CHAPTER IV.
“Whatdo I think of New York for you?” Glenn Andrews replied, “frankly I don’t know. You forget that the one thing necessary to answer your question is the one thing I don’t possess. That is to say, I don’t know you as time has made you. What I would have said years ago to the slip of a girl, I cannot say to the growing woman. You and your art are the deciding quantities. Have you bodily strength, or only nerve fibre? Have you real genius, or only mediocrity? Genius, which lives by self-understanding, can forgive this blunt questioning. New York takes strength. It is a great monster which grips you by the throat and shakes you as a dog does a squirrel. The process shakes thelife out of its body and leaves it broken and dead, or else it twists its neck, bites strong and deep, and is allowed to go. You must draw blood to make the monster of city life quit—the rich, warm blood of enthusiasm and applause. And I doubt whether your teeth are strong enough.
“Success means hard work—long, bitter days and nights of it—drab days of monotony, black nights of disappointment. It means toil and tears. This is a maelstrom, and only the biggest branches float on the surface. The little twigs are sucked down. And it is a place of giant timber. The oak from the country hillside is only a scrub here. You must remember this. The bigness of it all makes for heartlessness. When one meets a beggar on every corner, one soon ceases to feel sorry; and where failures are so common, there is seldom a helping hand or even a sigh of sympathy. Only the warmest fire can go on burning brightly with the ice falling so thick around it.
“So much for you yourself, and your own viewof yourself. As to your ability, I mean. Your circumstances I do not know. New York takes money. In comparison with your own home, it takes a great deal. To succeed in it requires time—years; and unless you can afford to stay it through, you would better save yourself the discouragement of failure, for there is no bitterer failure than that which we feel to be purely circumstantial.
“I pass over the question of the evil of New York. Evil comes from inside of us—it is not absorbed. If we are pure, it does not touch us; it goes by. I believe it would go by you. There are no temptations in New York any more than there are at home, for those who do not want to be tempted. You are, no doubt, a far better judge of this matter than your minister—I am heterodox enough for that.
“There is another side. No one knows genius so well as itself. If you have it, New York is the place for you. The greater the body, the greater the attraction for the great centre. I would notcounsel you to disregard its force, for I believe only true motives move you. And if you know yourself and believe in yourself, you will find a way to beat down other difficulties. There are ways of living in New York cheaply. You might essay the purgatorial round of music lessons; your violin might earn its own halo—who knows?
“I take it you would come alone. There are places where young women, unattended, are made welcome and cared for; and there are places where earnest workers congregate where there are ordinary comforts at low rates—these, if you should decide to try the venture, you must let me tell you of. I should be glad indeed if what knowledge I have of the city might be of some service to you.
“In closing this letter, I feel that, after all, I have told you nothing. You have, no doubt, considered the question in all its bearings. Such a step is a serious one—far too much so for me to intrude upon it. Be true to yourself—to yourideas, your judgment, and your reason. If you do this, you will be true to your art. Do not hesitate to write me if I can help you, but you must not ask me to advise you as to coming. ‘What do I think of New York for you?’ I don’t know!
“Glenn Andrews.”