—Sometimes when I think of these things a black shadow stalks over my heart. I hear a voice, “Fool, and do you still think that you are ever to escape from this? Do you not perceive that this sordid shame is your lot? Do you not perceive that you may writhe and twist, struggle and pant, toil and serve, till you foam at the lips? Who will heed you! Who will hear you! Who cares anything about you!—Who wants your Art! Who wants your work! Who wants your life!—Fool!”
—Of course this thing could not go on. And so of course,—stammering and writhing, as I always do when I have my nose pushed into this kind of filth—I had to speak to the landlady about it to-night.—
And of course the landlady was astonished. “Why, Mr. Stirling, can't a body talk in a body's own room?” Yes, a body can talk, but then other bodies have to move away.
Now she's going to speak to her sister about it. And here I sit, writhing and trembling. Oh my God, suppose I have to move! Oh merciful Father, have pity on me—I can't bear much of this! To go tramping around this hot and horrible city, to go into some new and perhaps yet more dirty place! And oh, the agony, the shame—suppose that will not do, and I have to keep on searching! Dragging this fearful burden with me! And I have only eighteen dollars left!
If I think of it any longer I shall scream with nervousness.
June 7th.