The Journal of Arthur Stirling : ("The Valley of the Shadow") Part 14

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.

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 G.o.d, 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!"

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?

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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d, my Father, let me not forget this awful week, and I will live in Truth all my days.

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, G.o.d, 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?