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The Journal of 
 Iris Valjean 
 
 By 
 IRIS VALJEAN 
 
 
 19 3 
 
 HUDSONKIMBERLY PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 Kansas City, Missouri 
 

 ^^i 
 
 r 
 
 
 Copyright 1903 
 
 By Hudson- Kimberly Publishing Company 
 
 Kansas City, Missouri 
 
 t • 
 
Preface. 
 
 So long as this world is composed of lies 
 spoken and unspoken, hypocrisy, subter- 
 fuges, and the hideous strain of masquerading, 
 my frankness cannot be altogether con- 
 lenined. Iris .ValjEan. 
 
The Journal of Iris Valjean. 
 
 By IRIS VALJEAN. 
 
 April 17, 1900. — I do not know how 
 long the conviction has been growing upon 
 me, but it seems years since I first began to 
 notice the vast difference existing between 
 me and my fellow-beings. I never cared for 
 an intimate girl associate, because I could 
 find no one whose likes and dislikes were in 
 harmony with mine. I am the child of an 
 American mother and a French father, in- 
 heriting the delicate features and constitu- 
 tion of my lovely mother and the unyielding 
 will and erratic ideas of my Huguenot ances- 
 :ors. By nature rebellious, I could never 
 olerate parental discipline when it came 
 CO things conventional, and my dear, patient 
 mother used often to sigh and say: "She is 
 like none of my people." 
 
 "Nor like m-i-n-e, save in minor re- 
 spects," moii pere would reply. "She is 
 like no one I have ever known. She is a 
 genius — a genius, 7na chere. I am really glad 
 she is so distinct from the world as to appear 
 conspicuously foreign." 
 
6 Thk Journal of Iris Valjkan. 
 
 Ah! my poor, doting father. He did 
 not hve to know how mistaken he was in call- 
 ing me a genius. If being a genius implies 
 an abnormal brain capacity, then I am not 
 a genius. If it signifies a startling oddness 
 from all woman-kind, so evident that the 
 possessor stands widely apart from the world 
 and its hypocritical ways, then I am a genius. 
 I, a mere girl, petite, pale, big-eyed, supple, 
 yet languid, a genius? How ridiculous it 
 sounds ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 April 2 2d. — This morning I sat under a 
 blossoming peach tree with a dog-eared vol- 
 ume of Pope in my lap, but I forgot to read 
 in the more absorbing task of watching a big 
 bumblebee that kissed and kissed passion- 
 ately a shy pink crocus. Suddenly, and by 
 no aforethought, I said aloud: "I am a 
 genius." The wind took the words and ran 
 away with them among the stones and through 
 the waving blossoms of the peach. The hills ^ 
 whispered them to one another in hollow 
 tones that died away, a strangely quivering i 
 
 wail in the depths of the green valley. 
 
 * * * 
 
The Journal o^ Iris Vaij^an. 7 
 
 April 3o^/z.— Last night a cricket piped a 
 lullaby outside on my sill. The melody crept 
 into my heart, bringing a soothing balm to 
 my tired nerves. I possess the great joy of be- 
 ing able to go to bed at night with no vision 
 of the day's meanness to torment my brain. 
 How can one be haunted by stinging remem- 
 brances or vulgar gloating unless one strug- 
 gles to soar ahead of one's neighbor by fair 
 means or foul? How can one be i-n the world 
 and o-f it, and not join in this devilish rivalry? 
 I am not o-f the world— therefore I'll have 
 none of it. Oh, the pain, the agonized pain 
 that comes from contact with the saw-like 
 edges of the world ! It is as bits of glass im- 
 bedded in the heart, and the blood flows from 
 the wound so slowly; drip, drip, drip— like 
 rain from the eaves when a shower is over. 
 It is maddening — maddening ! 
 * * * 
 
 May 6th. — My bringing up and educational 
 training has not been different from that of 
 other girls of well-to-do parents, yet, in spite 
 of the care and polishing that has been mine, 
 I am inwardly the same odd character. No 
 amount of cultivation can eradicate that which 
 is born in the flesh. The same likes and dis- 
 
8 The Journai^ of Iris Vai^jean. 
 
 likes, the same startling eccentricities that 
 marked my childhood have grown with my 
 growth and are now forever established. 
 Traits that I would not conceal if I could, be- 
 cause there is not one drop of Janus blood in 
 my body. My instinct is my guide in the 
 judging of men and women, and it is seldom 
 I mistake to what extent a person can be 
 trusted the moment I look into his or her 
 eyes. It is a strange, instantaneous teleg- 
 raphy. This explains my unshakable aver- 
 sion to society — for is not society composed 
 of a class too selfish and narrow-minded to be 
 worthy of cultivation? I am weary of hav- 
 ing dinned in my ears that I ought to esteem 
 everybody. I do esteem everybody till I 
 know they are undeserving, but as for l-i-k- 
 i-n-g them, I cannot do it. My whole out- 
 raged nature rises in rebellion. How can I 
 really like a person until I have some reason 
 for doing so? I w-i-l-l not say things simply 
 to be polite. I treat people civilly and court e 
 ously — it is all they deserve. To be treated 
 likewise is all I expect or deserve. Why 
 cannot the world exist on this sort of chiv- 
 alry, without clamoring for spasmodic in- 
 timacies? I do not know why women con- 
 
The: Journal of Iris Valjban. 9 
 
 tract intimacies, unless it is because they 
 take a fiendish deHght in anticipating and 
 realizing the hysterical end of such compan- 
 ionship. It always comes in one guise or 
 another, and then — they do not speak as they 
 pass by. Both persons make h9,ste to form 
 a similar alliance with some other woman, 
 and so it goes — "Off with the old, on with 
 the new." 
 
 I have often heard: if one were not or 
 did not appear to be a hail-fellow-well-met, 
 one could not progress or get on comfortably 
 with the world. In other words, it is policy 
 to seem other than what one really is ; policy, 
 no doubt — but policy is not in my vocabu- 
 lary. Policy be DAMNED — such a word be- 
 longs exclusively to hypocrites, liars, scandal- 
 mongers, and politicians. 
 
 * * * 
 
 May loth. — I have an irresistible mania 
 for analyzing people and uncovering the good 
 and bad in their natures. If I did not do this 
 perhaps I would be happier, but I am grow- 
 ing more and more indifferent to the shock 
 it produces, and now, when I find my idol 
 stuffed with sawdust, I simply sigh. There 
 are no moans or tears. My heart becomes a 
 
lo The Journal of Iris ValjEan. 
 
 little more like adamant, and after awhile, 
 when it will no longer respond to impressions, 
 it will be as a living tomb over the charred 
 bones of defeat. 
 
 * * * 
 
 June Sth. — There is a class of people who 
 stoop to conquer — no matter if a heart is 
 crushed under foot, or a soul doomed to a 
 living death. They gloat as Nero of Rome 
 in scattering destruction in their wake. They 
 are as a poisoned sword in the guise of men 
 and women. There is something in intui- 
 tion, a great deal in instinct, and yet no per- 
 son can read another's thoughts beyond a 
 certain point, and it is well. Sometimes one 
 has thoughts from which the devil himself 
 (although the prompter) would flee in terror. 
 
 * * * 
 
 June I yih. — I am drunk - drunk - drunk ! 
 with the strange delirium that always suc- 
 ceeds my rendition of Beethoven's "Kreutzer 
 Sonata." Beethoven, like Shakespeare, is 
 the master magician of every human passion. 
 The first presto movement is like a great 
 draught of rare old wine, and the last notes 
 produce a soothing drowsiness that lifts the 
 soul far and above commonplace things. 
 
The Journal of Iris Vaijiun. i i 
 
 July loth.—l am wearing a new house- 
 gown— green, like Mahomet's angel of Para- 
 dise; a shade that is restful to eyes that have 
 wept. To-morrow I may wear a gown red — 
 red, like wine wrought of sunlight and blood. 
 My gown is a silent crier of my mood, and the 
 scarlet gown is worn to harmonize with a 
 period of high spirits that always follows days 
 of depression and ennui. I have company 
 to-day, yet my guests are voiceless and invis- 
 ible to all eyes save mine. Memory brings 
 many unwelcome visitors that have been 
 long absent. Yes, long-buried angry words 
 and hasty deeds stalk hand in hand and knock 
 dolefully at my soul. I dare not cry out: 
 "Thou shalt not enter here!" Words are 
 futile, as ghosts of remorse haunt their natal 
 home with fiend-like persistency. 
 
 X see — see — Grand Dieu! I see count- 
 less sable-robed phantoms waving long, slen- 
 der arms and twisting their horrible skeleton 
 fingers. Their great, hollow eyes of unfath- 
 omable depth pierce my innermost soul, and, 
 as the figures, one by one, pass their awful 
 hands across my warm face, I shrink in ter- 
 ror. How they grin in jeering mockery, and 
 
12 The JouRNAiy OF Iris VaIvJEan. 
 
 O, how their eyes burn with devilish glee ! A 
 chill of regret sweeps over my heart, and 
 though I cry: "I repent! I repent!" it is un- 
 heard, and my voice is suddenly stilled like 
 a violin string that has snapped. 
 * * * 
 
 July 12th. — I am glad to-day. My per- 
 sonal belongings have been increased by a 
 bust of Napoleon, a plaster plaque of Dante, 
 a copy of Herviews' "Theroigne de Merin- 
 court" and Ibsen's "A Doll House. " I im- 
 agine my study is tenfold more attractive since 
 these things have found their niche in it. My 
 enjoyment in inanimate things is never transi- 
 tory. Of course, the excess of joy wears off 
 in time, but it is supplanted by a new feeling 
 that increases with association. 
 
 The afternoon grows old. Already the 
 crickets have begun to tune their fiddles. I 
 sit alone in the shadow of my room and listen 
 to the soughing of the wind in the maples. 
 It is the wholesome, exuberant wind of sol- 
 itude and a wonderful elixir. O del, je suis 
 hien fatiguee! 
 
 July isth. — I have just returned from the 
 orchard, where I have been day-dreaming 
 
The Journal of Iris Vai jean. i 3 
 
 under the fruit-laden branches of a spreading 
 apple-tree. The sun shone warm upon my 
 pale face and uncovered head, and the bees 
 and hornets sung a queer medley that some- 
 how found a little niche in my heart. 
 * * * 
 
 July 23G?. — To-day marks the twentieth 
 year of my birth. A mocking-bird came to 
 my window in the cool, gray dawn and sung 
 me a glad roundelay. I look back over the 
 ghost of years and say: "Twenty years! 
 Such a long, long time, and O, so little done!" 
 I have not yet found my niche in life, and 
 each night as I go to bed I childishly wonder 
 if it will come on the morrow. I do not want 
 to be grown up, but the years pass, taking 
 me at a rapid pace away from girlhood — 
 away from the innocence and faith into that 
 struggling, half -crazed fraternity called "The 
 World," and because of my timidity, the very 
 quality that should endear me to it, the world 
 laughs and sneers because I stand aloof from 
 its wickedness. Each day repulsive revela- 
 tions come to me, drawing my heart-strings 
 a little tighter and making shipwreck of my 
 sympathy. 
 
14 The Journai. oi^ Iris ValjEan. 
 
 Ah, humanity — h-u-manity! It can be 
 sifted down to the very dust of nothingness. 
 Its variety makes the world what it is to-day, 
 and its corruptness is the subtle something 
 that makes it endurable. I no longer believe 
 the half of what people tell me. 
 
