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.
And then I think what the reviews will say of it, and I cry, "Oh, no, it
can't be true!"
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!"
* * * * *
March 18th.
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!"
But I didn't do it. I said I would wait a week, anyhow.
* * * * *
March 20th.
I don't know what in the world to make of it.
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.
"But it's here somewhere," I said, "the editor brought it here."
"There is no manuscript ever comes here," she answered, "that is not
entered on my books."
"But," I said, "some member of the firm must have it."
"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."
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.
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.
* * * * *
March 23d.
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!
I dread the latter circumstance--but I dread as much to anger him in the
other case.
* * * * *
March 27th.
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.
"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."
"I only came," I said, "because the clerk told me--"
"There are some things clerks don't know," he put in.
I tremble at the thought of making him angry. I will not go near him again.
* * * * *
March 30th.
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.
* * * * *
--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.
It _is_ 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.
* * * * *
April 3d.
It has been another week. I could not stand it any more. I am going over to
the publishers' again this afternoon.
--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!"
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."
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.
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.
* * * * *
April 4th.
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?
* * * * *
April 5th.
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.
* * * * *
April 7th.
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!
Only why in the world doesn't he understand my perplexity and explain?
* * * * *
April 9th.
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.
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.
* * * * *
April 10th.
I waited one day more and no answer. I wrote to him again to-night, begging
him to please reply.
* * * * *
--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!
It has been nine weeks and a half since I gave him that poem in the
beginning! I never spent nine such weeks of horror in my life.
* * * * *
April 12th.
"In answer to your letter I beg to inform you that the manuscript of The
Captive is now in the hands of the firm, and that you may expect a decision
in about a week."
So! It is a relief at any rate to know that the thing is all right. I can
wait a little better now.
Of course I knew it must be there. A plague on that foolish clerk!
* * * * *
April 14th.
All the while that I am writing about this thing I keep up my courage by
thinking what it will mean to me. It is something so immense that I can
hardly realize it. I shall be famous!--And he really liked it, there can be
no doubt about that! He was too busy to talk much, but he showed he liked
it.
* * * * *
April 17th.
Oh my soul, I think this is the most frightful thing--is it not simply a
nightmare? I have been pacing the floor to-night in an agony. _They have
never seen that manuscript_!
I was going by there to-day, and I couldn't withstand the temptation; the
week was not up, but I said: "If I inquire, there's no reason why he should
know about it." I went in.
And that terrible clerk--she smiled at me still! The more I talked, the
more she shook her head. "There's no such manuscript ever been seen here,"
she said. I showed her the letter, and that decided her to go in and see
the firm. They sent out word that neither they nor their readers had ever
heard of it, but that they would write to the editor at once.
* * * * *
Oh, I think this is horrible--horrible! And then just guess what I did! I
couldn't bear the agony--I went to the other place, and he wasn't there,
and so at last I went to his club.
He wasn't at the club, but they told me where he was; and I spent ten cents
telephoning him. At this place they said he had an engagement to be there
later, so I spent another ten cents, and that time I found him. I told him
who I was. "The week isn't up yet," I said, "but the firm say they have
never received the manuscript."
"So?" he said; his voice sounded hard, I thought, and it made me shudder.
"You come up to see me the day after to-morrow at ten o'clock, and you'll
hear about your manuscript."
And that is all. And I walked out of the great, rich club, and I have been
pacing up and down in my own garret ever since. I am almost too ill with
anxiety to stand.
* * * * *
April 18th.
And to-day I can only wait. Once I lay down upon the bed and cried.
* * * * *
April 19th.
I don't know how to tell this thing. I am simply dazed. I had an experience
to-day--the most hideous thing that I think ever happened to me in my life.
Oh, I have been like a madman ever since--I lost my head--I did not know
what I was doing. I was really crazy--it is three o'clock in the morning,
now, but I shall write it down--I can not sleep.
