I thought to-day if I only had a little money--if I could only publish that book myself! I can not believe that men would not love it--I can not--no, you may crush me all you please, but I can not! And I would take it and shout it from the housetops--I would peddle it on the streets--I would _make_ the world hear me!

--And then I sink back, and I hear the world say, "You poor fool!"

January 28th.

I have only a dollar and a half left! I have sat, shuddering and waiting, all that I dare; the end is come now, I must look for work to-morrow. It is like a death-sentence to me. I could do nothing to-night.

January 29th.

Providence came to help me to-night for once! It snowed to-day and I have been hard at work again.

January 30th.

Some more snow. My hands were nearly frost-bitten, but I keep at it; for at least it is out in the air, and it gives me a little longer respite.

In the afternoon I made up my mind to go and see the publishers and ask them if they could not read the story at once--it has been a month. I saw their literary manager; he said he was going to read it himself.

January 31st.

More snow again to-day. And I have made over five dollars. But I have come out of it more dead than alive--dulled, dispirited, utterly worn out.

If I could only be an animal for a time. But each day of the drudgery only makes me wilder with nervousness.

February 1st.

They regret, of course, and hold the MS. at my disposal. I went up to get it this afternoon, and half by accident I met the man I had seen before. I had a talk with him. He was a very curious personage.

He seemed to have been interested in The Captive. "I'll tell you," he said, "you know there's really some extraordinary work in that poem. I believe that you have it in you to make some literature before you get through, Mr.

Stirling."

"Do you?" I said.

"Yes," he replied, "I feel pretty sure of it. You ask me to tell you about it--so you mustn't mind if I speak frankly. And of course it's very crude.

You haven't found your voice yet, you're seeking for mastery, and your work is obviously young. Anybody can see in a few lines that it's young--it's one of those things like Goetz von Berlichingen, or Die Rauber--you tear a pa.s.sion to tatters, you want to rip the universe up the back. But of course that wears off by and by; it isn't well to take life too seriously, you know, and I don't think it'll be long before you come to feel that The Captive isn't natural or possible--or desirable either."

The publisher was smoking a cigar. He puffed for a moment and then he asked, "What are you doing now?"

"Nothing just at present," said I.

"I should have supposed you'd be writing another poem," he replied,--"though of course as a matter of fact the wisest thing you can do is to wait and learn. Your next book will be entirely different, you can be quite sure--you won't be so anxious to get hold of all the world and make it go your way."

I smiled feebly. "Possibly not," I said.

"I'll tell you a story," said the publisher--"speaking about youthful aspirations! I was talking to Mr. X---- last night, the author of ----.

[Footnote: The ma.n.u.script names an extremely popular historical novel.] You wouldn't think X---- was the sort of man to be reforming the world, would you? But he told me about his earliest work, that he said he had tucked away in a drawer, and it turned out he was like all other authors. This was a socialist story, it seems, and the hero delivered fiery speeches six pages long. And X---- said that he had written it and taken it to a publisher, expecting to upset the world a week after it appeared, but that he never could get anybody to publish it, and gave it up finally and went into journalism. The funny part of it was that he had sent it here, and when he told me about it, I remembered looking it over and writing him just about what I'm telling you."

The publisher smoked for a moment or two. "You see, Mr. Stirling," he said at last, "he had to wait ten years before he 'arrived.' So you must not be discouraged. Have you read his book?"

"No, I have not."

"It is a very pretty piece of work--it's been many months since it came out, but they say it's still selling in the thousands. Don't get discouraged, Mr. Stirling, keep at it, because you have real talent, I a.s.sure you."

I rose to go, and he shook my hand. "Take my advice," he said, "and write something more practicable than a tragedy. But of course don't forget in any case that we shall always be very happy to read anything of yours at any time."

--I walked down the street meditating. I will get over it again, of course; but to-night I sat in the dark and the cold, shivering. And I asked myself if it must not be so after all. "_Is_ it true, the thing that I did; is it _natural_?" I said. "Or must it not be exaggerated and crude, as they all tell me! And uninteresting!--What is the use of it? I tormented myself that way and tore myself to pieces, but it does not stir any one else."

Ah, of course it's all dead in me--and I'm prepared to believe anything they tell me! It's overwrought, it's young, it's pitched in too high a key, it's strained and unnatural, it takes life too seriously! Certainly at any rate they are right that I shall never, never do the same thing again.

But unfortunately I don't feel like writing anything else. I don't know anything about historical novels.

--I would have read some of the poem again to-night, but I'm too discouraged. I am tired of it. I know it by heart, and it doesn't take hold of me.

I have been too long among men, I groan. I see their point of view too well!

Why, there are things in that book that when I read them now make me shudder. I have hardly the courage to offer it to any one else to read. I don't know any one to take it to, besides.

O G.o.d, I'm so unhappy!

February 3d.

To-day an idea occurred to me, one that should have occurred before. Once upon a time I was introduced to the editor of the ----. Perhaps he will not remember it, I said. But anyhow, why not try? I will take him The Captive--perhaps he can use it in the magazine--who knows?

I knew nothing better to do, so I went there. He was very polite--he did remember my face. He was fearfully busy, it seemed. He did not think there was much likelihood of a magazine's publishing a blank-verse tragedy; but I told him how I had worked, and he said he'd read it.

And so there's one chance more!

My poor, foolish heart is always ready to tremble with new hope. But faith in that book was so _ground_ into it!

--I asked him to read it at once, I explained that I was in great haste. I think he understood what I meant. My clothes show it.