 The little, wizened, decrepit apple- woman 
 who stands all day in a damp stall in the 
 market-place slips tainted fruit into my bag 
 while she talks glibly to hide her deception. 
 (That is shrewdness.) My sewing-maid ap- 
 propriates a yard of silk from the material I 
 have given her to make me a gown. (That 
 is cleverness.) The street-car conductor gives 
 me a slick coin — knowingly. (That is policy.) 
 The butcher gives me two thirds of a pound 
 of meat and charges me for a pound. (That 
 is stealing.) A person will lie when the truth 
 would be better. ( That is devilishness. ) 
 Women grow red in the face insisting upon 
 paying one another's car-fare. (That is de- 
 ceitfulness.) Men delight to spit in public 
 places; especially at a political meeting or a 
 circus. (That is foolishness.) A woman will 
 slander another under cover of smiles and 
 cat-like purrs. (That is cussedness.) 
 hj hj * 
 
The Journal of Iris Valjean. 15 
 
 August T,ist. — Sometimes it rests me to 
 extinguish my candle and sit in the gray light 
 when moths are flying — flying. At such 
 times I am conscious of wounds that quiver 
 unconfessed, but the pain is not fierce enough 
 to make me cry out. Only the wind gives 
 voice to my thoughts. When it wails I know 
 it is the petulant sobbing of the demon "Un- 
 rest" — a figure with clanking chains that 
 walks at my side by day and lies down with 
 me at night. Each day is a battle to keep 
 its voice in submission. At long intervals 
 my little body sways; my brain refuses to 
 work coherently; it does not respond to the 
 call of my will, and I drift — drift with the 
 tide. 
 
 My temperament is as uncontrollable as 
 the ocean; as mysterious as Eternity. O, I 
 would I were wholly one nationality! I have 
 no choice. I would be like either parent. 
 
 I love few people, few indeed: my mother 
 
 and — Eugene. 
 
 * * * 
 
 September yth. — This household revolves on 
 
 wheels of painful regularity and precision. 
 
 The sameness of the routine is exasperating. 
 
 I am so weary of four red walls and four blue 
 
 ones; I could cry, but I won't. I am more 
 
1 6 The Journaiv oi^ Iris Valjean. 
 
 than a trifle in the depths of the blue-demon. 
 I am thinking of that ugly, self-important, 
 and despicable word, 'propriety.' I would 
 there were no such thing. It is a barrier 
 erected by prudish females; a barrier the 
 breadth and circumference of the globe, with 
 the strength of the rock of Gibraltar. I 
 call down my wrath upon the senseless thing. 
 I will not, will not — w-i-l-l not recognize the 
 word. I would as soon bow down to a hide- 
 ous, malformed Chinese god. What need has 
 an independent spirit of propriety? The 
 two cannot dwell together. I would rather 
 die than not have unbridled liberty and free- 
 dom. Propriety is for fools and fools alone. 
 ,Let fools worship at its shrine. 
 * * * 
 
 October gth. — O, miserable, miserable I ! 
 Last night only snatches of sleep came to my 
 tired brain. I heard all manner of unfamiliar 
 sounds, and I put out my hand in the partial 
 darkness of my room in an effort to grasp 
 some of the mysterious objects that hovered 
 around my bed, but my hand touched noth- 
 ing, as my vision was only a delusion. The 
 clock ticked loudly. Unconsciously I began 
 to count — tick, tick, tick, tick — i, 2, 3, 4 — I 
 think I counted a million, then I lost count 
 
The Journal o^ Iris Valjean. 17 
 
 and grew so wide awake that I sat up in bed 
 and listened — tick, tick, tick — O, how mad- 
 dening was its regularity! I wished it would 
 leave off. In desperation I began to count 
 — I, 2, 3 — "Time, time is fleeting," said the 
 clock; I heard it distinctly and repeatedly: 
 "Time, time is fleeting." I pulled the cover 
 up over my head, and saw the world of hu- 
 manity moving toward a great, yawning, 
 Stygian chasm. The tall, gaunt form of 
 Father Time strode m.ajestically in the throng, 
 mercilessly urging onward the faltering and 
 terror-stricken ones. O God! men, women, 
 and children — the blind, the halt, and the 
 lame were swallowed up in the awful dark- 
 ness nevermore to be seen again, and all the 
 while the clock kept ticking on as if to chron- 
 icle the souls that Time had driven to the 
 depths of Damnation! 
 
 A cold perspiration brought a strange 
 numbness to my body, and I dragged myself 
 out of bed and went to the window, where I 
 drew aside the lace curtains and looked long 
 into the quiet street. The striking of the 
 town clock, slow and tremulous upon the 
 night air, was as so many strokes upon my 
 body. I winced as though I had been struck 
 by a whip in the hand of a slave-master. A 
 
1 8 The journal oi^ Iris Valjean. 
 
 cab rattled over the cobbled street, forcing 
 my nerves to so great a degree of intensity 
 that even the solace of tears was denied me. 
 I glanced timidly in my mirror, and saw 
 a shrinking, white-robed figure with unkempt 
 hair and a pair of saucer-like eyes of a non- 
 descript color; eyes that under normal con- 
 ditions are a cold gray with a suspicion of 
 violet and green fringing the iris. I wrung 
 my hands and repeated under my breath: 
 "O God! what is Elternity — E-t-e-rniiy — 
 
 E-T-E-R-NITY?" 
 
 * * * 
 
 November ^th. — 'Tis a boisterous, yet friend- 
 ly wind that blows to-night; it does not 
 shriek nor whistle, but blows a steady gale. 
 I look around my apartments and think they 
 appear unusually pleasing. Perhaps it is 
 the witchery of pink-shaded candelabra, per- 
 haps the effect of a newly-born flame of joy 
 that burns in my soul. My statuary looks 
 flesh-colored in the roseate glow, and my 
 paintings are like bits of pulsating nature. 
 My large tapestry, "She," that hangs above 
 the grate, is a grand and glorious tableaux. 
 Raphael, with his great, melancholy eyes, peers 
 out of the depths of a shadowy corner ; Bee- 
 thoven smiles from his pedestal on the piano ; 
 
The: Journal of Iris Valje:an. 19 
 
 Shakespeare frowns from the top of the book- 
 case, and a water-color sketch of Mme. Reca- 
 nier is for the moment a living, breathing 
 )eauty. My books seem doubly precious and 
 ittractive. How I love them! I can go in 
 ;he dark and put my hand on any book I may 
 lave in mind, I know their positions so well, 
 riien, too, there is something in a strangely 
 ntuitive touch that tells me which is which. 
 Caesar, my bull -pup, is stretched before a 
 jrate of burning anthracite (that hisses like 
 L nest of angry serpents), pretending to be 
 isleep, but all the time casting furtive glances 
 :oward me as I sit hunched over my desk in 
 ■eckless disregard of hygiene. My hair 
 s tousled, and my pink dressing-gown is polka- 
 lotted with ink and daubs of sealing-wax; 
 ^et I feel in perfect harmony with the eight 
 vails I call my home. I have put my whole 
 leart, my energy, my hopes, my ambition, 
 md peculiarities into the furnishing of these 
 ooms. Truly, they are "soul of my soul," 
 md bespeak my personality more plainly 
 ;han words. 
 
 * * * 
 
 November yih. — This morning dawned gray 
 md chill. I look out of my window and sigh. 
 
20 The Journai. of Iris Valjean. 
 
 The view is despicable. I see a clothes-line 
 strung with every imaginable article of wear- 
 ing apparel flapping in the damp wind, a gar- 
 bage wagon standing in the mud, a rickety 
 milk-cart drawn by a spavined horse, and a 
 whistling butcher boy wearing red yarn mit- 
 tens and his father's trousers. I cry aloud 
 for the inward light that was mine but a 
 twelfth hour ago. I have sore need of it. 
 * * * 
 
 November Sth. — This morning I rose while 
 my household slept, and all the world was 
 chill and gray, and trudged over hill and 
 stubblefield, through rocky paths and briar 
 patches to meet the sun. I walked buoyantly, 
 tirelessly, because I knew a place where a 
 flame of happiness burned for me. On and 
 on I walked over cold, wet leaves and frost- 
 kissed ground until I reached my accustomed 
 haunt in the wood. Around me waved flaunt- 
 ing banners of red and gold. A strong wind 
 brought me the voice of a hill stream and the 
 grate of branch against branch. Squirrels 
 frolicked at my feet, and through the crisp 
 air came the tapping of a woodpecker. A 
 cloud of amber lay upon the eastern hills: a 
 cloud that grew fiery as it rose upward. The 
 sun, glinting and vibrating, broke through 
 
The Journal of Iris Valjean. 2 1 
 
 the silver stems of a cottonwood, and I saw — 
 my happiness ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 December 2d. — It is very nearly dusk. I 
 have just returned from a walk in the face 
 of a bitter wind that stung my cheek, 
 whisked my hair spitefully across my eyes, 
 and whispered cowardly in my ear: "Turn 
 back, turn back. My wrath is great." A re- 
 bellious power within me retaliated: "No, 
 no, NO!" and I doubled my efforts to retain 
 my equilibrium and breathe less laboriously. 
 Behold, I am the victor! I, a 'frail being, 
 scarce stronger in comparison to the elements 
 than the brown leaves that flutter helplessly 
 in the air, whispering mournfully: "Dying, 
 dying, dying!" But it proves that what 
 one tries to do with heart and soul, one can 
 do. Such a day! The wind is chanting a 
 funeral march in a dull monotone among the 
 chimney-pots, and the poor little leaves keep 
 crying out in feeble, quivering voices: "Dy- 
 ing, d-y-ingl" A gray, damp-smelling mantle 
 hovers nearer and nearer the earth, like a 
 great hawk stealing upon its prey; a cloud 
 that gradually grows more gray until houses 
 from whose windows countless lights gleam 
 
2 2 Thb Journal of Iris Valjecan. 
 
 fitfully, look like rows and rows of devils 
 with a thousand blinking eyes. 
 
 Mon, Dieu! How odd this sounds! But 
 then, I'm an unusual girl, and liable to say any- 
 thing. I make it a rule to say just what I think 
 regardless of whom the shock may kill. I 
 say and do such odd things that people who are 
 too stupid to understand me call me "queer." 
 I call myself a contradiction to the world, but 
 as for being queer — everybody is queer in a 
 greater or less degree, only one cannot often 
 see one's own peculiarities. If I am queer 
 it is because "independence" is the predom- 
 inating note in my character. I pay no more 
 heed to Dame Rumor's hysterical spasms 
 than if there were no such thing. I haven't 
 a pennyweight's interest in what the world 
 says of me. What is the use striving to touch 
 a responsive chord in the hearts of the mul- 
 titude? 
 
 To-morrow you are dead and forgotten, 
 and your life's struggle goes down into the 
 awful silence of the grave and in a little while 
 — O, such a pitifully little while ! — your name 
 and memory are lost forever. 
 
The Journal oif Iris Valjean. 23 
 
 Surely the fault is not mine if the Creator 
 gave me more original gifts and a more daring 
 spirit than to His other children. 
 
 I have subjected myself to the most rigid 
 self-examination, and if I am more queer than 
 other women it is because: 
 
 1. I am possessed of a love for books 
 and Nature far exceeding the companionship 
 of men and women. 
 
 2. My faith in humanity has waned al- 
 most to the point of extinction. 
 
 3. My faculty for analyzing people has 
 made me old in the hey-day of my youth. 
 
 4. A prize-fight is not more repulsive to 
 me than a fashionable soiree. 
 
 5. When I hear people boasting of pa- 
 trician blood, my instinct discovers a lineage 
 that will not bear close scrutiny. 
 
 6. I prefer to be indebted to my purse, 
 rather than to my fellow-beings for diversion. 
 
 7. I believe a good book is the most sin- 
 cere and elevating friend one can have. 
 
 8. I never allow sugar-coated arrows to 
 pierce my flesh ; they strike only to rebound. 
 
 9. I do not gossip. 
 
 10. I do not wear conspicuous clothing. 
 
 11. I abhor women's clubs. 
 
24 The; JournaIv of Iris Valjean. 
 
 12. I dislike weddings. 
 
 Truly, this is a queer world. People are 
 queer — animals are queer — vegetation is queer 
 — and who knows but that the world toward 
 which we are journeying is far more queer 
 than this? 
 
 * * * 
 
 December 2Sth. — Some one is playing and 
 singing "The Last Rose of Summer" in the 
 salon below my room. It has brought tears 
 to my eyes and a painful ache to my throat, 
 for it is one of my dearly-beloved songs. 
 
