Chapter IV: Part I: Writing a Poem (3)

And there has been nothing like them done for some years, either.

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June 25th.

To-day you may imagine me frantically throwing stones at a squirrel. I said: “If I get him I won't have to go to the farmhouse to-morrow.”

I had had nothing to eat but bread and apples for two meals, and I couldn't stand that again.

I had fried squirrel and fried apples for supper. It was a very curious repast.

And I was hungry, and I ate too much! That made me wild, of course, and I flung all my apples away into the woods. May they feed new squirrels!

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June 26th.

I get up every morning like--like the sun! I overflow with laughter--nothing frightens me now. I never knew what was the matter with me before--it was simply that I could not fight as I chose. If ever I go back again to have my soul pent up in the cities of men!

I am full of it--full of it! I grapple with it all the day, I can not get enough of it. I do crazy things.

And the harder it is the faster I go! This thing has been my torturing--it has made me fight and live. That is really the truth.

* * * * *

And I am coming to the end--really to the end!

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June 27th.

A rainy day! And no glass in my house--only a board cover to the window. I made myself a nest on the sheltered side.

Nearer! Nearer!

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June 29th.

Wandering through the woods dreaming of a banquet-hall.--The guests are witty.

* * * * *

I have put into the mouths of the guests all that the world has said to me, since first I went poetical.

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June 30th.

To-day I got a big stock of things to eat. I count my time not by days, but by loaves of bread and dozens of hard-boiled eggs.

* * * * *

--This book goes out into the world, not to be judged, but to judge!

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July 1st.

You do not hear much from a man in a battle, just now and then a cry.

I have gone in to seek out my last enemy--the last demon who has defied me. I shall close with him--I shall have the thing over with--I will no longer be haunted and made sick.

--I believe I shall do it all in one day. I don't think I can lay it aside.

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July 3d.

It is done!--

I wrote that at three o'clock this morning, and then I lay back and laughed and sobbed, and in the end I fell asleep in the chair.

I was not ill--my relief was so great. I was only happy. I lay back and closed my eyes. I have born my child.

It is done! It is done! I realize it, and then I am like a crazy person. I do not know what I am doing--I only wander around and sit down in the woods and laugh and talk to myself. O God, I am so happy!

I have only to write the end--the last scene in the dungeon. And that is nothing. “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course!”

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July 4th.

I have only to write the echoes that are in my heart, the stammering words of thanksgiving. It is nothing--I have been over them. My whole being is melted with the woe of them--but I can do them anywhere--anyhow.

--And a sudden wild longing has come over me for the city. I must take all the world into my arms--I am so happy--I love it so!

Ah, I have done it! I have done it! I am free! _Free!_ FREE!

I must get this thing typewritten--I must get rid of it--it must be published. How long does it take to get a book published?

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July 5th.

I fought a fight with myself yesterday, and won it. The last of my weaknesses! I wanted to pack up my things and go home! And finish my poem on the train! I was that hungry for the goal! But I am still here--doing the last scene. I shall stay until it is done. I can not stay after that.

* * * * *

Let me hear how your voice trembles as you sing the last strains of your song, and I will tell you how great an artist you are.

Good night, sweet prince,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

* * * * *

July 6th.

Five in the afternoon! And the wind was howling in turret and tree, and all the forest was an organ chant. So I packed up my belongings, and laid my poem in next to my heart--the last words written: “It is done!”

And I went out and stood and gazed at my little home. Farewell, farewell, little home! Perhaps I shall never see you again; but ever you will live in my fancy as my heaven upon earth. They built thee for picnic parties! And I wonder what proud prince had built for his pleasures--the Garden of Gethsemane!

* * * * *

And now I go forth like a bridegroom out of my chamber, rejoicing as a strong man to run a race. And all the world dances around me, and I stretch out my arms and sing!

Come, come, my foes, where are ye now? What foes shall I be afraid of now! Is it the world and its trials? Come!

* * * * *

I go back to conquer--I have forged my weapon! I have bared my arm! Where are those foes of mine?

* * * * *

There is nothing so commonplace that it does not sing to me. I walk with a springing step, I laugh, I exult. Birds, flowers, men--I love them all; I get into the train, and the going of it is drunkenness. I have won! I have won!

I go back to the world. Come, world! I have but four dollars left--four dollars!--and The Captive!

* * * * *

It is not strange that a man should be made drunk with happiness by the writing of a tragedy! That is the great insincerity of the artist. “That cry of agony!--what a triumph of genius was that my cry of agony!”

* * * * *

--It is not the sorrow, it is the struggle; so I read the tragedy. This man is dead, but God lives, and Art lives.

I will go back, I will do anything now--I will empty ash-cans, and find it a joy. The book is done--safe in next to my heart!--And now it will be printed, and not fire nor earthquake can destroy it after that. Free! Free!

* * * * *

I am writing on the train. I write commonplaces. That is because I can not shout.

But back there, coming out of the woods, I shouted--and not commonplaces either!

Coming out of the forest--forest-drunk! Now I know all about Pan and his creatures!

* * * * *

I write carelessly. But in my heart I sit shuddering before that fearful glory. O God, my Father, let me not forget this awful week, and I will live in Truth all my days.

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July 7th. [Footnote: Possibly an error in the date, as the day was Sunday.]

Wandering all day about the streets of the hot city, seeing it not, hearing it not--waiting for the last lines of the poem to be copied! I could not do anything until that was done, and at a publisher's. I got it and fled home, and spent the night correcting the copy.

Ah, God, what a thing it is! How it roars, how it thunders, how it surges! How infinite, how terrible! Stern, throbbing--is there anything like it in the world?

* * * * *

Ten lines of it make my blood tingle--an act of it makes me bury my face in my pillow and laugh and sob for five minutes.

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Go forth, oh my perfect song!