* * * * *
To-day I went up to see that man as he told me to. I went trembling with
suspense--just think, it has been eleven weeks since this agony began. And
I went into his office--he was alone; and when he saw me he sprang to his
feet--my soul, he looked like a tiger. He stood there in the middle of the
room fairly gasping with rage.
"So," he cried, "you've come, have you! I tell you, young man, I have never
been subjected to such an outrage as this in my life! I would not read
another manuscript for you--why, I wouldn't stand for such an imposition
from Balzac or Thackeray--no, sir, I wouldn't!"
I stared at the man simply speechless with astonishment. "Why," I panted,
"what do you mean?"
"What do I mean? Why, you have hounded me about this city until I'm crazy.
There's no place I can go to escape you. You come to my office, you come
here, you come to my club! You have made yourself a perfect pest at the
publishers to every one! Why--"
He stopped out of breath. Of course I have no courage or head with men--I
was ready to grovel at his feet. "My dear sir," I pleaded, "I assure you
I didn't mean to do anything of the kind--it was only that the clerk kept
telling me--"
"I don't care what the clerk kept telling you! I tell you that that
manuscript has been in the hands of the company since the day I told you I
would leave it there. Of course there have been delays, there is all sorts
of routine to go through with; but suppose all our contributors did the
same thing--what would we do?"
He was talking at me as if expecting a reply. Fortunately the right words
came to my lips--I was really ready to cry with shame and perplexity.
"I don't think it is quite the same with all your contributors," I said,
with a trembling voice. "While I have been waiting I have been simply
starving."
It seemed to clear the atmosphere. He stared at me, and then he sat down.
He was ashamed of himself, I could see. "Why," he said, "you couldn't have
been paid anything for months."
"I didn't know," I said, "I didn't know anything about it. But I have been
starving."
He spoke more quietly. "Mr. Stirling," he said, "I'm very sorry about this,
the whole thing has been unfortunate. Excuse me that I spoke angrily; let
us not think any more about it."
I stood there, feeling almost like crying, I was so nervous.
"Now, about that manuscript," he went on, "I'm doing what I can to learn
about it. It's been there all along, as I told you, and you will hear about
it soon. Why, Mr. Stirling, I even took the trouble to send my secretary
down there yesterday to make sure that it was all right."
"I did not want you to go to any such trouble," I stammered.
"That's all right," he said, "don't mention it. Now they will have decided
in a few days, and I will write you--"
"No, please do not," I said, still with my abject humility. "Don't take any
more trouble--let me go there and find out--"
"By no means!" said he. "Take my advice and don't go near there again under
any circumstances. You can't tell how much an author hurts himself by
troubling a publisher as you have done. Don't go near there--let me write
to you."
I promised that I would; and then with more abjectness I got myself out of
that room, and I went out and sat down upon a step near by, simply shaking
like a leaf.
"Oh, heavens!" I gasped. "That was horrible! Horrible!"
* * * * *
I sat dazed--thinking about it--thinking it over and over--I couldn't
understand it, try as I might. Why should he have been so angry _that_
day--had he not told me to come there? And had he not said I should have a
report?
* * * * *
--And then suddenly something flashed over me that made me leap! That
firm had written him a letter the day before yesterday asking about the
manuscript, and _that_ was why he was angry! And he had sent his
secretary down to inquire!--But why in Heaven's name should he send his
secretary down to inquire _when he had a telephone connecting with the
firm right there in his office_!
And so I saw it--all in one instant the thing flashed over me!
I was so wild I paid a car-fare--I rode straight as a die down to that
place, and I went in and saw the clerk.
"He has sent the manuscript now," I said, "hasn't he?"
"Yes," she said.
"He sent it in yesterday?" I said.
"Yes."
"He sent it by his secretary, didn't he?"
"Yes," she said again.
"Thank you," I answered, and went out.