 I am so nervous, the most commonplace 
 word would irritate instead of consoling me. 
 My dog puts his paws on my knees and looks 
 into my face inquiringly. I say, angrily: 
 "Down, d-o-w-n, sir; I'll have none of you!" 
 His dogship slips away with downcast, won- 
 dering eyes, and I whisper to myself : "It was 
 not I ; oh ! it was not I that spoke so harshly ; 
 it was the devil within me!" 
 
 A few minutes ago a group of bright, young 
 girls called, and I had the maid go to the door 
 and say I was not at home. Poor Winnette ! 
 She is the victim of all my petty whims. 
 
 * * * 
 
The Journal oif Iris Valjean. 25 
 
 An hour ago I heard a faniihar step in 
 the hall, and Winnette brought me a card. 
 
 "Shall I say you are not at home?" she 
 inquired. 
 
 "No — n-o," said I, impatiently, "show 
 him up." 
 
 ''T-to your s-studyf" stammered Winnette. 
 
 "Yes," I replied, in a voice that brooked 
 no interference. 
 
 "I — I thought, perhaps, you had forgot- 
 ten that you are in your boudoir gown," she 
 continued, in an apologetic tone. 
 
 "No, I had not," said I, quietly, "I am 
 fond of gray; it becomes me. Besides every- 
 thing is going to be just as it was before Mon- 
 sieur and I quarreled — just as it was before — 
 before " 
 
 She paled as if struck a blow in the face, 
 while I gathered up the folds of my silk ki- 
 mona and stared at my image in the glass, 
 as I hurriedly twisted my hair into a loose 
 coil on my neck. 
 
 In a moment a tall figure bowed before 
 me. He spoke my name softly — O, s-o softly! 
 Instantly my spirits soared above the little- 
 ness of morbidness and despair — the sun shone 
 broadly into the darkened chamber of my soul, 
 
26 The Journal of Iris Valjean. 
 
 and I was a woman — ^keenly, passionately alive. 
 My heart cried out: "Eugene, E-u-g-e-n-e \" 
 Just then something whispered : ' ' How 
 d-a-r-e you love this man? How dare you 
 love a man who legally belongs to another?" 
 
 The light died out of my face as quickly 
 as it had come. The old shadow crept over 
 my heart, but only for a moment. The in- 
 ward light came again, and I advanced to 
 meet him with outstretched hands, saying: 
 "^ow jowr, Eugene." 
 
 I closed the door, and, turning, looked 
 him full in the face. Neither spoke. 
 
 I crossed to where he stood by the side of 
 my desk. I sat down. And in the throbbing 
 silence he stooped and pressed a kiss upon 
 my hair. 
 
 ^ H: 4: 
 
 January 6, 1901. — There are millions of 
 women whose hearts are so warped by petty 
 jealousy that it gives their faces a wizened, 
 pinched-up look and their eyes an expression 
 of secret unrest. Women, whose inner lives, 
 if laid bare, would be a shocking revelation. 
 Women who hate in secret and stab in the 
 dark, and imagine it is hidden under the 
 ragged cloak of pretended good breeding. I 
 
The JournaIv of Iris Vaijkan. 27 
 
 sometimes think I must be strangely frank, 
 perhaps absurdly so, for writing down these 
 homely truths that everybody else seems 
 afraid to mention save in whispered confidence 
 but I am what I am — as Nature made me. 
 I cannot affect a position in which the pulse 
 of sincerity does not vibrate. Some people 
 are pleased to call me queer. Parhleau! 
 how it amuses me! I wonder if these same 
 people ever stopped to think how more than 
 queer they may appear in eyes other than 
 their own. I am not sneering at this plague 
 of jealousy that Providence has seen wise to 
 inflict upon the world — far from it. It is a 
 fact too deplorable to admit of sarcasm. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ 
 
 January 8th. — My home — the first r-e-a-l 
 home I have ever known — is a pretentious 
 cottage with a pretty garden, but a few 
 miles from a thriving metropolis. I have 
 learned to love this sweetly quiet spot, and I 
 am as contented here as is possible for one of 
 my nature until the nomad blood of my 
 father gains the mastery in my veins, and 
 then I flee from solitude as Lot from the 
 doomed city of Sodom. I have only to step 
 across the line to be in the glamor of play- 
 
28 The Journal of Iris Valjean. 
 
 people and Bohemian revelr3^ When the 
 mad river of blood subsides and its lire is 
 spent under the calm current bequeathed me 
 by my mother, I thrust the mock paradise 
 behind and take up my habitual manner of 
 living. I enter my silent rooms, where I 
 have vv^ept tears of joy, where I have cried in 
 agony — where I have lived and dreamed, and I 
 bow down before my dust-covered possessions 
 with feverish homage. I throw open the win- 
 dows to admit the light, and then I call my 
 dog: "Caesar. Caesar, where are you?" 
 
 January loth. — Of all born criminals, the 
 liar stands pre-eminent. He is like a whited 
 sepulcher: clean on the outside, but inwardly 
 as black as night. He is more murderous 
 than a stiletto in the hand of a hell-inspired 
 Italian. He damns his victim, body and soul. 
 * * * 
 
 January 20th. — It seems to me the Bible 
 should read: "How sharper than a serpent's 
 tooth is a woman's tongue." 
 
 I am not suffering from sudden insan- 
 ity, nor am I in a strange or contrary mood. 
 It is only: the more I think of the despic- 
 able relations existing between women, and 
 especially the never-dying antipathy of one 
 
The Journal of Iris Valjean. 29 
 
 woman for another, I find myself in such a 
 state of exasperation and contempt for my 
 sex that I feel like fleeing to some Eveless 
 countrv', there to eke out my existence. 
 * * * 
 
 I have noticed that a beautiful woman, 
 or one of unusual intellectual power or ac- 
 complishments, is despised and ostracised 
 and trampled upon. WTiy? Purely and 
 solely because the opposite sex admire her 
 and seek her society. A woman worshiped 
 among men, is the innocent target for all man- 
 ner of ill-bred reports, all manner of injurious 
 sarcasm, that eventually terminates in a ruin- 
 ous scandal. The poor victim, however gi^t- 
 less, is compelled to suffer as no possible defense 
 can OBLITERATE it. 
 
 To be sure, there are Madonna-like women 
 in the world, who live for naught but to do tmto 
 others as they would be done by, but they are 
 so few and so precious that to meet one is an 
 event never to be forgotten. How beyond 
 understanding is the fact that when a man 
 sinks to any depth of depravity he will be 
 lifted up by a thousand feminine hands and 
 voices; he will be welcomed in the homes of 
 
30 ThK Journal of Iris Valjean. 
 
 gentlefolk and be free to choose a wife among 
 them. Let a woman make one false step, 
 and, socially speaking, she is eternally damned. 
 The harder she struggles to rise, the louder 
 will be the protestations from her sex. She 
 will be mercilessly thrust back. Thus it is, 
 one step in the darkness leads to that awful 
 pit of obscurity that knows no resurrection. 
 
 If, by any trick of fortune, a very poor, 
 or self-supporting, perhaps a gossip-maligned 
 girl, marry a man of affluence, her girlhood 
 will follow her into her new life, and, like an 
 evil genius, appear at the most unexpected 
 and inopportune times. Women may treat 
 her half-way civil for her husband's sake, but 
 their salutations will savor of icebergs and 
 the north pole. 
 
 ^ ^ ^ 
 
 January 25//?. — I have great faith in my- 
 self; so much, in fact, that I will not acknowl- 
 edge there is anything beyond my ability, j 
 When I meet some one considered great, 
 whose power is undeniable, I say to myself 
 "I am capable of being greater; I w-i-l-l be 
 greater." This is not egotism.; it is simply 
 that I aim at no standard short of tlu 
 highest. In the material world, necessity is 
 
 I 
 
The Journal of Iris Valjean. 31 
 
 the mother of invention; in the ethical world, 
 desire is the mother of realization. The wish 
 to better one's life is the beginning of fruition. 
 It is glorious to have such an incentive. 
 Sometimes I seem so far, so very far from 
 the goal, and again it is in the shadow of my 
 grasp. I look, and look with my clear eyes 
 until they grow larger, darker, wilder, trying 
 to keep sight of the feverish flame that one 
 day burns with alluring brilliancy and the 
 next flickers, as though its vital breath was 
 nearly spent. But I cannot give up; I w-i-l-l 
 not. I must go on, and on, and on, and in the 
 end, when I shall have reached Arcadia, 
 death will beckon me. 
 
 rfC ^ ^ 
 
 January 26th. — Woman is a complex an- 
 imal. She has the stillness of the violet, the 
 love and passion of the red carnation, the 
 fury of the tigress, the bravery of a gladiator, 
 the tenderness of a saint; but overshadowing 
 all these is the innate cunning of the devil. 
 
 January 2'jth. — I like the woman who "^ 
 smiles in the face of pain and shattered hopes, 
 clasping the steel more near lest it bring a 
 passing smart to others. I know this woman. 
 
32 The Journal of Iris Vaijean. 
 
 I could honor the woman who defends her 
 sex from poisonous tongues and speaks no ill 
 of friend or foe. I do not know this woman. 
 
 I like the man who scorns to speak evil 
 of a woman; the man who will not lie to his 
 fellows; the man who kisses his mother. I 
 know many such. 
 
 * * * 
 
 January 2gth. — When the frost lies like 
 a shroud upon the vine, I think how like it is 
 to life. Death ends our brief career of wretch- 
 edness and paltry joys, while friends soon 
 forget that we have lived. Such is the pen- 
 alty of — life. 
 
 January 2,0th. — There is something in the 
 being of every refined person that makes him 
 fear the verdict of the world and hide his 
 faults as a murderer his crime, lest they take 
 wing and reappear with tenfold bitterness. ' 
 That something is — pride. 
 
 January 316-^. — I do not know why women 
 are so desirous of imitating men. The woman 
 utterly free from masculine traits possesses 
 the main requisite of a gentlewoman. Such a 
 one is the only kind that is really lovable, 
 and every right-minded person will agree 
 with me. Men do not look for mimic pro 
 
The Journal of Iris ValjEan. 33 
 
 uctions of themselves in the women they 
 
 rauld marry. Every woman can be womanly 
 
 ; she will but follow the promptings of her 
 
 letter nature. 
 
 * * * 
 
 February 2d. — I know the world. Know 
 : well, and I know its people. The passing 
 hrong in any fashionable hotel is a study, 
 ometimes I enter this throng just for the 
 trength that comes of seeing it. I mingle 
 dth the pageant of bejeweled, moneyed peo- 
 le, whose heads are swelled with self-impor- 
 ance, quite overshadowing a none too active 
 rain. I see groups of chattering women 
 3ndling squint-eyed, much-groomed, and 
 lanketed canines, while somewhere in the 
 izzy whirl are pale little children with pa- 
 tietically slender, half-naked legs, being led 
 bout by a saucy foreign maid, whose charge 
 ; an innocent excuse for her flirtations. Of 
 ourse, this little by-play is only a speck in 
 he great drama of this vain world, but with- 
 ut it the music would cease and the curtain 
 c rung down never more to rise. 
 
 I know the people of the slums, the shop, 
 nd the factory. I know the ignorance of 
 iie virtuous lower class, the foibles of the 
 
34 The Journal of Iris ValjEan. 
 
 middle and only class, whose greatest crime 
 is trying to imitate tbe yellow-dog-ism of 
 moneyed aristocracy. And I know the weak- 
 ness of human nature. I have found: 
 
 If you let a woman know you consider 
 her weak, she will show you how strong 
 she can be. 
 
 Let a man suspect you consider him weak, 
 and he will at once demonstrate how much 
 weaker he can be. 
 
