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The Journal of Arthur Stirling: "The Valley of the Shadow", a novel by Upton Sinclair |
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Part 2. Seeking A Publisher - February 1st. -- February 27th. |
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_ PART II. SEEKING A PUBLISHER February 1st. -- February 27th. 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 passion 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 manuscript 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 assure 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 God, 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. I have been hoarding my money--counting every cent. I dread the world so! Now that I am so broken, so laden with misery, it sounds about me as one jeer of mockery. But I shall have to be hunting a place soon--you never can tell how long it may take you, and the chances are so terrible. I will not do anything until I hear from this one man, however. He promised to let me know in a week. * * * * * I did not see him at the publisher's--he has another office besides. He had huge piles of papers and books about him; he is an important man, I guess; can it be that he will be the one to save me? I think: "Oh if he knew, he would!" I find myself thinking that of all the world--if I could only make them understand! Poor, impotent wretch, if I could only find the _word_! --Or is it simply my blind egotism that makes me think that? * * * * * February 6th. I do not think that what I write can be of much interest. It must be monotonous--all this despair, this endless crying out, this endless repetition of the same words, the same thought. Yet that is all that my life is! That is just what I do every day--whenever I am not reading a book to forget myself. It is all so simple, my situation! That is the most terrible thing about it, it is the same thing always and forever. * * * * * I have lived so much agony through this thing--it would not startle me if I saw that my hair had turned white. I know I feel like an old man. I am settled down into mournfulness, into despair; I can do nothing but gaze back--I have lived my life--I have spent my force--I am tired and sick. I! I! I!--do you get tired of hearing it? It was not always like that; once you read a little about a book. * * * * * February 8th. This is the fifth day. I am counting the days, I have been counting the very hours. He said he would be a week. And I--only think of it--I have but two dollars and sixty cents left! Hurry up! Hurry up! --And then I say with considerable scorn in my voice: "Haven't you learned enough about that manuscript yet? And about publishers yet?" * * * * * February 10th. Just imagine! I went to see him to-day, and he stared at me. "Why, sure enough, Mr. Stirling!--It had slipped my mind entirely!" I have learned to bear things. I asked him calmly to let me know as soon as possible. He said: "I am honestly so rushed that I do not know where to turn. But I will do the best I possibly can." I said--poor, pitiful cringing, is it not terrible?--that I'd be up his way again in three days, and did he think he could have it read by then. He said he was not sure, but that he'd try. And so I went away. Now I have two dollars and twenty-three cents. I have to pay my rent to-morrow, and that will leave me a dollar and a half. I can make that do me seven or eight days--I have one or two things at home. I'll wait the three days--and then I'll have to set out in earnest to find something to do. Oh, the horror of not knowing if you can pay your next week's room rent in this fearful city! * * * * * February 11th. I sat and looked at myself to-day. I said: "When a soul is crushed like this, can it ever get up again? Can it ever be the same, no matter what happens? Don't you see the fact, that you've been tamed and broken--that you've _given in_! And how will you ever rise from the shame of it, how will you ever forget it? All this skulking and trembling--how will you ever dare look yourself in the face again! Will not it mock your every effort? Why, you poor wretch, _you've got a broken back!"_ * * * * * February 12th. And to-morrow again I must go there, trembling and nervous, hanging on a word! There is not much sense in it, but I have learned to hate all men who have ease and power. * * * * * February 13th. I knew it! I could have told it beforehand. "I am awfully sorry, Mr. Stirling, but it is no use talking, I simply can not! I will write you just as soon as ever I get it read." And so I came out. I had a dollar and twenty cents. My rent would be due in four days again. So even if I got some work at once I should have to pawn something. --Thus I began my search for a situation. I could not choose--I was willing to take anything. I fear I look like a tramp; but I have several letters from places where I have worked. Still, I could not find anything. I have tramped all day until I could hardly move. I bought a paper, but everything advertised was gone by that time. If it would only snow again, so that I could shovel some more! * * * * * February 14th. Again I have been pacing the streets the whole endless day, beaten back and rebuffed at every turn. I have been drilled for this, this is the climax! First take every gleam of heart out of me, and then set me to pacing the streets in the cold, to be stared at and insulted by every kind of a man! And still nothing to do. * * * * * February 15th. I take my lunch with me--I have cut myself down to twenty cents a day for food. I walk and walk, and I am so hungry I can not do on less than that. I have but sixty cents left to-night. I failed again to-day. * * * * * February 16th. It is not as desperate as it sounds, because I have a few books and things that I can sell--I do not believe that I will actually starve--I have always done my work well, and have gotten references. But O God, the shame of it--the endless, heaped-up bitterness! I have sunk into a beast of burden. I trudge on with my mind torpid--I take whatever comes to me, and go on mechanically. Oh it cows me, it wears me down! I have learned to bear anything--_anything_! A man might kick me and I would not mind. I think I went to fifty places yesterday. Nothing to do--nothing. To-day is Sunday, but I tried even to-day. I came home to get some dinner.