* * * * *
Is not that simply monstrous, simply awful beyond words? I have been beside
myself tonight with rage, with amazement, with perplexity. Oh, think
what I have suffered at the hands of that frightful man! And what have I
_done_ to him--why should he have treated me so? What does it mean? I
am baffled every way I turn.
The thing is like flame in my blood--like acid in my veins. It makes me
hysterical with pain. I cry aloud.
* * * * *
--What do you mean by it, you monster, you wretch? Why, here for eleven
weeks I have been hanging upon your every word--eleven weeks of my life
spent in torment--absolutely flung away! _Eleven weeks!_ And you have
lied to me--and you have kicked me about like a dog!
What do you mean? What do you mean? Tell me, above all, _why_ you did
it! Were you torturing me on purpose? Or did you simply forget it? But
then, how could you forget it when you had to tell me all those miserable
falsehoods? And when you had to write me those letters?
And then to-day!
That is the thing that goads me most--to-day! I stood there cringed before
you like a beaten cur--you kicked me--you spit upon me! And it was every
bit of it a lie! That insolent rage of yours--why, it wasn't even genuine!
You weren't even angry--you knew that you had no reason to be angry--that
you had treated me as if I were a worm to tread on! And yet you stood there
and abused me!
Oh--why, the thing is madness to think of! It is more madness the more you
realize it! I have never known anything like it before in my life.
Yes--actually--it is something quite new to me. I have met blind
people--people who would not heed me--but a really evil person I have never
known before! A person who has no respect for another's rights--who would
trample upon another! Oh, you miserable wretch--and the lies--the lies! The
hateful sneaking of it--you black-hearted, insolent man! The manuscript had
been there all the time! _The delays, the routine_! And you had sent
your secretary down to inquire! And above all--oh, above all--the prince of
them--I must not go near there lest I should injure myself! I must not go
near them--they were so weary of seeing me! And I never saw a single soul
there in my life but one clerk!
I never suffered such a thing as this before in all my days--deliberate,
brutal injustice! And that I should be so placed as to be a victim of such
a thing--that I should have to hang upon your words and to be at your mercy
for eleven weeks of agony! You are a great editor, a clubman, a rich man!
You have fame and power and wealth--and you stand up there and scald me
with your rage--and with your heart a mess of lies all the time!
* * * * *
--But _why_ did you do it? That is the thing I ask myself in
consternation. Why? _Why?_--Were you not interested in my work? If you
weren't--why didn't you give it back to me, and let me go my way? And if
you were--if you had any idea of publishing it--then why did you use me in
this way? Where was the manuscript all this time? What did you mean to do
with it? How long did you expect me to wait? And what object did you have
in telling me untruths about it meanwhile?
--The whole thing is as blank to me as night. That a man should have in him
so much infinite indifference about another as to leave that manuscript in
a drawer, and write me that I was to "have a report on it within a week"!
Why, it is something of which I can not even think. And then to get out of
it by that sham anger and that sneaking!--
* * * * *
April 20th.
I have done absolutely nothing but brood over this thing and rage all day.
What am I to do?--I sat and wondered if there was anything I could do but
go and shoot that man. And I asked myself: Ought I not at least to go and
get the manuscript from that accursed place this instant? Ought I not to
have taken it then and there? But see the utter misery of my situation, the
abject shame of it--suppose they were to take the thing! It is my one hope
in this world--I dare not lose it--I have to leave it there!
* * * * *
But then, what hope is there now? I ask. Why, he was going to urge it upon
them! And now, of course, he's simply sent it in there without a word!
Don't you see what it was--it was that letter of inquiry they wrote him! He
paid no more attention to me than if I were a hound; but he had to send it
when they wrote! And perhaps they said something about carelessness and
that made him wild.
Oh, the thing is an endless spring of gall to me! I am all raw with it--I
have to rush out on the street and walk away my passion. I never saw
my situation so plainly--the horrible impotence of it! Just see what I
struggle against, the utter insane futility of everything I do! Why, I beat
my wings in a void, I hammer my head against a wall!
