously, and instinctively, all young men dislike me. Have I a brand
upon my forehead?
* * * * *
It is not my habit to stand upon the pedestal of my inspiration, and gaze
down upon those that I meet. Sympathy is my life--I can sympathize even
with men who aspire to rise in business. But I have to live many lives, and
new lives; and I can brook no delay.
I will make no compromises; I have sworn a vow against idle words--they may
dislike me as they will. I give my work, for which I am paid; I can not
give my soul.
* * * * *
August 2d.
Oh what a horrible thing is "business"! Here, where I am,--this is _the
world_. An industrial era!
* * * * *
This is a wholesale-paper house, and the three partners who run it call
themselves, with unconscious irony, "wholesale-paper MEN"! They live their
lives in wholesale-paper,--they talk it--they dream it--they plan it--they
have no hope in the world except to find people to buy wholesale-paper! And
the manager--keen and hungry--he is planning to be a wholesale-paper man
himself. And here are twenty-five men and youths apparently having but one
virtue in the world, the possibility of consecrating their souls to
wholesale-paper!
What they make is useful, it may even be sublime--in which way the business
is unique. But none of these men ever thinks of that--they would be just as
absorbed in the business if it were wholesale bonnets. None of them has the
least care in the world about books. And these men who come here to buy the
paper--are _they_ any better? Or is their interest in the paper the
profits it may bring to them?
* * * * *
--Dear God!--That brought me back to The Captive.
* * * * *
--I have been sick to-day, and sickness clips your wings. It is an error of
mine--I pay for my food with my soul, and so I try to eat little, and
thereby make myself ill.
* * * * *
August 3d.
I got my first twelve dollars to-day!
* * * * *
August 5th.
To-day I made a resolution, that I must stop this chafing, this panting,
this beating my wings to pieces. A man's inspiration must be under his
control, to stop it, as well as to start it. I can not write or dream
poetry while I am in this slavery, and somehow I have to realize it. When
I go home I will get to some work, and not wander around hungering.
After my glimpse of the forest it is frightful to be penned in this
steaming city. To have to work in an office all day--sometimes it makes me
reel. And then at night too, when I try to read, the room gets suffocating.
Then I go out among the tenement-house crowds, carrying my little
note-book. I stop at a lamp-post and look at a couple of words and then
walk on and learn them! So I go for hours.
* * * * *
--Hurry up, publishers!--I wrote to them to-night.
* * * * *
August 7th.
"In answer to your letter of the 5th instant, we beg to inform you that
your manuscript is now in the hands of our readers, and that you may expect
a report upon it in a week."
* * * * *
I am reading Euripides.
* * * * *
August 8th.
Oh how will I find words for my delight when I have got a little money and
can escape from dirt and horror. To-night two vile men have been quarreling
in the room underneath, and I have been drinking in all their brutal
ugliness. Bah!--
* * * * *
To live in a place where there are not horrible women in wrappers, reeling,
foul-smelling men, snuffling children with beer-cans!
This is more of my "economy"!
* * * * *
To-night I sat upon the edge of the bed and whispered, "To be free! I shall
be free!"--until I was trembling in every nerve.
My beautiful poem! My beautiful poem will set me free!
Sometimes I love it just as if it were a child.
* * * * *
August 10th.
Twelve dollars more!
* * * * *
August 11th.
"We have read with the utmost interest the manuscript of The Captive which
you have been so good as to show us. We are very sorry to say that it does
not seem to us that the publication of this poem would be a venture in
which we could engage with profit. At the same time, however, we have been
very much struck with it, and consider it an altogether remarkable piece of
work. We should like very much to have the privilege of an interview with
you, should you find it convenient."
* * * * *
Now what in the world do they mean by that? If they are not going to
publish the book, what do they want to see me for? And I've wasted two
weeks more of my life!
I had not reckoned on petty things such as these. I fear I have not much
knowledge of men. How can a man read The Captive and not know that others
would read it? What are they in business for, anyway?
* * * * *
August 12th.
I begged off from work for an hour. I have had an interview with the great
publishers! I have learned a great deal too.
I saw the manager of the firm. He meant to be very kind, that is the first
thing to say; the second is that he is very well-dressed, and
comfortable-looking.
* * * * *
"Now, Mr. Stirling," said he, "you know a publishing house is always on
the lookout for the new man. That is why I wanted to have the pleasure of
meeting you. It is evident to me that you have literary talent of no common
kind."
(I bow.)
"I wish that I could tell you that we could consider The Captive an
available piece of writing; I have read it myself with the greatest care.
But you must know, Mr. Stirling, that it is an exceedingly _difficult_
piece of work; I mean difficult from a publisher's point of view. There is
very little demand for poetry nowadays--a publisher generally brings out at
a loss even the poems that make a reputation for their authors. Whether you
are aware of that I don't know, but it is true; and I think of all kinds of
poetry a blank verse tragedy is the most to be shunned."
(Here a pause. I have never any tongue when I am with men.)
"What I want to talk to you about, Mr. Stirling, is the work which you
contemplate in the future. As I said, I was interested at once in this
work; I should like very much indeed to advise you and to be of any
assistance to you that I can. I should like very much to know what your
plans are. I should like very much to see anything that you might write.
Are you contemplating anything just at present?"
"No, not just at present."
"Not? Don't you think that you might find it possible to produce something
just a little more in accordance with the public taste? Don't you think,
for instance, that you might possibly write a novel?"
(Some hesitation.) "I have thought of a novel."
"Ah! And might I ask--would it be a character study?--or perhaps
historical?--or--"
"It would be historical."
"Ah! And of what period?"
"The Civil War."