 February 3d. — If I had the means to in- 
 dulge in philanthropy I would endow a school 
 where woman could be taught the art of car- 
 rying an umbrella and holding up her skirt. 
 There is not one woman in ten who can do 
 either of these things gracefully, and if they 
 could only see themselves as others see them, 
 they would endorse my project unanimously. 
 I always strive to remain indoors rainy 
 weather, simply because I fear to face the 
 ever-alert umbrella in the hands of women 
 who are so intent upon trying to decide how 
 the sleeves of their new dinner-gown shall be 
 fashioned, or in gazing askance at the shop 
 windows, that they do not know whether 
 
Ths JournaIv of Iris Valj^an. 35 
 
 r umbrellas are pointed skyward or up- 
 -down. 
 
 * * * 
 
 February sth. — Poverty is an accursed 
 g, a hellish plague, a parasite that clings 
 1 iron-like tenacity to the frayed and ragged 
 is of the world ! a great, ravenous wolf 
 : shows its sharp teeth in gluttonous hun- 
 and flaunts its bruised and bleeding vic- 
 ; in the face of the world as a reminder of 
 power. I wince, and there is a strangely 
 •p pain in my heart whenever I come in 
 tact with one of the wolf's prey. For 
 moment I am (mentally speaking) as mis- 
 )le as the wretch before me. It is not 
 ' I feel; it is not contempt, but a wildly 
 Idening anger that such a thing as 
 erty exists. The poor do not want pity; 
 ody wants it. I would rather have the 
 Id's curses than its pity. Pity? Dieuf 
 
 > a nauseous, damnable insult! 
 
 * * * 
 
 February 6th. — I am thinking of Lorraine 
 lay. Lorraine was my schoolmate. She 
 ny countrywoman. It was she whose 
 ;e cunning soothed Eugene in the pain of 
 quarrel and married him before the sting 
 lefeat had ceased to burn. 
 
36 The Journal, o^ Iris Valjean. 
 
 I know Eugene suffers. I know the whole 
 of his heart. 
 
 I know my face fills every crevice of it, 
 for he has told me so, and I — in spite of the 
 world — in spite of the devil and in opposition 
 to the prompting of my better nature, have — 
 listened. 
 
 There is no look, no sign, nor word be- 
 tween Eugene D'Merci and me that might 
 not pass between any man and woman who 
 love one another, but there is an unspeakable 
 bond, a something that means "Hell is not 
 hell since thou art here." 
 
 Sometimes Eugene comes to me and his 
 face is white, almost pleading. He comes to 
 my little study, a room where no man's footi 
 has trod save his, and he says: "Iris, I — I J 
 am worn out. Read me something — d-o." 
 
 Forthwith there is a battle royal in my 
 
 soul, and the inevitable result is — the infant 
 
 wail of conscience is hushed in the o'er-pow- 
 
 ering voice of love, and, like Gretchen ir 
 
 "Faust," I am ready to risk all — /- o- s-e — all J 
 * * * 
 
 February yth. — I am ill in spite of m} 
 avowal to the contrary. A physician cam( 
 
 asi 
 
Thh Journal of Iris ValjEan. 37 
 
 this morning and prescribed a medicine of 
 absinthe bitterness that will not improve my 
 condition, because I have no faith in its prop- 
 erties. One must have faith in all things, 
 the possible and impossible, to realize virtue. 
 Faith is wonderfully magnetic and uplifting 
 to those susceptible to its influence, and it is 
 contagious too — a contagion for which I have 
 longed and prayed until I am weary. Ah, me ! 
 I must be immune. There must be no place 
 in my soul where the seed of faith can grow, 
 since it is always near me, yet refuses to tarry. 
 * * * 
 
 February loth. — I've been reading "Gio- 
 conda," a translation from the Italian, dram- 
 atized for Eleanor Duse. Poor Silvia! the 
 mere mention of her name brings to my mind 
 a tall, white lily, untainted by so much as a 
 I drop of dew. O, the loveliness — the divine 
 purity of her soul ! Her character is like a 
 iong in the trees that goes floating by us on 
 ^:he wings of night. I can no more explain 
 ny admiration of her than I can paint a mas- 
 ■.erpiece, or chisel a Madonna out of marble, 
 jioconda — what of her? She fills me with 
 mspeakable bitterness. I hate her! It is 
 I IS if she lived to-day, for her disciples are 
 
 i a 
 
38 The Journal, of Iris Valjean. 
 
 scattered broadcast over the earth, following 
 in her selfsame steps. 
 
 * * * 
 February i^th. — It is cold. The winds 
 
 sob in the maples, occasionally bursting into 
 a wail like that of a little child in distress: 
 "Yoo-oo-o-o-yoo!" is the sound over and over 
 again. Save for its dull monotone, it is so 
 still. I can hear my respiration and the 
 scratching of my pen. I sing a stanza from 
 a comic opera to revive my dying spirits, but 
 there is no melody in my voice. I try again 
 and again, with only partial success. No 
 matter the tune, it is spoiled by: "Yoo-o-o-o- 
 yoo!" 
 
 * * * 
 
 February iSth. — I sit at my little window 
 and look out over gray housetops and grayeij''^'' 
 chimneys — at mutilated fences, at shutten 
 and gates that hang awry, and windows hun^ 
 with soiled curtains, and at windows with curi 
 tains so stiff and prim that they seem in readi 
 ness for a funeral. Verily, the inmates unde 
 each roof can be judged by the dress of theilven 
 abode. |ast:f 
 
 I ttrobi 
 
Thk Journal of Iris ValjeJan. 39 
 
 February 20th. — I am at last face to face 
 with all the petty selfishness and disillusion- 
 ing insincerity in the world, and yet I have 
 been trying to make myself believe it is not 
 so. A king's ransom is too little to give in 
 exchange for the brightness (even though it 
 was deceptive) that was mine but a twelfth 
 month ago. Time and experience have joined 
 hands and thrust the fact full upon me. Such 
 a realization must come into the life of every 
 woman between the ages of twenty and twenty- 
 five. It is an indescribably sad awakening. 
 Isn't it awful to know the Judas friendships 
 — that one cannot trust one's own brother 
 in a business transaction — that hypocrisy 
 stalks the street by day and by night seeking 
 to destroy? That one's misdeeds are remem- 
 bered and paraded even after death and res- 
 urrected, aye unto the fifth generation? 
 One's charities are speedily forgotten and 
 could not be found with a searchlight. 
 
 't* *!* 'i* 
 
 March 3 J. — O cieux! I am tired; so 
 
 very, very tired! There are days that I love 
 
 a strenuous life; days that the spirit of pas- 
 
 I sion enters my soul and the pulse of the world 
 
 f throbs in my veins. At such times my heart 
 
40 The Journal of Iris Valjean. 
 
 cries out: "Faster, faster!" Is it any wonder 
 I find myself a victim of nerves and tearfully 
 emotional in the pink, pink rose of my youth? 
 To confess to "nerves" at twenty is deplor- 
 able. Now, if I were thirty, to own that I 
 have "nerves" would not be a startling dis- 
 closure, and yet the fault is not altogether 
 mine. I was brought up in an atmosphere 
 of noise and hurry and rush, and at times it 
 is as necessary to my existence as the rain 
 to a thirsty shrub. Diantre! the pace is not 
 worth the price. A woman's youth, and beauty, 
 and health, and — shattered faith in humanity 
 is the sacrifice. Dear God! why is this so? 
 When we dissect humanity, what is left? 
 That which was once as luscious wine vanish- 
 es, leaving in its stead rank dregs as bitter 
 and repulsive as wormwood. A confidence 
 once forfeited can never be restored. The 
 smothered pain will rise phantom-like and 
 flap its devilish wings over the budding of 
 renewed faith, and instantly it droops and 
 
 dies like a rose kissed by the frost. 
 * * * 
 
 March 4th. — To-day I am lethargic; yes, 
 in heart, body, and soul. As I look back over 
 my young life, the hours that I really lived. 
 
Thk JournaIv of Iris Vaijean. 41 
 
 e hours when the pulse of joy throbbed in 
 Y veins, stand out so vividly that all the 
 her hours and days that go to make up a 
 ar count for nothing. My life has been 
 id is, a struggle against unfavorable environ- 
 ent. I am forced to smile when my heart 
 hes with a violence great enough to stifle 
 e. My face is calm, while inwardly a slum- 
 ring passion is fighting for recognition. I 
 ust laugh when I long to cry. O, if I could 
 ily forget my disappointments, my strug- 
 £s, my humiliations! I am not afraid of 
 e past, even though it is haunted by the 
 lantom of sorrow, but I am afraid — O, I 
 ti sore afraid of the future! The future 
 [th its mysterious secrets causes me to shud- 
 :r involuntarily. Could I have a passing 
 impse of what it holds in store for me I 
 Duld cover my eyes in terror; I would cry 
 It : " No-w-o, I do not wish to see ! I have 
 ready suffered more than my miserable life 
 worth!" 
 
 * * * 
 
 March 5th. — Night draws on apace. What 
 )es it matter — since it is night, eternal night 
 
 my soul. 
 
 * * * 
 
42 Thk JournaIv of Iris Vai^jkan. 
 
 March yth. — I have a temper. Yes ! Who 
 of riotous Huguenot blood has not? 'Tis not 
 the slow-brewing, revengeful sort, neither is 
 it vindictive or spiteful, but the impulsive 
 kind that suddenly leaps to a hell-like fury 
 and as suddenly subsides into a calm indif- 
 ference, followed by a strange, almost over- 
 whelming pity for the poor weakling that oc- 
 casioned my wrath. There is more than or- 
 dinary charity in my soul. 
 
 * * * 
 
 March i^th. — A spring rain patters upon 
 the roof, and through my open window comes 
 the scent of moist earth and tender grass. 
 Close by the garden gate a stone sun-dial 
 throws a cold gleam against a clump of snow- 
 ball bushes, whose straggling, out-stretched 
 arms are dotted here and there with tufts of 
 pale green. 
 
 I am reminiscent in spite of myself. Some- 
 where out of the vague past there comes to 
 me the tremulous strains of a violin. It is as 
 soft as a spring breeze caressing a bed of vio- 
 lets. I listen, fascinated, while a dreamy 
 listlessness steals over me. Lo ! I hear a sweet 
 and glorious andante, a melody that sets my 
 heart atune. Slowly, very slowly, it loses 
 
The Journal oi^ Iris Vaiji^an. 43 
 
 its song in the wind, and is swept on and on — 
 :nto the valleys — over the hills, and at last 
 
 !s lost. 
 
 * * * 
 
 March i6th. — If Adam ever possessed the 
 Areakness of envy, it must have slumbered in 
 :he rib that God removed to endow Eve, thus 
 naking man exempt, while the green-eyed 
 vorm has descended through the ghost of 
 r^ears a hateful legacy, a stigma upon all 
 vomankind. 
 
 * * * 
 
 March lyih. — I do not believe there ever 
 existed a really sincere and unbroken friend- 
 hip between women. If, by chance, there is 
 L single exception, it has survived only be- 
 :ause its strength has never been put to the 
 est. True, the number of supposedly staunch 
 riendships are legion, but so surely as there 
 s life and death, so surely as night follows 
 lay, just so long as women make confidants 
 )f one another, there will come a time when 
 L sting sharper than a scorpion's will creep 
 n and destroy the fancied affection. And the 
 )ain — oh ! the awful, gnawing pain will never 
 lie, but will cling to the heart like a parasite, 
 vhWe the wound will ache and burn, with an 
 
44 I'he Journal of Iris ValjEan. 
 
 occasional passionate outburst so long as life 
 shall last. Albeit, there may be treaties of 
 peace over the gray ashes of a dead or dis- 
 eased friendship, it is undeniably a fact that 
 "true reconcilement can never grow where 
 wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep." 
 * * * 
 
 March igth. — Yesterday I walked through 
 the damp, brown grass of a graveyard to look 
 upon the lowly bed of a girl I loved. A syringa 
 bush by the side of the headstone is strug- 
 gling to put forth its leaves, and a few shoots 
 of pale, new grass peep from the cold, moist 
 grave. I felt like up-rooting the hateful lit- 
 tle tufts, crying out: "Why should such as 
 this be living and breathing the air, while 
 underneath lies the dear, dead body of Blanche 
 Bardeau?" A spring wind blew softly and 
 warm among the stones, and a robin came 
 with inquisitive chirp and was away. 
 