* * * * *
--And now I must wait for that thing to come back--don't I know that it
will come back? And don't I know that that will be the end of me?
A black, horrible gloom has settled down upon me. I am utterly lost in
despair.
* * * * *
April 21st.
I will write no more about that man--my whole being is turned to
bitterness. I wonder at myself--I have no longer one feeling left in this
world except a black brooding hatred of him!
* * * * *
--And all the time the thing haunts me like a detective story--I can't find
the solution! What does it mean? Why did he do it? It is so irrational--so
impossible--so utterly incomprehensible! And shall I _never_ know the
truth about it?
* * * * *
April 24th.
"We regret that we are not advised to undertake the publication of The
Captive. We return the manuscript by express."
* * * * *
There it is! I read that thing, and I felt my whole being sinking down as
if into hell. There it is! And that is the end of it all! Oh, merciful
Providence, is it not simply too cruel to be believed! Eleven weeks!
_Eleven weeks_!
* * * * *
--I can do no more--I do not know where to turn. I believe I shall go mad
with my misery.
* * * * *
April 25th.
To-day I thought I would go up and see him--I thought I could not live
until I knew what this thing meant. I heard myself saying, "I _demand_
to know why you treated me thus? I say I demand it! Before God, how
_dared_ you--or don't you believe in a God?"
* * * * *
--Then again I thought, I will plead with him. It must be some mistake--I
can't believe that it is all over. Why, he liked it! And now perhaps it was
only looked over by some careless reader and flung aside!
But no--I could not go near the place! I could not face that man again. The
memory of his look as he stood there in his insolence is so hateful to me
that it makes me tremble.
* * * * *
April 26th.
I see myself crying this out from the housetops. I even wrote a letter to a
newspaper, but I did not send it.
I went to a lawyer, a man I used to know. I told him I had no money--I
asked him to help me. But I can not sue him--he was under no obligations,
it seems; and I can not prove that the manuscript was injured in value by
the delay.
So there is nothing that I can do. He will go his way--he will never think
of me again. He is rich and famous.--
* * * * *
--I have just nine dollars left of my money. I can not possibly make it do
more than three or four weeks; and meanwhile I sit and brood and watch them
go by in blank despair.
* * * * *
April 28th.
I fight with myself--I must get that hellish thing out of my head! I went
to a publisher's to-day--I didn't have the heart to go in, but I gave it to
the clerk.
It will take two or three weeks. This will be the eighth publisher.
* * * * *
I said to-day: "I will force myself to read, I will get myself together; I
will not let myself be stamped to the mud by this man."
* * * * *
There is nothing I can do about it--I only poison my whole soul thinking of
it. I must put it out of my mind--I must work!
* * * * *
May 1st.
I said to myself to-day: "Do you really believe that the world would heed
that poem? Do you think that if any publisher published it, he could sell
it?" I answered, "No, I do not."
If one took it I should think I was making a fool of him. I offer it on
that chance!
--What am I going to do? I do not know. I must try to find some work that
does not tear me to pieces; and then perhaps some day I shall be able to
write something different.
* * * * *
May 3d.
My whole soul is in a turmoil these days. I struggle,--I can not give
up while I live; but for what do I struggle? I am a man journeying in a
thicket; I can not see one step before me.
--I try to forget myself--I try to get interested in a book. But I never
had but one kind of interest. I can not get used to living without a
purpose, without enthusiasm, without morality.
* * * * *
I have no ideas any more. My whole life is shrunken and contracted. It is
all stagnant--the garden of my soul is full of weeds. The broad fields that
I used to cover, the far-off things I used to strive for--what have they to
do with me now?
* * * * *
--I heard a gull to-day--far, far up--a mere speck in the sky. I started,
as I watched him vanish. Then I said: "But you, too, will have to come down
and mingle in the turmoil and the danger!"
* * * * *
May 6th.
