Journal of Arthur Stirling | Page 9

journal. I have lived in garrets--among dirty people--vulgar
people--vile people; I have worn rags and unclean things; I have lived
upon bread and water and things that I have cooked myself; I have seen
my time and my strength wasted by a thousand hateful impertinences--I
have been driven half mad with pain and rage; I have gone without
friends--I have been hated by every one; I have worked at all kinds of
vile drudgery--or starved myself sick that I might avoid working.
But I have said, "I will be an artist!"
Day and night I have dreamed it; day and night I have fought for it. I
have plotted and planned--I have plotted to save a minute. I have done
menial work that I might have my brain free--all the languages that I
know I have worked at at such times. I have calculated the cost of
foods--I have lived on a third of the pittance I earned, that I might save
two-thirds of my time. I once washed dishes in a filthy restaurant
because that took only two or three hours a day.
I have said, "I will be an artist! I will fix my eyes upon the goal; I will
watch and wait, and fight the fight day by day. And when at last I am
strong, and when my message is ripe, I will earn myself a free chance,
and then I will write a book. All the yearning, all the agony of this my
life I will put into it; every hour of trial, every burst of rage. I will make
it the hope of my life, I will write it with my blood--give every ounce
of strength that I have and every dollar that I own; and I will win--I will
win!
"So I will be free, and the horror will be over."
I have done that--I am doing that now. I mean to finish it if it kills me.--
But I was sitting on the edge of the bed to-night, and the tears came
into my eyes and I whispered: "But oh, you must not ask me to do
anymore! I can not do any more! It will leave me broken!"
Only so much weight can a man carry. The next pound breaks his back.
* * * * *
April 22d.
I am happy to-night; I am a little bit drunk.
To-day was one day in fifty. Why should it be? Sometimes I have but
to spread my wings to the wind. Yesterday I might have torn my hair
out, and that glory would not have come to me. But to-day I was filled
with it--it lived in me and burned in me--I had but to go on and go on.

The Captive! It was the burst of rage--the first glow in the ashes of
despair. I was walking up and down the room for an hour, thundering it
to myself. I have not gotten over the joy of it yet: _"Thou in thy mailèd
insolence!"_
I wonder if any one who reads those thirty lines will realize that they
meant eight hours of furious toil on my part!
* * * * *
Stone by stone I build it.
The whole possibility of a scene--that is what I pant for, always; that it
should be all there, and yet not a line to spare; compact, solid, each
phrase coming like a blow; and above all else, that it should be
inevitable! When you stand upon the height of your being, and behold
the thing with all your faculties--the thing and the phrase are one, and
one to all eternity.
* * * * *
April 24th.
I was looking at a literary journal to-day. Oh, my soul, it frightens me!
All these libraries of books--who reads them, what are they for? And
each one of them a hope! And I am to leap over them all--I--I? I dare
not think about it.
I have been helpless to-day. I can not find what I want--I struggled for
hours, I wore myself out with struggling. And I have torn up what I
wrote.
Blank verse is such a--such a thing not to be spoken of! Is there
anything worse, except it be a sonnet? How many miles of it are ground
out every day--sometimes that kind comes to me to mock me--I could
have written a whole poem full of it this afternoon. If there are two
lines of that sort in The Captive, I'll burn it all.
An awful doubt came to me besides. Somebody had sown it long ago,
and it sprouted to-day. "Yes, but will it be _interesting_?"
Heaven help me, how am I to know if it will be interesting? The
question made me shudder; I have never thought anything about