 O, the awfulness of life's finale! the deep, 
 black grave, the narrow casket, the hungry 
 worms that creep and crawl and devour 
 year after year, then crumble to nothingness 
 with the dust of the dead. What does it 
 matter who goes before! The rest will soon 
 follow. 
 
The Journal oi' Iris Valjean. 45 
 
 I wonder where the soul dwells while 
 awaiting the resurrection ? If a soul is judged 
 so soon as life ceases, what need is there of a 
 resurrection? Who knows where the dead 
 are journeying? Who? Who? 
 
 * * * 
 
 April ist. — Every woman is fond of hear- 
 ing a man say to her: "I love but you." 
 Should he not tell her this on an average of 
 once a week, she is clever enough to find a 
 way of making him say it, even if she has to 
 resort to childish coquetry, and ask: "How 
 m-u-c-h do you love me?" For answer, the 
 man presses the woman's head against his 
 strong breast, and the woman hears a strong 
 heart-throb, and is no longer soul-hungry. 
 The man is great because the woman's de- 
 pendence and faith make him so; and the 
 woman is great because she feeds upon his 
 strength, the very strength of which she is 
 the foundation. 
 
 * * * 
 
 March nth. — When I look upon a fine 
 statue or a famous painting, my first thought 
 is not of its possible money value, but the 
 wish to see the living model. If man can 
 
46 The Journal oi^ Iris Valjean. 
 
 sculptor and paint such beauty, what indeed 
 must be the grandeur of the Great Master? 
 
 March 14th. — All men are pleased with 
 the sound of their own voices. They fall in 
 love with the woman who listens attentively 
 to the recital of their ambitions, their work, 
 and hobbies. It is far more to be a good 
 listener than a good prompter. 
 
 * * * 
 
 March i^th. — I hold my head erect, be- 
 cause I am face to face with a fighting world, 
 and it must know I meet it bravely. 
 
 * * * 
 
 April 2,d. — To-day I see and feel the years 
 whose sands have fallen in the glass of Time. 
 These shining grains have drawn a sword of 
 fire through my heart, yet the knowledge 
 they have given me more than atones for the 
 relentless sting of pain. I sit here alone, and 
 I go over my life — my childhood in France, 
 my girlhood in America, my travels, my oft- 
 interrupted education, my present home in 
 Missouri, and my meeting with Eugene. I 
 come to that memorable evening — the even- 
 ing of our betrothal. Again I hear the storm 
 and feel the fierce wind beating against my 
 
Thk Jour>7AL ok Iris ValjEan. 47 
 
 cheek. I feel my damp, loosened hair whisked 
 in my eyes, and I see him — a powerful figure 
 of Viking mould — walking beside me, clasping 
 my cold, little hand in his great, warm palm. 
 I relive and re-suffer our misunderstanding and 
 his union with Lorraine. I — I alone was at 
 fault, and the thought is bitter with the bit- 
 terness of death. I feel again the thousand 
 passions that sprung into life with the crying 
 of my soul for its mate, a voice that sobbed 
 and would not be comforted. I come to 
 another day — that day of days, when Eugene 
 stole unannounced into my study and seated 
 himself in his accustomed chair. He looked 
 older, sterner, paler. I was not surprised. I 
 knew, I knew — my life and I — that he would 
 come some day, some time. I looked search- 
 ingly into his eyes, saying, in a low tone: 
 "Eugene, have you no fear of hell, no hope 
 of paradise?" 
 
 His voice was hoarse as he said : "Spare me, 
 Iris." My brain is whirring and throbbing and 
 out of the chaos comes but one thought and 
 that is : "My soul and yours are united by a 
 mysterious and divine tie. One half the brain 
 can have no thought that is not shared by the 
 other half. Just so, is your soul the complete- 
 ness of mine, and mine, yours." 
 
48 Thh Journai. of Iris Valj^an. 
 
 I stood upright, motionless, with my fists 
 clenched until the nails dug deep into the skin. 
 Seeing — feeling — hearing — nothing! 
 
 Moved by a strange impulse, I glided be- 
 hind his chair. I stooped over him and my 
 two arms crept slowly, very slowly over his 
 shoulders. I rubbed my cheek against his 
 bearded one and my lips brushed his hair. 
 Instantly, he put up his hands and held mine 
 tightly. * * * w^e stood facing one 
 another. At our feet, the crushed petals of 
 the white rose I had worn on my breast min- 
 gled with the petals of the red, red rose he 
 had worn in his lapel. I looked at the poor, 
 bruised flowers and my eyes grew wide, and 
 strange, and still, with the thought that came 
 to me. I shivered. Eugene looked and a 
 momentary pallor crossed his face. I felt 
 myself lifted up — up, and I heard: "I pledge 
 myself to stand between you and the world. 
 J pledge you my life!" 
 
 'I* 't* *!* 
 
 April 4.th. — What matter that I live from 
 day to day playing a part that I may hide 
 from curious eyes a deadly wound ? 
 
 Are not my fellow-sufferers legion ? I meet 
 them in my travels, in street-cars. They are 
 
The; Journal of Iris Valj^an. 49 
 
 ivery where ! All with that something in the 
 ^yes that is unreadable even to the initiated 
 or every soul is its own refuge. 
 
 * * * 
 
 April 5th. — Some things that seem to me 
 mexplainable : 
 
 Why a pretty woman will call a prettier 
 )ne a hussy. 
 
 Why a plain woman has more than or- 
 iinary intelligence. 
 
 Why a man prefers beauty to brains. 
 
 Why a tall man seldom marries a tall 
 s^oman. 
 
 How a little woman can manage a six-foot 
 wo-hundred-pound piece of masculinity with 
 - mere twist of her eye. 
 
 Why women walk like quadrupeds. 
 
 Why well-bred people put their elbows on 
 he table. 
 
 Why well-gowned women go gloveless. 
 
 * * * 
 
 April 6th. — Sometimes the thought comes 
 ver me that there is no such thing as a devil, 
 ccording to Biblical portrayal, and this is 
 Dllowed by an almost convincing thought 
 hat the devil is of the feminine gender, and 
 very person who knows the r-e-a-l meaning 
 
50 The Journai. of Iris Valjean. 
 
 of misery and despair is the victim of a devil 
 now walking (or that h-a-s walked) the earth 
 in the guise of woman. These women are 
 pretty, plain, sinister, cultivated and illiter- 
 ate, of high and low degree, but no matter 
 the type, the person possessed loses sight of 
 the human shape and sees naught but the ser- 
 pent's eye, the cloven hoof, and vampire 
 cruelty of living flesh and bone that will keep 
 him in accursed purgatory so long as the evil 
 
 one lives. 
 
 * * * 
 
 April yth. — There is no type of humanity 
 more disgusting than the holier-than-thou 
 hypocrite who kisses her woman friends on 
 every possible occasion and in secret, talks 
 about their faults and failings. 
 
 * * * 
 
 April gth. — I esteem men. I do, indeed. 
 They are not emotional, impulsive, tragic, nor 
 Janus-faced. They do not weep and moan 
 over the death of a pet dog, nor allow a neigh- 
 bor's sharp tongue to throw them into hysteria. 
 They make less disturbance over a fortune 
 lost in the wheat market than a woman creates 
 over the fancied misfit of a gown. Man! 
 What a great place he fills in the drama of life ! 
 
The Journal of Iris ValjEan. 51 
 
 Were there no big, stalwart men to love the 
 women, and no women worthy to be loved, 
 this world would be as a desert; it would 
 cease to revolve. There would be no world. 
 It is the law of the universe for one woman to 
 love one man and none other, and one man — 
 one woman. In my eyes there is but one man 
 in all this mundane sphere. I know I love 
 him madly, passionately; that my homage 
 bears a kinship to the lotus-eating days of the 
 dim past; and yet I try to convince myself 
 it is not so. Often and often I tell myself I 
 hate Eugene, but when he comes and stands 
 before me I know differently; I cannot hate 
 him when he is with me. He is tall and ath- 
 letic, kind and strong, O, s-o strong! When 
 I am in his presence I fear nothing — neither 
 the world, nor death, nor the hereafter. 
 * * * 
 
 April loth. — To-night my thoughts go back 
 to another night in the months agone when a 
 tall, gaunt, hollow-eyed, hungry thing leaned 
 over mv bed and pressed his cold lips against 
 my warm breast. I cried in trembling tones : 
 "Who are you? and 'oh! what do you waijt? 
 What d-o you want?" 
 
52 The Journal of Iris Valjean. 
 
 For a moment there was no answer save an 
 awful silence, a silence in which the breath- 
 ing of this disciple of Satan could be heard 
 distinctly, and then — and then — ''My name is 
 Sorrow," came in a sepulchral voice, "and I 
 am com.e to say to you : It is not well for 
 Joy to live alone. Henceforth your life will 
 be shared with me." 
 
 * * * 
 
 April i^ih. — I do not know much about 
 love, save that all love is mental in its first 
 stage. The love I know does not come sud- 
 denly, but in a series of shifting images. It 
 finds lodging in the heart and remains there; 
 a love that asks nothing, and gives all. There 
 is another love; it is like the red, red rose. 
 It fills the veins with a fierce sweetness for 
 one fleeting hour, and then a nameless woe 
 devours it all and rules the quivering soul 
 ever after. But it is worth — yes, it is worth — 
 the punishment. 
 
 * * * 
 
 May gth. — I am unusual. Distinctly indi- 
 vidual. My feet never tread the beaten track 
 of conventionality; yet I have never gone 
 out of my way to be other than ordinary. It 
 is natural, and natural eccentricity has its 
 
The Journal oi? Iv is Valjivan. 53 
 
 virtues; acquired, it is a sign of idiocy. As 
 the bat is an alien among winged things, just 
 so am I alone in the midst of my fellowmen. 
 Because of this, I ask no one to sanction my 
 ideas of men, women, and the world. I voice 
 my thoughts simply because it is my right, 
 and I have no intention of pressing my views 
 upon others. 
 
 What is my body — your body — a thousand 
 bodies? The universe of bodies is nothing in 
 the balance of one soul. When a soul is 
 crushed to death the body exists in abject 
 misery. When a body is dead there is peace. 
 Hence, the superiority of the soul. 
 
 Women rush and struggle and tear one 
 another's souls asunder in the headlong rush 
 for society's rewards. They sacrifice every 
 human trait — honor, self-respect; aye, even 
 grow degenerate in pursuit of the chimera, 
 happiness. Society recognizes only bodies. 
 Without a soul itself, what should it know of 
 souls? How long will this last? Just so 
 long as there are women to lead men hither 
 and yon ; so long as there is life, and love, and 
 passion. Society makes moral cowards of 
 men and fools of women. It should be called 
 *'The Brotherhood of Fools." 
 
54 'The JournaIv of Iris ValjEan. 
 
 Poor, deluded devotees of a despicable 
 creed, they have no shrine save the world, no 
 God save the will-o'-the-wisp — "gold." 
 
 Finally, there comes a day of reckoning, 
 when nothing remains but the cold, gray 
 ashes of a wasted life, the dust of defeat that 
 speaks volumes in its awful nothingness. 
 
 To be in the presence of a woman who 
 has always held aloof from society; who has 
 never drunk of its honeyed bitterness, is like 
 basking in the warmth of a benediction ; while 
 she, who has been stung by the scorpion and 
 thrust it aside before her sensibilities reached 
 a state of callousness, is quite as praise- 
 worthy. 
 
 My o-w-n soul — what of it ? 
 
