It is our absurd English ideas of “propriety” that make possible such things. If the author had had to show the seduction of “Tess” the weakness of the thing would have been plain in an instant. That he did not show it was his lack of conscience. There is no propriety in art but truth. * * * * * March 8th. I took the manuscript to the editor again to-day. He told me to come in on Monday. Deep in my soul I can have no more disappointments about it. I take it about from habit. I sat and looked it over last night, but one can not read emotional things in cold blood. I said, Is this true? Is it natural? Is there any _use_ in it? I was tempted to cut out one or two things; but I decided to let it stay as it was. * * * * * March 10th. I have been sitting to-night in my room, half-dazed, or pacing about the streets talking to myself in a frenzy. I can hardly believe that it is true, I can hardly realize it! I laugh with excitement, and then I cry. * * * * * I went to-day to get back my manuscript. And the editor said: “Mr. Stirling, it is a most extraordinary piece of work. It is a most interesting thing, I like it very much.” I stared at him gasping. Then I waited to hear him say--“But I regret”--But he didn't! “I can't tell you anything definite about it,” he said. “I want to submit it to the firm. I wouldn't undertake to accept any such unusual thing for the magazine without consulting them, and especially seeing if they will bring it out afterward--” “You are thinking of using it in the magazine!” I cried. “As I tell you, I can't say positively. I can only tell you what I think of it. I will have them read it at once--” “I will take it to them to-day!” I put in. “No,” he said, “you need not, for I am going there this afternoon, and I will take it, and ask them to read it immediately.” I can't remember what else he said. I was deaf, crazy! I rushed home, talking to myself incoherently. I remember sitting here in a chair and saying aloud, “Oh, it can't be! It is impossible! That it should be good enough to publish in a magazine like that! It is some mistake--it will all come to nothing. It's absurd!” * * * * * So I sat, and I thought what such a thing would mean to me--it would make my reputation in a day--I should be free--_free_! But I thought of it and it did not make me happy; I only sat staring at myself, shuddering. The endless mournfulness that is in my heart surged up in me like a tide, and suddenly I began to cry like a child. “It has come to me too late,” I exclaimed, “too late! I can't believe it--it doesn't mean anything to me. I don't care anything about it--I mean the poem! _I don't believe in it myself_!”