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.”