I go over into the Park--the springtime is in full glory, all the sights
that used to thrill my heart are there; the splendor of new verdure and
young flowers, the birds that I love rioting in song. But it moves me not
in the least, it only makes me ten times more mournful. I turn away.
Why, once an apple spray in blossom was to me a drunken ecstasy.
--Shall I ever know what it is to be generous, and rich and royal in my
heart again? To know that surging fulness of emotion that makes you think
of gold and purple and regal pomp?
I tell you the whole thing is a question of money with me. I have come down
to the bare bed-rock of sordidness--I must have money--_money!_--It is
everything in this world to me. I can never think of anything else again
until I have it.
* * * * *
I see myself going out into the world and fighting as other men fight, and
making a place in it for myself.
* * * * *
May 8th.
I am getting down again; my poor hoard is going! I sit and count it--I
calculate it--I lay out my bill of fare. Oh, where shall I go, what
_can_ I do? Can I write anything? I ask. I have nothing in me but
a naked, shivering longing.
I dread to be in the desperate fix I was the last time I could find no
work. And yet I can not make up my mind to do anything until I hear from
this one publisher more.
* * * * *
May 9th.
I walked over there to-day to save a postage-stamp. They had not heard from
the reader yet.
* * * * *
--I sit down and try to study. Then I get up and say I ought not to put it
off any longer. Then again I think: "Wait until to-morrow, at any rate."
* * * * *
May 10th.
I was looking at that man's magazine to-day. What thoughts it brought to
me--what agonies, what longings, what despair! And, above all, what
ocean-floods of bitterness!
* * * * *
I walked all the way down to the wholesale-paper store. I thought I would
prefer that to evils that I know not of. I have almost a terror of having
to come into contact with new people.
But my place was filled. I trudged home again. I went to the publisher's
too; nothing yet. The three weeks were up to-day.
* * * * *
May 12th.
I dared not wait any more to-day. I had just three dollars and ten cents
left. And my rent is due the day after to-morrow. I have answered every
sort of advertisement, from dishwashing to tutoring a boy. I guess I looked
too seedy for the latter.
* * * * *
--Sometimes when I am wandering around in all this misery, still yearning
for what I might have been, the thought comes across my mind: "And in this
huge world there might yet be some one who would understand the thing!
Some one who would help me! Some one by whom it would be an honor to be
helped--if I could only find him."
And here I am, having my life beaten out of me, spark by spark,--and I
can't find him--I _can't_!
* * * * *
I cry out for money--for money!
* * * * *
But no, it is others who have it.--And the way that they use it--O God, the
way that they use it!
If all the world were poor, it would not be so bad; but the sight of
wealth--of infinite oceans of it squandered in perfect frenzies of
ostentation! The sight of this "world"--this world, which they take quite
as a matter of course!
* * * * *
I have seen a good deal of this world myself, and I at least do not take
it thus. I gaze upon the men and women who do take it thus, and I say,
"Are you men and women really? Or are you not some strange, un-Godmade
creatures, without ever a thought about justice, without ever a gleam of
reason or purpose or sense?"
* * * * *
May 14th.
I have tramped the streets for two days more. I was made so ill by my
anxiety last time that I made up my mind I would not risk it again. I asked
my landlady to-night to wait a while, as I was looking for some work. She
was ungracious enough, but I have no longer any sensibilities--I only want
to be safe. She can wait--she has my trunk, as I told her.
* * * * *
Probably she wouldn't even be as willing, if she could see what is in it! I
have no longer anything to sell. I had to exchange my waiter's costume for
a pair of trousers, for mine were all in rags.
I have two dollars and seventy cents. I imagine that is a safe margin.
There are no words that can tell what an absolutely deadening thing it is
to be wandering about the city looking for work. It turns you into a log
of wood--you not only no longer have an idea, you have not a thought of an
idea. You simply drag on and on until the thing becomes a habit, and you go
without even thinking of that.
* * * * *
May 15th.
