Part 28 (2/2)

--I saw myself a business man to-day, clearing a path for myself! But it does not last--I am not that kind of a man. My folly is my being--rest a.s.sured that I shall climb back to the heights again where I am willing to bear any insult.

But it will be a long time before I write any more letters. I have come to understand the world's point of view.

I suppose busy men get thousands of letters from cranks; they will get no more from me.

December 5th.

I was reading an essay on Balzac to-day. I read about Balzac's fondness for _things_; and I put the book down and spent an hour of perplexity. I fear I am a very narrow person in my sympathies and understandings. Why should a man care about _things_! About all sorts of houses and furniture, and pictures, and clothes, and jewels!

I can understand a man's caring about love and joy and aspiration. But _things_! I can understand a child's caring about things, or a fool's caring; I see millions of such; but an artist? A thinker? A _man_?

I am reading novels nowadays--reading all sorts of things that _entertain_. I have not read a poem for a long time, I have no interest in reading unless I can _go_ with it.

I have been studying some of the French novelists--some of Maupa.s.sant yesterday. What a strange creature is a Frenchman! A nervous, hysterical, vain, diseased creature!

”The Gallic disease!” Let that be a phrase.

The Gallic disease is this: to see only one thing in life, to know only one purpose, to understand only one pleasure; to have every road lead to that, every thought, every phrase. To know that every character in a book is thinking it; to know that every man who is introduced is looking for a woman! And that as soon as he finds her, they must forthwith--whatever be their age, rank, character, and position at the moment--begin to burn with unclean desires!

That is what one might call the _convention_ of French fiction. It gets very monotonous when you are used to it; it takes all of the interest out of the story. For there is but one ending to such a story.

One's whole being is lowered by contact with that incessant animal appeal.

December 8th.

I have discovered another trouble--as if I did not have enough! I am to suffer from indigestion! It plagues me continuously--I can not do anything for an hour after a meal, no matter what simplest thing I have eaten.

And so all through my life I am to be hindered in my work by having to wrestle with this handicap! Just as if I had not been a clean man, but some vulgar _bon vivant_.

December 10th.

This is my fifth publisher. They said they thought it would take two weeks, but it has been three already, and they have not even answered my letter of inquiry. I see you can put no reliance on them in the matter of time.

December 11th.

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