The Journal of Arthur Stirling : ("The Valley of the Shadow") Part 20

"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 plat.i.tudes, I a.s.senting. 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 publis.h.i.+ng 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 ma.n.u.script 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 alt.i.tudes. 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 G.o.d, 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--G.o.d, 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 pa.s.sion; 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!

It is like being chained in the galleys! The dust and the heat, the jostling crowds, the banging and rattling, the bare, hideous streets--and above it all the wild, rampant vulgarity--the sordidness, the cheapness, the chaffering! My eyes stare at advertis.e.m.e.nts and signs until they burn me in my head.

Oh, the h.e.l.l of egotism and vulgarity that is a city!

--"Why so much trouble? Other men bear dust and heat, and do their work without complaining!" Ah, yes!--but they do not have to write poems in the bargain!

If it were for truth and beauty, such a life would be heroism. But the h.o.a.rds of wealth that they heap up--they spend it upon fine houses, and silly clothes, and gimcracks, and jewels, and rich food to eat, and wines to drink, and cigars to smoke! Bah!--

It is the brutality of it all that drives me wild. I see great, hulking, disgusting _bodies_ that live to be pampered and fed. And after that, in the place of minds, I see little restless centers of vanity--hungering, toiling, plotting, intriguing--to be stared at and praised and admired.