 The intricate workings proclaim the hand 
 of an inimitable mechanic. As I hold it up 
 before my mental vision I see a thing that 
 was once of alabaster whiteness, now marred 
 by numerous dark spots, signifying inborn 
 traits that belong peculiarly to me, and could 
 not be understood should I enumerate them. 
 By the world, perhaps, they are classified as 
 "faults," yet the closest scrutiny reveals no i 
 deceit, avarice, superstition, cowardice, mal 
 ice, hatred, jealousy, or revenge. The whole 
 
The Journal o^ Iris Valjean. 55 
 
 world may look in upon the secrets of my 
 life and lay bare the innermost wish of my 
 heart, and I have nothing to fear. I stare 
 and stare at my soul without the quiver of an 
 eyelash. I look closer, and discover several 
 ragged, bleeding wounds where the wheels of 
 the world have mangled it, and still I stare 
 with no more emotion than the Sphinx. 
 
 I am listless and tired, without the shad- 
 ow of a cause. I shall open my piano and 
 play — "Damnation of Faust." In the bass 
 notes is the diabolical laughter of the devil, 
 and my lethargic pulse will quicken and leap 
 and my blood will grow warm with life and 
 passion. 
 
 * * * 
 
 May nth. — The almighty dollar rules the 
 world. Both men and women jeopardize 
 their honor and send their souls to perdition 
 in pursuit of it. The weak voice of con- 
 science is lost in the headlong race, and so it 
 goes on and on until, practically speaking, 
 it is a case of "When Greek meets Greek." 
 
 Women cannot practice coquetry upon 
 one another because — it takes a woman to 
 understand a woman. 
 
56 Thh Journal of Iris VaIvJi^an. 
 
 A common love or a common hatred is 
 the bond between most women. 
 
 Women dress for their own sex as well as 
 for men; for the former, to excite envy, and 
 the latter, to win smiles, attention, and ap- 
 proval. 
 
 * * * 
 
 May 12th. — These things I possess: 
 
 A sweet voice, soft and distinct. 
 
 A plain face. 
 
 A pretty mouth. 
 
 A fine chin. 
 
 Green-gray eyes. 
 
 Sound teeth. 
 
 A healthy brain. 
 
 A graceful body. 
 
 * * * 
 
 May i2fth. — Yesterday morning I came in 
 from the garden, bearing in my arms a great 
 mass of scarlet roses. On the way to my room 
 I caught my reflection in the hall glass, and I 
 actually hesitated and looked long and search- 
 ingly at the picture to be certain the tall, 
 smiling, animated girl was really I. Strangely 
 familiar were the eyes that spoke to me — eyes 
 that I knew as a child before the years had 
 hurried me on to a goal of thorns and wretch- 
 
Thk Journal of Iris Valjean. 57 
 
 edness. How pretty the roses looked against 
 the soft sapphire of my empire gown! How 
 graceful was the unconscious pose ! I lingered 
 over this vision of myself with chaotic feel- 
 ings. It was almost as if I looked upon an 
 apparition of the dead, since my r-e-a-l self — 
 the being I looked upon has been dead years ! 
 Tout de bon! I felt the change these thoughts 
 occasioned, and fearful lest I witness the trans- 
 formation I turned quickly from the glass and 
 ran upstairs, tripping on my train in my 
 haste to reach the privacy of my own room. 
 Again I saw my face and it was pale. The 
 eyes wore their habitual searching, far-away, 
 hungry look, and my throat ached as I care- 
 lessly tossed the roses into a tall crystal vase. 
 * * * 
 
 May i^tk. — A jay calls shrilly from the 
 top bough of a cherry tree and the doves coo 
 from the barn eaves. How dazzlingly white 
 they look against the cool blue of the sky! 
 A tall stalk of fieur-de-lis in a Venetian vase 
 sits on my desk, and ever and anon I look at 
 it just to feel the responsiveness in my soul. 
 I am keenly alive to Nature's gifts, and I am 
 glad. It proves that my spirit is not alto- 
 gether without life — that down deep in my 
 
58 The) Journal of Iris ValjEan. 
 
 being is a shaft of sunlight that needs only an 
 uplifting influence to bring it to the surface. 
 When inanimate things cease to thrill me, 
 then indeed may I sorrow. From a worldly 
 point of view, I shall be dead. 
 * * * 
 
 May 15th. — What staunch friends books 
 are! It is true the real book-lover absorbs 
 an infinite something from his books that is 
 indefinable. I have found it in a marked 
 degree in many of my studious acquaintances, 
 and I myself possess it. A flower lover de- 
 rives a softening influence from his flowers, 
 but I cannot explain it; I know only that it 
 exists. My books are my solace, my com- 
 panions — my confessor! My taste in book- 
 lore seems to be foreign to that of the average 
 reader. I am fond of Tolstoi, Ibsen, Balzac, 
 D'Anuzzio, Ouida, La Fontaine, Shakespeare, 
 Pope, and Hugo. The books of the day 
 amuse me for an hour. They make no lasting 
 impressions. 
 
 How more than great is the preface of 
 "Les Miserables"! It reaches the main- 
 spring of the heart, and every word finds its 
 way into the soul by right of its human, aye, 
 divine mean in or. 
 
The JournaIv of Iris Valj^an. 59 
 
 May iSth. — It rains ! A damp wind makes 
 an open fire inviting. I feel like a caged lion- 
 ess in spite of my luxurious surroundings be- 
 cause my imprisonment is not voluntary. I 
 am kept indoors owing to a severe cold that 
 threatens pneumonia. What wonder that I 
 find myself gradually sinking under the in- 
 fluence of the "blue demon." He draws me 
 into his iron arms and kisses me into submis- 
 sion, whether I will or no. He is a faithful 
 lover. These periods of depression are more 
 maddening than excruciating pain, because 
 they are torturing — slow. I struggle bravely 
 to soar above natural apathy. I say: "Le 
 diablel" but to no avail. I may push it aside 
 for a time, but it comes unbidden again and 
 again across my path. I see the furnishings of 
 my room (a work into which I have put my 
 hopes — my very soul) as through a glass that 
 shines darkly. A plaster plaque of Dante gleams 
 cold and gray against the turquoise of my 
 wall. I stare at the strong profile in disgust. 
 I look at my loved statues of Napoleon and of 
 Venus with undisguised scorn, and my lips 
 curl as I cast a sweeping glance at a full-length 
 iri.rble of a Greek swimmer. I see sensual- 
 
6o Thi^ Journal of Iris ValjEan. 
 
 ity in every line — every curve of the supple 
 body! I see . 
 
 My books and tapestries appear more than 
 ordinary; even I — the only thing with a soul 
 within these walls — look worn and tired. My 
 lips are drawn and my eyes are a cold, dull 
 green. I walk the floor in a nervous stride, 
 the rustle of my train as it passes over the 
 carpet adding fire to my irritation. I stop 
 at the mantel and stare at the clock — then 
 go to the window and look out over dripping 
 maples — look over the hills into the infinite 
 and beyond — yes — beyond! 
 
 * * * 
 
 June nth, 1901. — Somewhere, out of the 
 dear, sleeping past there comes to me a mel- 
 ody of my childhood ; it is as vSof t and sweet as 
 though whispered by the wind. My pulse 
 leaps, fired by the grandest of all national 
 airs — "La Marseillaise," and the inspiring 
 words: ''Allans, enfants de la patrie!" 
 
 In fancy, I see the streets of Dieppe. Par- 
 ticularly a weather-beaten avenue, on which 
 stands a tile-roofed cottage of quaint archi- 
 tecture, made conspicuous by the thatched 
 roofs around it. I see the huts of the peas- 
 antry, and hear the sound of looms. I see 
 
The Journal of Iris Valjean. 6i 
 
 a little candy shop and a lace shop; the lat- 
 ter holds my heartstrings, for I called it, "At 
 the Red Carnation," and made believe its cus- 
 tomers were famous women of the French 
 revolution. I see — yes, I see myself, a little 
 saucer-eyed, lithe of limb, arrogant miss, 
 being forcibly led along by a cross maid, who 
 pinches my hand to hurry me homeward be- 
 cause I would loiter and see the street sights. 
 I watch the swarm of noisy children following 
 the bread-vender, and when he sings out, 
 "J'ai le bon pain," I mimic him in a low, 
 nasal tone. Suddenly I run ahead and peer 
 in the window "At the Sign of the Red Car- 
 nation." Mme. Pierre, the shopkeeper, is 
 showing two Englishwomen a rich, cream- 
 lace scarf, and I cry loudly: "O Jeanne! I 
 think, I t-h-i-n-k I see Marie Antoinette and 
 Mme. Dubarry buying laces." "Ce nest pas 
 vrai. " exclaims Jeanne, with heightening anger, 
 and again I walk sullenly by her side, my 
 hand clutched as in a vice. 
 
 I have said over and over again, "I am 
 done, I am d-o-n-e with dreaming." But 
 somehow my soul responds to the call of by- 
 gone days, just as a wandering harp-string 
 at the touch of the master. 
 
 * * :jc 
 
62 The JournaIv of Iris ValjEan. 
 
 June i2,th. — To my mind there is no char- 
 acter in all the world of fiction more lovable 
 than Henriette, of Balzac's "Lily of the Val- 
 ley" — a lily in the true sense. I know she 
 must have lived — not only in the author's 
 brain, but in the living, breathing flesh. She 
 does not live to-day. There is no woman 
 such as Henriette and never will be. The 
 thought of her brings into play all that is good 
 within me. 
 
 *f* *v ^ 
 
 June 22d. — There are people in such fear 
 of worldly criticism that they dare not walk 
 in an untrodden path; dare not eat, sleep, or 
 talk save according to rule. They wait for 
 some independent soul to provide a way, and 
 then, sheep-like, they either follow or stand 
 and look aghast. It is my nature to pene- 
 trate where none has been before me; my 
 nature to do as I please; my nature to voice 
 what I think. I am nothing if not original. 
 I will follow no conventional example set by 
 my fellowmen. I do not choose as associates 
 people with whom I have no interchange of 
 thoughts and ideas, and in consequence I am 
 looked upon by divers women as an alien — an 
 enigma — a subject for a scientist. ''J'ai 
 envie de rire." 
 
Thk Journal of Iris Valj^an. 63 
 
 June 2^.th. — To-day I am like a high- 
 strung horse before a race. Every drop of 
 blood in my body is rushing through my 
 veins at a feverish pace, and all because I am 
 the recipient of an embroidered silk kimona 
 direct from the city of Hong Kong, a present 
 from a schoolmate, who has taken up a per- 
 manent residence there. I am wearing the 
 gown now. It is gorgeous in blue and yellow 
 crysanthemums, outlined with gold thread 
 on a cream ground, with here and there a 
 queer-looking bird and scroll. The sash is 
 of cloth-of-gold, threaded with pearl beads. 
 I flit about the room and salaam before the 
 pier glass. I have arranged my hair in Ori- 
 ental fashion, yet I look excessively foreign to 
 my dress. It serves to emphasize the fact 
 that I am American-French, and unusually 
 ugly at that. I look at my face and smile, 
 because — well, because I have youth and 
 courage, ambition and independence, and do 
 not mind being an "ugly little thing." 
 
 if: * * 
 
 June 26th. — I know the sting of regret, but 
 I do not know what it is to be conscious- 
 stricken. Whether it is due to Providential 
 oversight, or that I am guiltless of deliberate 
 
64 The Journai^ oi^ Iris Valjean. 
 
 wrong-doing, I know not. Conscience-suffer- 
 ing is in reality hell — a just punishment for a 
 misdeed, no matter the nature. Those suf- 
 fering may cry, as did Lady Macbeth: "Out 
 damned spot," but to no avail. So long as 
 life shall last the sin will rise at the most in- 
 opportune times and stand like an avenging 
 
 demon. 
 