--I might have been a porter in a hotel, and carried trunks--that was my one chance. But I have not the physical power for that. --And then after all--toward evening--when I was so tired I was almost wild--I had an offer at last! And guess what it was--of all the things that I had made up my mind I could not bear--to be a waiter! It is, I believe, what a man should call a rare opportunity. It is a fairly good restaurant just off Broadway; and I get ten dollars and tips. Poor me! My heart bounded for a moment, and then I asked myself, And what do you want with money any more? I took the place, and I am to begin the day after to-morrow. I am so tired I can hardly move. * * * * * February 17th. Was it not irony? I have watched day by day for snow; and now that I have taken the other place--behold, to-day it snows a foot! --I went to see the editor in the afternoon. I was desperate at the thought of to-morrow. I said I would tell him!--But when I got there I only had the courage to inquire about the poem. He had not read it. I feared he seemed annoyed. I shall not go there again for a week. I can not make him hurry. * * * * * February 18th. To-day I had to begin by apologizing to my landlady, and begging her to let me pay her a week later. I had to go into an elaborate explanation--she wanted to know why I had not been working all these months, and so on. She has a red face, and drinks, I think. Then I had to take a load of my best books--my poor, few precious books that I have loved--and sell them at a second-hand bookstore. When I had sold them I had to hire a waiter's suit for a week, until I had money to buy it. And then with that awful thing on I went down to the restaurant. Can you imagine how a pure woman would feel if she had to go into a brothel to live? That was just how I felt--just how! Oh my God, the indignity of it! Is there _anything_ that I could do more humiliating? --But I have lost the power of getting angry. Only my heart is one great sob. * * * * * February 20th. Oh, that hellish place! What is there in this whole city more brutal than that restaurant? Day and night, day and night, to see but one thing--to see flashy, overdressed, fat and vulgar men and women gorging themselves! Oh, this will teach me to feel--this at least! I go about with my whole being one curse of rage--I could throttle them! And to bow and smirk and lackey them--all day! All day! Oh, what shall I do--how shall I bear it? They offer me tips. At first I thought I should refuse; but no, I dare not do that, even if I wanted to. And since I have stooped to do it, I will take all I can get. To get money is my one passion now. Oh my God, how can I bear it! * * * * * February 21st. I said to-day, I must fight this thing--I must, or it will kill me; I can not let myself go to wreck in this fashion--_I've got to fight!_ And so I got my note-book; and I fell to work to drive myself as of old. The effort that it cost me made me ill, but I did it. I shall keep on doing it--I am like a man faced by a fiend--I _must_ keep on--I must! But then, why do you want to have new languages? Do you not know enough now to keep you in reading matter for all the time you are ever likely to have? * * * * * February 24th. Oh, one can get used to even a flashy restaurant! It is your fate--you take it. This is how I pass all my time there. I struggle to resist the deadening of it, and the horror of it; while I am going about the loathsome grind I try to think--try to have some idea in my head. And something comes to me--something beautiful, perhaps; and then in a few moments, in the clatter and confusion, I lose it; and after that I go about haunted, restless, feeling that I have lost something, that I ought to be doing something. What the thing is, I do not even know--but so it drives me and drives me! I spend literally hours that way. * * * * * February 25th. When are you going to read that poem--_when_? The week was gone yesterday--but I will not trouble you, even now! I wait, I wait! * * * * * February 27th. There is another torment about this fearful place that I am in, one that you could not imagine. I had thought that it would be a pleasure, but it tears my soul. They have music in the evening; and fancy a person in my state listening to a violin! Chiefly, of course, they play trash; but sometimes there comes something beautiful, perhaps only a phrase. But it takes hold of my soul, it makes my eyes grow dim, it makes me shudder. It is all my pent-up agony, it is all my sleeping passion--why, it overwhelms me! And I am helpless--I can not get away from it! Remember that I have not heard any music for a year. It is like the voice of a dead love to me. I thought to-night that I could not bear it. _ |
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