I am not always as I write here--I am not always angry. I have my tender moments, when I see my woe as the world's woe--above all the poverty. Oh let me always have a tender heart for the poor!

November 6th.

I have a distant relative in this city, an old gentleman who belongs to clubs and is what is known as a "man of the world." He has quite a sense of humor--is famous for good stories. He told me that he was interested in me--that he would be glad to find a place for me in life, if I would only get over my youthful follies. It has been years since I saw him, but I can still hear him.

The last words he ever said to me were these--said with his quiet, amused smile: "Never mind, my boy, leave it to time. You needn't argue with me--just leave it to time, and it'll come out all right."

Never have I sunk into a fit of despair that I have not thought of that; and the quiet smile has become the sneer of an imp. It has become all the world watching me, and knowing full well the issue; wise world!

That memory has never yet lost its power to make me grip my hands suddenly.

"So! And my life has no other purpose, then, than to point a moral for a rich clubman!"

Leave it to time! Leave it to time! O G.o.d, what a sentence that is--so savage--and so true! Leave it to the long weary days that come one after another--that never tire--that never are beaten--that never are less--never faster--never slower--that wear you out as water wears a stone! Leave it to time! Say nothing, fear nothing; leave it to time! Leave it to the hours of dulness, the hours of sickness, the hours of despair! Leave it to failure piled upon failure, to insult piled upon insult, to rebuff upon rebuff, to sneer upon sneer! Leave it to the endless, never-ceasing sight of ugliness; the endless, never-ceasing sight of selfishness; of pettiness, emptiness, heartlessness, hatefulness! Leave it to heat and to cold, to dust and to dirt, to hunger and penury, to headache and heartache, and bitter, bitter loneliness! Leave it to time! Leave it to time!--_Oh my Father in heaven!_

November 8th.

--What am I doing? I am reading books full of facts--I am reading books that do not make me wretched. I am _not_ reading poetry.

I am leaving it to time!

November 10th.

It has been four weeks yesterday! I have been expecting to hear from the last publishers every day for a week. I have been trembling while I watched each mail. I have more than a hope that these publishers will take it--they publish a deal of poetry.

But I have been practising my friend's plan, I have been saying to myself all day: "You might as well know that it is coming back. What is the use of trying to deceive yourself?"

It has been four months since I finished The Captive! If I had known then what I know now, I do not believe I could ever have written a line of it.

What do I know _now_?

--I know more than I care to own to myself. There is a deadly growth taking root in the depths of my soul.

November 13th

It is two months to-day since I gave up my last place. I have gotten along on just three dollars a week, including everything. I find it is not possible to do better than that, there are so many odds and ends one needs.

I have spent twenty-seven dollars. I have twenty-nine dollars. That means I can try two, or possibly three, publishers--after this one.

November 16th.

My method did make it easier after all. The letter came this morning.

"We have read with care the ma.n.u.script of The Captive which you have offered us. We are pleased to be able to tell you that we have found it a very fine piece of work, but we are sorry to say that our previous experience with publications of this character does not lead us to believe that we could make a success of it.

"We are holding MS. subject to your order."

I did a desperate thing to-day--two of them. First I had to go and get the ma.n.u.script, so I asked to see the publisher. I sat down and looked straight into his face and said: "How is a man who is trying to write what is fine to keep alive if the publishers won't publish what he writes?"

He was very kind--he seemed to be interested. He explained that a publisher who published books that the public did not want would be driven out of business in a year. Then he said he knew many who were facing the same problem as I; that there was nothing to do but write for the magazines and the papers, and that it was a bitter shame that society made no provision for such men. "Your work is as n.o.ble and sincere as work can be," he said, "but I do not believe that you will find a publisher in this country to undertake it, unless there be one who feels wealthy enough to do it as a service to literature and a labor of love."

That made me turn white. I got my ma.n.u.script and I went out on the street, and the houses reeled about me. "So," I said, "and that settles it!"

As I walked along I stared into the future. It seemed very clear all of a sudden.

I thought it all out. "No one will publish The Captive," I said, "and no one would heed it if it were published. Therefore I have but one question to face, Have I the strength to go on, living as I have lived, distracted and tormented as I have been--and still piling up new emotions in my soul, daring new efforts, reaching new heights, producing new books? I can have no idea that my second work will be any more available than my first; on the contrary, I know that it would be just what The Captive is, only more so. Therefore, perhaps it will be ten years--perhaps it will be twenty years--before men begin to pay any heed to what I have written! And so there is the question, Have I the strength to go on in that way--have I the strength to face that future?"

Then I grew faint and had to lean against a railing. _I knew that I could not do that!_

It is no question of what I will do! It is a question of what I _can_ do! I am weakened and sick with the yearning that I have in me already. My last "business" experience drove me mad. And I am to go on, I am to rouse new hunger, new pa.s.sion, new agony in my soul! Why, the work that I have dreamed of next is so hard and so far-away that I hardly dared even whisper it! It would take years and years of toiling! And I am to do it here in this seething city--to do it while I sell wholesale-paper--to do it while I am sick for lack of food! I can not do it! I _can_ not!

I went home, and I was crazy; so it was that I did my second desperate thing.

I sat down and wrote a letter to Mr. ----. I wrote a letter--I can not see how it could fail to stir the soul of any man. I told him how I had toiled--I told him how for four long months I had waited in agony--I told him what the publishers had said to me. I begged him--I implored him--for the sake of the unuttered message that cried out day and night in my soul--not to throw the letter aside--to read it--to give me a chance to talk to him. I said: "I will live in a hut, I will cook my own food, I will wear the clothes of a day laborer! If I can only be free--if I can only be free to be an artist! I could do it, all of it, for two hundred dollars a year; and I could win the battle, I know, if I had but three years. I am desperate as I write to you--I look ahead and I can see only ruin; and not ruin for myself--I do not mind that--but ruin for my art! I can tell you what that means to me in but one way--I ask you to read my book. I have put all my soul into that book--I will stake my all upon it. If you will only read it, you will see what I mean--you will see why I have written you this letter. You will see that it is not a beggar's letter, but a high challenge from an artist's soul."

So there is one chance more. I do not see how he can refuse, and if he will only read the ma.n.u.script, I will be safe, I think.

November 20th.

I have done nothing but wait for four days, but I have not heard from him yet. To-day I made up my mind that I would take the ma.n.u.script to another publisher's meanwhile. He is probably busy, and may not answer for a long while; and I can get the ma.n.u.script from a publisher at any time.

November 24th.

Still I have not heard anything from Mr. ----. My soul was full of hope again, but it is sinking down as before. Is he not going to answer me at all?--Can it be that he has not even read my letter?