 * * * 
 
 June 2Sth. — A rose bush by my window 
 is nodding in the breeze, so heavily it is laden 
 with scarlet bloom. I love the red rose pas- 
 sionately. It tells me a story of love, and 
 chivalry, and romance. Then, too, I love 
 the fleur-de-lis. It tells me of liberty, of 
 peace, charity, and bravery — dear emblem 
 of my fatherland. I have an inborn dislike, 
 a horror in fact, of white flowers. They bring 
 me dreams of tears, and sickness, and death. 
 I love color, life, animation, passion! Cha- 
 meleon-like, I feed upon my environments, 
 and whatever they are so am I. 
 * * * 
 
 June 2>ist. — To-day I am like one who has 
 taken a narcotic in despair and awakes to find 
 the same old despair by his side. Life, at 
 best, can be likened to a pebble tossed into 
 
The Journal of Iris Valjkan. 65 
 
 a brook — the stone ripples the brook's sur- 
 face for an instant, then sinks to the bottom, 
 never more to be seen again. Just so we 
 come into the world — a little eclat at birth, 
 a mere ripple in the big world, and then we go 
 down to death, and the world knows not, nor 
 cares that we have lived. I am not sel- 
 fish, no, but I think every individual should 
 strive to satisfy his ideas of happiness, no 
 matter what nature those ideas may be, nor 
 the cost thereof. If one does this, one has 
 made of one's life that rare and lovely thing, 
 an earthly heaven, and can afford to pass the 
 opinions of others in disdain. In view of 
 this, I have regard for the straight-lacedness 
 and Paulistic ideas of some people, the cult- 
 ure and ignorance of others, for the meek 
 and bold, the pure and brazen, and partic- 
 ularly for every religious sect in Christendom. 
 Who and what are we if we cannot say what 
 our lives shall or shall not be? In this age 
 it is not a question of who one's father is or 
 was, but what one is oneself. 
 * * * 
 
 July i6th. — The sun is sinking. Through 
 its crimson glow a pair of robins fly toward a 
 tangle of trees, seeking shelter for the coming 
 
66 The Journal op Iris Valjean. 
 
 night. The glow of the sky serves to bring 
 them out boldly, defining each curve of 
 wing, each poise and circle. I look at the 
 death of Day, and my thoughts are legion. I 
 liken it unto a human life. The Day is life, 
 the Sun is the pulse, and Night is death — the 
 grave and the shroud as well. Is it not so? 
 I throw a filmy scarf over my head and 
 walk slowly westward, with no objective 
 point in view. The sky glows like a purple 
 plum, and a cool breeze, a breath from 
 the last, fervent kiss that Night gave to 
 Day as he folded her against his dusky 
 cheek, fans my face; and, more slowly still, 
 I walk on and on, until suddenly I find my- 
 self in the dew-w^ashed, tangled grass of a 
 country churchyard. Softly whispering leaves 
 and the piping of crickets join together in a 
 vesper chant that seems a fitting requiem 
 for the long-buried, long-neglected dead. 
 The pale light of a young moon creeps shyly 
 nearer and nearer the fiat, old-fashioned 
 headstones, touching them with the first 
 shadow of a deepening glory. It is as if He 
 is smiling through the dusk to protect His 
 own. Gray's "Elegy" comes to my mind, 
 and mentally I go over the lines slowly and 
 
The Journal of Iris Valjean. 67 
 
 thoughtfully, unconsciously giving feeble voice 
 to a particularly well-loved passage. The 
 periwinkle runs riot at my feet, and I trace 
 its origin to a sunken grave many yards away. 
 Every fibre of my being takes on the stillness 
 of my surroundings, my very soul undergoes 
 a change, and I am lost in a dream of another 
 world : a dream of misery ! 
 
 A bird flutters its wings from the dark 
 recesses of a rose bush, and a bat circles over 
 and around my head, as though startled at 
 my intrusion into their sweet solitude. The 
 wings of the bat brush my face repeatedly, 
 yet I do not shrink. 
 
 I have a peculiar regard for this strange 
 creature that neither bird nor beast will deign 
 to claim as a relative. It is akin to me inas- 
 much as it loves the dusk and courts solitude, 
 while I — love the hush of eventide and the 
 indulgence of my own thoughts far more 
 than the strife of day and the shallowness of 
 my fellow-beings. I confess a most meager 
 regard for my sex. Dieu, quelle pitie! Of 
 course there are exceptions; it is the common 
 herd of which I speak. The exceptions — 
 affect me as though I had inhaled the potent 
 breath of the frail, white iris that blooms in 
 
68 The Journal of Iris ValjEan. 
 
 the warm valleys of southern France. It is 
 not really a question of "sex" that rouses 
 my wrath. It is the miserable weakness that 
 besets the daughters of Eve. I have made 
 this subject an exhaustive study, and I am 
 convinced the Creator did not endow woman 
 with all the petty meanness she displays. 
 
 True, He may have given her "jealousy," 
 "envy," "revenge," and she, inventive creat- 
 ure, has drawn upon this revenue, and come 
 into possession of countless faults that would 
 do credit to Mephistopheles. Oddly enough 
 the blow falls upon her own sex — and again, 
 oddly enough, the stroke is given in the dark, 
 virtually behind the victim's back. What 
 could be more like the sting of an asp? A 
 man is exempt. Thrice heaven-kissed is he! 
 * * * 
 
 July yth. — The air is close with the breath 
 of petunias. Down in the garden the bees 
 drone in the hollyhocks and ripening black- 
 berries, and crickets chirrup from the cool 
 recesses of a hop vine. At chance intervals 
 a breeze ripples over the sultry stillness, bring- 
 ing me the musk of mint and marjoram. My 
 eyes ache, and a drowsy numbness deadens 
 
The Journai. OI^ Iris Valjean. 69 
 
 my sense, as though I had drunk of 
 
 hemlock. 
 
 * * * 
 
 July Sth. — There is something in the ador- 
 ation of a Httle child that puts the thought 
 of God in the mind of the skeptic. Com- 
 pared to it, the friendship of men and women 
 is a mere bagatelle; a truce for the allegiance 
 of mature people ! 
 
 Save in rare instances, each is ready to 
 lean with the wind that blows toward self- 
 gain. Truly, a formidable trait to offer pos- 
 terity. I do not ask or care anything about 
 the people I have met, nor do I care what they 
 may think of me. If they like me, it is well ; if 
 not, it is of no consequence. I am totally indif- 
 ferent to the world and its Judas-hysterical 
 spasms. I live in a progressive age, and my 
 time is so nearly taken up with my own affairs 
 that I could not, if I would, heed the peace or 
 war-cry of others. I'd rather be a painted, 
 bedizened being of the market-place than a 
 maker of mischief — a borrower of wormwood. 
 The former wears her name on her sleeve that 
 the whole world may see and avoid contam- 
 ination, while the latter, like an asp, hides 
 under cover of silence and strikes unexpectedly 
 and unseen. 
 
70 The Journal of Iris Valjkan. 
 
 July loth. — Last night I dreamed a dream 
 that was not all a dream, since the morning 
 has brought mysterious proof of what I have 
 suffered. I thought I was alone in a green- 
 wood listening to the voice of a hill- stream 
 murmuring to its moss and pebbles, when 
 into this Eden a serpent crept and buried its 
 fangs in the blue veins of my inner wrist. 
 
 This morning — n-o-w — a faint discolor- 
 ation marks the wound and the veins are 
 sensitive to the touch. I have made no effort 
 to explain it. I know not what to think. It 
 may be that I am to have my hell on earth — 
 if so, it is in expiation of sins of which I am 
 ignorant. Sometimes I doubt there is such 
 a thing as eternal purgatory, such a thing as 
 immortality, but owing to education along 
 strictly Biblical lines, I have not the effron- 
 tery to say I am convinced. Galileo says: 
 "Doubt is the father of invention"; there- 
 fore, one must doubt in order to invent some- 
 thing; that appears conclusive. 
 * * * 
 
 July 12th. — A furious rain beats against 
 my window. The world is mad, mad! My 
 room is cheerless, its furnishings vague, and 
 every drop of rain splashes against my soul — 
 
The JournaIv of Iris Vat jean. 71 
 
 my naked soul. It awakens every separate, 
 sleeping evil in my body, which now and then 
 finds vehement and inelegant voice. In such 
 moments as these I wonder how I — a girl 
 brought up in an atmosphere of culture — the 
 daughter of a gentlewoman — became possess- 
 ed of such singular thoughts and ideas. 
 
 * * * 
 
 July i2,th. — The world is an ocean — the 
 ocean of life, lashed by the storm of wicked- 
 ness and soothed by the broad-spreading 
 hand of conventionality, while people are but 
 driftwood tossed hither and yon. I am a- 
 tired — aweary of its merciless buffeting ! 
 
 * * * 
 
 August 2d. — I have made Eugene prom- 
 ise never to come to me again unless I give 
 him permission. A fortnight has passed 
 since his step died away on the stair, and al- 
 ready I am soul-hungry for his voice and re- 
 pentant for my exactness. But he shall not 
 know — he shall not know ! O, what mockery, 
 what satire, what desolate absurdity! 
 
 Last night I sat alone in the stillness of 
 my study, alone — alone, as I am always. I 
 had watched the sun go down, down to noth- 
 ingness, and with it my hopes of the day. 
 
72 The Journal of Iris Vai^jean. 
 
 Bach morning my hopes rise with the sun, 
 and, unfulfilled, die with its setting. I know — 
 my life and I — there is no peace ! Last night 
 — last night; shall I ever forget? I heard a 
 step outside my door and a familiar knock. 
 I knotted my two hands to keep down the 
 gladsome cry that struggled to find voice; 
 for the knocker was Eugene — the keeper of 
 my soul — the master of my fate ! seeking me — 
 seeking me — and by no bidding of mine. 
 Minutes passed. I gave no sign, for my brain 
 was fighting for supremacy over my heart; 
 a decidedly unequal battle, for love goeth 
 whither it listeth. Finally, "Iris, I would talk 
 with vou a little while," came in a voice in- 
 finitely tender. Still I made no sign, although 
 my soul responded within itself like the mur- 
 muring of dark leaves through which a shaft 
 of sunlight breaks. "Iris," the voice began 
 again; "it is two years — i-w-o years to-night 
 since I told you of my love. Don't you re- 
 member our walk in the wake of a storm — 
 how the wind loosened your hair and blew it 
 
 across my face and I kissed ." 
 
 "Eugene!" I cried, as by no volition of 
 my own, ' ' you know not what you are saying. 
 
Thk JouRNAiv OF Iris Vaijkan. 73 
 
 What think you — what t-h-i-n-k you of your 
 promise?" 
 
 "I retract my promise! By heaven, it 
 shall not be a barrier between us ! I am soul- 
 starved and heart-starved for you — for you! 
 You are so still and strange; still, like the 
 wood anemone, and strange, like the gray of 
 dawn. In the clumsy machinery of my 
 brusque being there is no fiber that does not 
 vibrate with keen yearning for you — you lit- 
 tle, white heart. You are a child compared 
 to my great frame and strength. Iris, I 
 remember . ' ' 
 
 "Eugene," I whispered, "you have no 
 right to stand there and recall and remember 
 and re-suffer ." 
 
 "You mistake," he interrupted, in low, 
 clear tones: "the right is mine by reason of 
 my love for you. Open, I say! Open, in 
 the king's name!" 
 
 There was a silence lasting several minutes. 
 I pressed my flushed face against the panel of 
 the door and caught the whisper: "I am 
 going now. I am sort of mad with the sound 
 of your voice, and I'm saying things you have 
 forbidden." 
 
Jjji^^p ; 74 The Journal oi^ Iris Valjean. 
 
 Something stirred within my breast. It 
 was my heart sobbing and quivering under 
 the whip of passion ; a heart hke the sea, that 
 moans, and cries, and aches, with hunger — 
 ceaselessly — ceaselessly ! 
 
 My scruples vanished like mist before the 
 
 siin. I threw my door ajar, and standing 
 
 unafraid on the threshold, cried: ''Eu-ge- 
 
 geneV 
 
 * * * 
 
 August 6th. — Refinement is an individual 
 characteristic, part of the Ego manifesting 
 itself under the most unexpected conditions 
 of life. It is seldom found where it is supposed 
 to exist. 
 
 A besmirched character is like iron-rust 
 on damask; it can never be obliterated. 
 
 The woman who is constantly seeking 
 and extolling healed scars in the lives of her 
 sex has thrice-stinging scars hidden within 
 her own uncharitable soul. 
 