"Our readers have examined with a great deal of interest the unusual piece
of work which you have sent us. But it has been our experience that poetry
proves such a distressing adventure commercially, that we are forced to
decline the offer which you have so kindly made us. We wish, however, to
assure you of our desire to see anything else which you may have on hand,
or may have at any time in future."
That is about the way the letter ran--I tore it up. I did not read it but
once. I took the thing to another firm--it can't do any harm.
I have not been able to find anything to-day.
* * * * *
May 16th.
So long as I have thoughts I can write a journal; but while my life is that
of an animal, it doesn't seem very necessary. I have always felt myself an
outcast--a poet has to be that; but I never felt it quite so much as at
present. I wander around from door to door; and those who have homes and
money and power--they simply order me out of the way.
* * * * *
May 18th.
I do not think I can stand this much longer. I never had such a time before
finding anything. I think my state must be written in my face--men no
longer have any use for me.
I fear my coat is seedy. And I know my collar is soiled; but the two I left
at the laundry won't be done till to-morrow.
I have broken my last two-dollar bill. I watch in terror for the next
week--I can not face that woman again. I must save enough for that.
* * * * *
May 19th.
I applied for a position as office-boy to-day--I was desperate. I have not
enough to last me through a week, if I pay the woman anything.
But they said I was too old.
My feet are most horribly sore. I can hardly walk. And I have the strangest
ringing in my head. I could not eat any supper--and the milk won't keep in
this warm weather, either.
* * * * *
May 22d.
The day before yesterday, when I woke up in the morning, I could hardly
stand. My head was on fire, and I do not think I have ever been so sick
before. I got around to a drug-store--the man said he would give me some
powders; he said they were forty cents, but I dared not pay it. He gave
them to me for a quarter. He said I should have a tonic, but I haven't had
it.
I was too ill to move all day yesterday. I am better to-day, but still I
daren't go out. I have only eighty-five cents left.
* * * * *
I must manage to get out and get some work to-morrow, or I shall go mad.
* * * * *
I had a scene with that horrible creature yesterday. It was the second
week--she thought I was shamming, I know. She said she never allowed her
"roomers" to get behindhand--it was her invariable rule. O God, I was so
sick I could scarcely see--I did not care what she did. I told her that I
had no money; that I was waiting to get some work; that I would pay her the
first moment I could.
"Why don't you keep work when you get it?" she demanded. "You have been
idle nearly all the whole time you've been here."
I could not argue with her; she can turn me out when she likes.
* * * * *
May 24th.
I dragged myself out to-day. I feel better except for the blisters on my
feet. But nothing to do! Nothing to do! Oh, I am half mad.
I thought to-day I would call upon some of my relatives. But I bit my lips
together--no, I will not ever do that!
* * * * *
It is the ghastly heat that kills me. Yesterday was almost stifling, I
thought I could not bear it. I never knew it to be so hot so early.
* * * * *
May 26th.
I have got but thirty-five cents, and to-day I was so tired I had to rest
for two hours nevertheless. Oh, merciful heavens, but this is fiery
torture!
* * * * *
It is half a week again. I know she will not let me stay another week. I
did a strange thing--I wrapped up all my papers and carried them out under
my coat. She can keep everything else I have, but my papers are mine. I
took them to the grocery-store where I buy things and asked the man to keep
them for me.
* * * * *
May 27th.
What does a man do when he wants to work and can't find anything? Does he
really starve? Or does he get locked up? Or what?
I said to-day: I will eat nothing but bread and oatmeal till I get
something to do.
* * * * *
May 29th.
It was just as I thought. She has demanded her money--and I have but
fifteen cents! I helped a man up with a trunk and got ten.--She told me
that I would have to get out. It is clear to-night. I shall sleep somewhere
in the Park. I can not write any more.
* * * * *
May 31st.
I got some work to do after all--at the height of my despair. I am giving
out samples of a hitherto unequaled brand of soap.
