The very praise I received for my
powers from men who would not help me to employ them was a maddening
stimulus.
"Talent? Yes, decidedly, but too heterodox for us."
This was the general resume of the opinion of the publishing world
that had determined to eject me and shut its door in my face. Had it
been hinted that the rejection was on the ground of incapacity it
would have been easier to bear, but, without exception, every
declined manuscript had been accompanied with a warm commendation of
the art that the critic chose to think was so misapplied. Often,
walking up and down the length of that study with these letters of
empty compliment crowding the mantelpiece, I felt like a captured
tiger in a cage, being goaded and thrust at through the bars. And,
together with this excessive longing of the brain to employ its
power raged the useless, vehement desire for the woman, until in
those moments of silent solitude, it seemed as if two living
vultures were upon me, slowly tearing me asunder. As I walked away
from Lucia this morning, and when I reached my own steps, I was
conscious of a sense of physical illness; my head seemed light and
dizzy, as when one gets up after long fever. I was so long opening
the door that Nous, who had pushed his whole body close up against
it, looked at me with surprise. As we went in I had one clear
determination, and that was to apply once more to my father for
help.
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