The Journal of Arthur Stirling : ("The Valley of the Shadow") Part 28

November 26th.

I wrote to him again to-day, inquiring. If he does not answer that, I shall suppose his secretary threw it away.

There is nothing weakens my soul like this endless waiting. I wander around desolate, helpless, I can not fix my mind on anything. Oh, the shame of it!

November 30th.

I could not give up that hope yet. It seemed to me so terrible that of all the men of wealth in this city there should not be one willing to help me save my message.--I wrote to-day the same letter to a clergyman who I know is wealthy, and who I believe would be interested in my work.

December 2d.

"I have received your letter, and I regret very much that I can not grant the request you make. The pressure upon my time is such that I can not possibly undertake to read your book. There would be no use in my doing so, anyhow, for I tell you frankly it seems to me the situation you are in is just what you need. My advice to you is to be a man and face it. I do not see any reason why one person should be set free from the labor which all of us have to share; and I a.s.sure you that you are entirely mistaken if you think that an artist has nothing to expect but ruin from contact with the world, and with suffering and toiling humanity."

Isn't that a slap in the face for you?

Great G.o.d, I think that is the most insulting thing that has ever happened to me in all my days. "Set free from the labor which all of us have to share!"--What do you think I am--a tramp, or a loafer, you hound!

"A high challenge from an artist's soul!"

I think I never had so much hatred in my heart in all my life as I have to-day. Oh, my G.o.d, what a thing this world is! What stupid, blind brutality, what hideous vulgarity! This man a _clergyman_! And this is his faith, his n.o.bility, his understanding!

Why, I came out of the forest with my naked heart in my hands! I came out quivering with emotion, melting with love and with trust for all men! I came all sensitive and raw--hungering for sympathy and kindness! And oh, my soul!--my G.o.d!--you have beaten me and kicked me as if I were a filthy cur!

Had I not offered up my heart for a sacrifice? Had I not burned it with fire? Had I not made all my being one consecration? And all for men, for men! For men I had torn myself--lashed myself--killed myself--for men I had forgotten what self was--yes, literally that--forgotten what self was! So little self had I left that I was willing to ask favors! So much consecration had I, so much trust, that I would beg! I had wept--I had suffered--I had starved! I had dreamed and sung, toiled until I set fire to my very brain! And you have beaten me and kicked me as if I were a filthy cur!

Those thoughts turn my whole soul into one wild curse! Have done with laying bare your heart to men, have done with telling your life to men! Why should you go on trying to be a poet, go on putting your secret soul into books, to be spurned at by the rabble? Your soul is your own--it is your G.o.d's--and what have the rabble to do with it! And all its tenderness! all its shrinking ecstasy! all its holiest consecration!--You will take them out to sell them to the rabble!

When will you get back into yourself, you fool? When will you have learned your lesson, and let this h.e.l.lish world boot you out of its way no more?

Let ever any man know a gleam of your heart again!--see one trace of your joy!

--And I came to it on my knees--to this world--crouching, cringing, begging! Oh, oh!--I scream it--Oh!

--And after that I sank down by the bed and hid my face and sobbed: "Oh, Sh.e.l.ley! Oh, my Sh.e.l.ley!"

December 3d.

--I saw myself a business man to-day, clearing a path for myself! But it does not last--I am not that kind of a man. My folly is my being--rest a.s.sured that I shall climb back to the heights again where I am willing to bear any insult.

But it will be a long time before I write any more letters. I have come to understand the world's point of view.

I suppose busy men get thousands of letters from cranks; they will get no more from me.

December 5th.

I was reading an essay on Balzac to-day. I read about Balzac's fondness for _things_; and I put the book down and spent an hour of perplexity. I fear I am a very narrow person in my sympathies and understandings. Why should a man care about _things_! About all sorts of houses and furniture, and pictures, and clothes, and jewels!

I can understand a man's caring about love and joy and aspiration. But _things_! I can understand a child's caring about things, or a fool's caring; I see millions of such; but an artist? A thinker? A _man_?

I am reading novels nowadays--reading all sorts of things that _entertain_. I have not read a poem for a long time, I have no interest in reading unless I can _go_ with it.

I have been studying some of the French novelists--some of Maupa.s.sant yesterday. What a strange creature is a Frenchman! A nervous, hysterical, vain, diseased creature!

"The Gallic disease!" Let that be a phrase.

The Gallic disease is this: to see only one thing in life, to know only one purpose, to understand only one pleasure; to have every road lead to that, every thought, every phrase. To know that every character in a book is thinking it; to know that every man who is introduced is looking for a woman! And that as soon as he finds her, they must forthwith--whatever be their age, rank, character, and position at the moment--begin to burn with unclean desires!

That is what one might call the _convention_ of French fiction. It gets very monotonous when you are used to it; it takes all of the interest out of the story. For there is but one ending to such a story.

One's whole being is lowered by contact with that incessant animal appeal.

December 8th.

I have discovered another trouble--as if I did not have enough! I am to suffer from indigestion! It plagues me continuously--I can not do anything for an hour after a meal, no matter what simplest thing I have eaten.

And so all through my life I am to be hindered in my work by having to wrestle with this handicap! Just as if I had not been a clean man, but some vulgar _bon vivant_.

December 10th.

This is my fifth publisher. They said they thought it would take two weeks, but it has been three already, and they have not even answered my letter of inquiry. I see you can put no reliance on them in the matter of time.

December 11th.