It was yesterday morning, I met one of the men and asked him where he got
the job. He said they wanted more men, so I got on a car and rode down
there in haste. I made fifty cents yesterday, for half a day, and a dollar
to-day. Thank God!
I spent the night before last in the Park, and last night in the room where
I am writing. It is in a tenement-house. I paid fifty cents a week for it,
and there is a drunken man snoring on the other side of a board partition.
I sha'n't go back to the other place, of course, until I get more money.
Besides, she has probably rented the room.
* * * * *
I am so relieved at having gotten something to do. I believe I am even
proud of the soap.
I am getting used to walking all day; anything so long as one doesn't have
the agonizing worry about starvation. I am ill, but I shall keep at it, and
answer advertisements meanwhile by mail, till I get something better.
I am going out to sit by the river. I can not stand the heat and stench in
this room. To-morrow is Sunday. I shall have a long rest.
* * * * *
June 2d.
I did not go back to distribute soap to-day. I have given up the work. I
have just seventy cents left in my pocket. The rent of this room is up on
June 6th, and the money will last me until then.
On June 6th I am going to die.
* * * * *
--To-day I went to the publisher's. I said: "On June 6th I am going out
of town. (Grim humor, that!) On June 6th you will have had the manuscript
three weeks and more. I shall have to ask you to have a report by that
date, or to return it to me now." He said: "You shall have the report."
If they will publish the poem, I shall wait. If not, I shall die on June
6th. That is settled.
PART III
THE END
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.
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, _to_ a reader. I know that it will be published.
* * * * *
The night before last I went down by the river. As well as I can remember,
these were the thoughts that came to me.
* * * * *
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.
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!"
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 _can't_ be!"
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.
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 _make_ him hear me? Is there
anything--_anything_?"
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--_mine only_! 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!
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 _do_ believe in? Blind creatures that
you are, this raging faith of mine--this fervent ardor--you do not believe
in _that_! 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.
"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!"
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 _self_ that I will not bear! I!--what am I?
I am a worm--I am filth--I am vanity and impertinence and delusion. But
_this_ thing--this is _God_! Oh you man with a carriage, will
_you_ 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 _God_!
--"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 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!"
* * * * *
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--"
--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!--
"I AM A CAPTIVE!"
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.
"I am a captive! I am _The_ 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!"
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.
"I wrote a book, I tried to make it true--and, oh, my God, how have I
succeeded!"
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.
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:
* * * * *
--_I was to die!_
* * * * *
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!
"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?--
* * * * *
"_I bear it that I may live!_"
* * * * *
"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 _mean_ 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!
_Answer_!"
* * * * *
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!"
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:
Spirit or fiend that led me to this way!
Oh, tell me, was ever poet so taken at his word before?
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?
* * * * *
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!
"What!" it rushed on. "Have you so much faith in your art, and no faith
in your God? Is it for _Him_ that you have so much need to fear, to
crouch and tremble, to plot and to plan--for _Him_? And when he made
you, when he gave you your inspiration--his soul was faint?"
"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--_He
hath need of thee_!
"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--_where then will be
thy books and thy songs_? 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--_for which thou didst give up thy God_!"
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, _will_ am I, unconquerable, all-defying! In His arms I lie, in
His breath I breathe, in His life I live--I am _He_! Fear I know not,
death I know not, slavery and sin and doubt and fear I will never know
again!"
Nay,--nay. Go thy road, proud world, and I go mine!--
In dem wogenden Schwall,
in dem tönenden Schall,
in des Welt-Athems
wehendem All!--
ertrinken--
versinken--
unbewusst--
höchste Lust!
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?--
Wie sie schwellen,
mich umrauschen!
Soll ich athmen,
soll ich lauschen!
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.
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.
* * * * *
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 _self_. 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.
But no, I went to my torture of myself.
* * * * *
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.
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!"
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."
The man stared at me, and so I burned it, page by page, and laughed, and
sang a foolish song that I thought of: _Stride la vampa!_
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."