(A great look of satisfaction.) "Dear me! Why, that is very interesting
indeed, Mr. Stirling! I should like to see such a work from your pen. And
are you thinking of completing it soon?"
(General discomfort on my part.) "I had never thought of the time exactly.
I had feared it would take a great many years."
(Perplexity.) "Oh, pshaw!--still, of course, that is the way all great work
is done. Yes, one has to obey one's own inspiration. I understand perfectly
how he can not adjust himself to the market. I have seen too often how
disastrous such attempts are."
(More courteous platitudes, I assenting. Then at last, weary--)
"You don't think, then, that you will be able to undertake The Captive?"
"No, Mr. Stirling, I really do not think we can. You understand, of course,
if I take this work to the firm I have to tell them I think it will sell;
and that I can not honestly do. You know that a publishing house is just as
much limited as any other business firm--it can not afford to publish books
that the trade does not want. And this is an especially unusual sort of
thing, it is by no means easy to appreciate--you must be aware of that
yourself, Mr. Stirling. You see when I read a manuscript I have to keep
constantly before my mind the thought of how it is going to affect the
public--a very different thing from my own judgment, of course. From the
former standpoint I believe there are things in The Captive that would meet
with a reception not satisfactory to either of us, Mr. Stirling."
(Perplexity on my part.) "You'll have to explain that to me, I fear."
"Why--but the explaining of that would be to offer you my opinion about the
book--"
"I should be very pleased to hear it. Your reason for declining it, then,
is not altogether that it is a blank-verse drama?"
"Not altogether, Mr. Stirling. It's a little difficult for me to tell you
about these things, you know. I understand that the book must have meant a
great deal to you, and so I am naturally diffident. But if you will pardon
my saying so, it seems to me that the book--it is obviously, of course,
the work of a young man--it is very emotional, it strives to very high
altitudes. I will not say that it is exaggerated, but--the last part
particularly--it seems to me that you are writing in too high a key, that
your voice is strained." (An uncomfortable pause.) "Of course, now, that is
but my opinion. It will not seem of any value to you, perhaps, but while
I read it I could not get away from the fact that it was not altogether
natural. It seemed hysterical and overwrought in places--it gives the
effect of crudeness. It is rather hard, you know, to expect a man who sits
at a desk all day to follow you in such very strenuous flights." (A slight
laugh.)
"Mind you it is not that I do not appreciate high qualities, Mr. Stirling,
it is merely that it seemed to me that if it were toned down somewhat it
would be better--you know such things strike different people in different
ways; you do not find it easy to believe that it would affect men so--but I
am pretty sure that the impulse of the average critic would be to go still
further--to make fun of it. Here, for instance--let me read you the opinion
upon the book that was handed in by one of our most experienced
readers--etc., etc.--"
I have told enough of that story, giving the conversation as literally as
I can recall it. I am always a fool, the presence of other men overawes
me; I sit meek and take all that comes, and then make my escape. The great
publishers' manager still thinks he impressed me with his wisdom--he has
half an idea I'm going to "tone down" The Captive!
--He read me that criticism--great God, it makes me writhe! It was like a
review of the Book of Revelations by Bill Nye.
* * * * *
_That my work should be judged by such men!_
* * * * *
--"Exaggerated!" "Hysterical!" And is there nothing hysterical in life,
then? And would you go through battle and pestilence with the same serenity
that you sit there at your desk all day, you publisher?
As if a man who was being torn to pieces would converse after the manner of
Mr. Howells and Jane Austen!
* * * * *
--"Tone it down!" That bit of inanity has been haunting my ears. Tone down
The Captive! Tone down the faith and rapture of my whole life, until
it is what the reading public will find natural!--And tone down the
Liebes-Tod--and tone down the Choral Symphony--and Epipsychidion--and King
Lear!
Swounds, show me what thou'lt do:
Woo't weep? Woo't fight? Woo't fast? Woo't tear thyself?
Woo't drink up eisel? Eat a crocodile?
I'll do't. Dost thou come here to whine?
To outface me with leaping in her grave?
Be buried quick with her, and so will I:
And, if thou prate of mountains, let them throw
Millions of acres on us, till our ground,
Singeing his pate against the burning zone,
Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth,
I'll rant as well as thou!--
"This is mere madness," observes the queen. Tone it down!
* * * * *
August 12th.
I sat last night brooding over this thing till almost dawn. I could not
bring myself to the thought of offering my work again to be judged by such
people. I made up my mind to take a different course--I sat and wrote a
long letter to a certain poet whom I love and honor. He is known as a
critic--he will know. I told him the whole story, and asked him to read the
poem.
It was something that I had never thought about, the effect of The Captive
upon commonplace people. I was so full of my own rapture--I made my
audience out of my own fancy. And now these snuffy little men come peering
at it!
My appeal is not to the reading public--my appeal is to great minds and
heroic hearts--to the ages that will come when I have gone.
--And can it be that I am to repeat the old, old story--will every one
laugh at me and leave me to starve?
* * * * *
--I will get myself together and prepare for a siege. I will find an
opening somewhere. You can not shut up a volcano.
* * * * *
August 16th.
There seems to be little use of struggling. I can not control myself. I
wander around, restless, unhappy. That horrible prison that I am pent
in--God, how I hate it! Such heart-sickening waiting--waiting!--and
meanwhile that intolerable treadmill! It drives me wild! I am so full of
life, of passion; and to be dragged back--and back--and stamped on! Each
day I feel myself weaker; each day my power and my joy are going. Let me
go--let me go!
Is my inspiration of no value at all, my ardor, my tenderness, my
faith,--all nothing? You treat me as if I were an ox!