 Let a woman make a confessor of a woman 
 and the ears of the world will receive it on 
 scheduled time. 
 
 Pour out your soul to a man, and seldom — 
 very seldom is the trust considered other 
 than sacred. 
 
The Journal of Iris ValjEan. 75 
 
 When I am dead I wish no ostentation, 
 no flowers, no music; a simple prayer is all. 
 * * * 
 
 August 10th. — Mine is a high-strung tem- 
 perament, always tuned to the snapping 
 point. To-day I am restless, abstracted, and 
 nothing holds my attention. I look from 
 my window at a rose bush, upon which a lone 
 red rose dangles amid the dying leafage. My 
 mood is such that I fancy the bush is my 
 body, the thorns my life, and the blossom 
 my soul! 
 
 My spirits rise a notch as I look beyond 
 the straggling rose garden to a young horse- 
 chestnut tree that each spring sends out its 
 delicate white plumes like a veritable offshoot 
 of Navarre. But my mood changes, and my 
 spirits sink back — deeper — deeper as the 
 memory of its planting comes to me. My 
 thoughts follow one upon another like the 
 pictures in a kaleidoscope, and — there is 
 no limit — no limit! I look toward the street 
 and see a man and a woman who have wor- 
 shiped too freely at the shrine of Bacchus — 
 a pair of fools ! yes, fit jesters for that dam- 
 nable court called the world; that vulturous 
 audience ever ready to pounce upon the weak 
 
76 Thk JournaIv of Iris ValjKan. 
 
 and jeer, and scream, and laugh ; a court whose 
 Pluto blood leaps like a wild river and hungers 
 and thirsts for lust — nothing but lust! And 
 the taste of gore maddens it as does a red rag 
 flashed in the eyes of a bull. 
 
 * * * 
 
 August ijth. — It is intensely hot! Not 
 even the droning of a bee is heard — and the 
 leaves lie motionless, stilled by a withering 
 breath. I hate summer ! 'Tis then the world 
 moves with snake-like doggedness ; yet I can- 
 not make up my mind to seek green fields and 
 pastures new, because nowhere can I find 
 the sweet privileges of home. I love my home 
 as passionately as Ouida's Alsace and Provence 
 peasants loved Paris. I'd rather be a trifle le- 
 thargic here than buoyant in a cooler clime. 
 My particular world is small — very small, 
 consisting of a suite of rooms and bath. Here 
 am I mistress and free from intrusion. Here 
 I read, write, and play; here I look upon 
 Apollo and Daphne and Paul and Virginia in 
 their marble beauty. Here I wear gowns of 
 flowing freedom, in which I stretch my limbs 
 like a young tigress. At eventide I emerge from 
 my voluntary prison and go forth to meet 
 the breeze. I drink in the air that flows from 
 
The Journal of Iris Valjean. 77 
 
 the hills — my spirits rise — my step grows 
 elastic, and I give silent thanks for my price- 
 less heritage — the art of being happiest when 
 near to Nature. As a child of the wood, I 
 am like unto a pebble in an oasis, yet the 
 trees, the wind, and the brook all love me, 
 and will miss me when I am no more. 
 * * * 
 
 August iSth. — I have just finished reading 
 a most beautiful little verse; it is the story of 
 three cream-white sister roses yiat drooped 
 their heads over the rim of a tall vase that 
 stood in a florist's window. They were sold 
 singly to different customers. One found its 
 fate against the breast of a happy debutante, 
 another gleamed waxen and cold in the raven 
 head of a harlot, and the other was folded in 
 the tiny hand of a dead tenement child. 
 There is something indescribably divine in 
 this simple tale. 
 
 How like it is to life ! Just so does every 
 family separate and drift into strange and 
 unknown channels to live or die, as the case 
 may be. This story has given me enjoA^ment, 
 not for an hour or a day, but will live and 
 thrive in my heart forever. 
 
78 The Journal of Iris Valjean. 
 
 August 2oth. — This hour I closed the door 
 on a woman in peasant garb asking alms. I 
 heard music in her voice; I saw suffering in 
 the eyes that looked unflinchingly into mine; 
 I saw beneath the worn cape a slender hand 
 bleeding from uaccustomed hardships; I saw, 
 in fact, a gentlewoman — that lovely type 
 that grows more rare as the world increases 
 its pace. She is like a frail white rose cast 
 up by an unseen hand to droop and shiver 
 among besrnirched and jeweled creatures — 
 to perish in this endless garden of lies. 
 
 There is something woven in the flesh of 
 the well-born that no worldly storm can 
 tarnish, no poverty conceal; it is as a smould- 
 ering light that bursts into glorious flame 
 when the occasion demands, stamping its 
 
 possessor with the most priceless of God's gifts. 
 * * * 
 
 September i^th. — Snatches of loved tunes 
 
 from all the little operas I know flit through 
 
 my brain. In fancy, I hear an aria from "11 
 
 Trovatore," a fragment from the "Bohemiai^ 
 
 Girl," bits from "Carmen" and "Martha.' 
 
 Why, why indeed should these memories come 
 
 to ignite the smouldering sorrow in my heart 
 
 No person can know my innermost thoughtsj 
 
THEi Journal of Iris Valji3an. 79 
 
 ny face never betrays my mood^ I have 
 earned that a sorrow once told begets ridicule 
 md that heralded joy invites criticism and 
 gossip. Gossip! Ah, me, it is a hideous, 
 :ra\vling, blood-sucking vampire! Its broad, 
 lensual head is ever reared and alert, while its 
 jreat, protruding green eyes grow more livid 
 IS its victim succumbs to its grasp. It gloats 
 )ver mutilation and long-drawn suffering. It 
 s too merciless to kill. Its piercing, devil- 
 ike claws reach to the uttermost part of the 
 ^arth, darkening it by a shadow no light can 
 
 penetrate. 
 
 * * * 
 
 I am grown tired of writing. I mean to 
 iteal down -stairs to the piano and hum very 
 ;oftly a little tune that so persistently dogs 
 ny brain that I must give it utterance. It is 
 he dear, old, quaintly-sweet melody: "I 
 Ireamt I dwelt in marble halls." I am crying. 
 = * * del! How delicately sensitive, 
 low more than strange, how beyond under- 
 tanding is the heart! Who can know its 
 lechanism ? 
 
 * :^ * 
 
 September 14th. — Rain, rain, rain! The 
 ^l^'orld is wrapped in a gray shroud, and pedes- 
 
8o The Journai^ of Iris Valjkan. 
 
 trians and vehicles look like phantom figures 
 cavorting behind a gauze curtain. The trees 
 with their long, skeleton arms outstretched 
 appealingly, utter hollow groans and strangely 
 human-like v/ails that die away like the last 
 faint sob of a sorrowing woman; a cry such 
 as Hagar, alone in the wilderness, must have 
 sent up from the depths of her sorely-tried 
 heart. 
 
 A day like this, coming after a period ol 
 sunshine and invigorating air, is like the 
 sudden sorrow that creeps into a heart where 
 joy has long reigned. I am possessed with 
 the spirit of unrest. I have tried to read, tc 
 paint, and to sketch. I can do nothing — 
 nothing but write! for my sensitive fingers 
 are wild with the desire to trace the thoughts 
 that arise in me. 
 
 I look about my little study and prett} 
 boudoir adjoining, and I say: "I hate it 
 I hate my books, my paintings, and statuary 
 every article an insight into my real char 
 acter. I hate my dog; I hate myself; and — I 
 yes, I hate Eugene! What right had he t( 
 steal into my heart and leave the image o 
 his face there? How came he by likes anc 
 dislikes peculiarly my own?" 
 
Th^ Journaiv oi^ Iris Valj^an. 8i 
 
 The slender golden chain I wear around 
 
 ny neck, underneath my waist lest it be seen 
 
 )y eyes other than mine, slips with my every 
 
 novement, and the touch of it against my 
 
 lesh is at present almost maddening. One 
 
 noment it feels like the cold body of a serpent 
 
 radually strengthening its grasp on my life. 
 
 feel choked, and I am tempted to tear it 
 
 rom its fastening and fling it to the four winds 
 
 if heaven. The next — ah! the mood has 
 
 >assed, and it is as a priceless amulet — my 
 
 osary — my rosary! I clasp it passionately. 
 
 ly eyes look backward across the ghost of 
 
 ears, and I unconsciously give voice to my 
 
 houghts: "It has been long — Oh! so very 
 
 Dng since Eugene gave it me; long before 
 
 knew that kindred souls could quarrel ; long, 
 
 )ng before Lorraine Robespierre crept into 
 
 is life, and, with Cleopatra sorcery, made him 
 
 )rget there was such a thing as honor, and 
 
 lat a reconcilement with me would be only 
 
 question of time. Lorraine k-n-e-w — 
 
 lie knew my heart in its white nakedness, 
 
 lew its every pulsation, and, like the serpent 
 
 the Nile, gloated in her power, even though 
 
 e stooped to the level of the dust to conquer. 
 
 ad I but known — had I but k-n-o-w-n!" 
 
82 The Journal of Iris Valjean. 
 
 If Lorraine should come to me as she used 
 in the old days, I would talk with her of Eu- 
 gene with quiet sincerity. But no, she avoids 
 me. She knows she is the usurper of my 
 kingdom — not I, the destroyer of hers. 
 
 * * * 
 
 September 15th. — Eugene came to me this 
 morning, and as soon as the door had closed 
 behind Winnette's retreating form he cried, 
 brokenly: "Iris! Iris! there is a child — a 
 child ! A son is born to the house of D'Merci ! " 
 
 * * * 
 September iSth. — Lorraine died last night. 
 
 In the fury of the rain and the wind death 
 came and carried her soul away, leaving her 
 cold little body clasped tightly in Eugene's 
 strong arms. 
 
 * H« H^ 
 
 October 22,d. — Eugene has not spoken of it 
 — not yet. But I know that some day he 
 and I will take the boy and cross the pond to 
 Dieppe, that quaint French village beloved 
 by artists and writers, where we will each live 
 for the other, and try to mend our broken, 
 lives. 
 
 :)c :jc :{: i 
 
 October 25th. — When I see a chemical-] 
 
The Journal of Iris Valjean. 83 
 
 blonde female I think of a piece of washed-out 
 :alico. 
 
 When I see a wanton, the subtle cunning 
 Df man flashes through my brain. 
 
 No woman, however degenerate, falls into 
 :he pit of ostracism unaided. 
 
 Opportunity is nothing unless fortified 
 Dy ability. 
 
 Energy and intellect can accomplish any- 
 
 hing. 
 
 * * * 
 
 October 2Stk. — I would rather a thousand 
 
 imes be in the clutches of a sea-monster or 
 
 ti the wake of a cyclone than at the mercy 
 
 if a woman's petty jealousy. In the former 
 
 here is a loop-hole for escape, while the latter 
 
 dmits no possible chance of getting away 
 
 inscathed. 
 
 * * * 
 
 October T^oth. — Eugene is ill — very ill. I 
 
 ave just left his bedside. The fever that is 
 
 onsuming him is burning its way into my 
 
 eart with the knowledge that this is the end — 
 
 le end. I know it. Already I see the dread 
 
 nale. 
 
 •i* T* n* 
 
 November 24th. — This afternoon I walked 
 ver the hills toward the west, reveling in the 
 
84 The Journai. of Iris Valjean. 
 
 glory of a red, wintry sun falling asleep to 
 the sweetly-crooning lullaby of the wind among 
 the tall, naked maples. O, the mystery, the 
 fascination, the purity of the breeze that 
 hovers in the maple-tops ! It carries a strange- 
 ly-subtle perfume and a nameless something 
 that sets one's heart pulsating with renewed 
 vigor. I am imaginative — creative, dreamy! 
 and as I stood looking at the rapidly-changing 
 picture before me, it was very easy to fancy 
 a slender stream — the sea and the sky, its 
 sympathetic, protective sister. Gradually the 
 water broadened and developed white-crested 
 waves. The musical lash of living water 
 came to my ear; sandpipers and gulls flew 
 hither and yon ; the odor of weed and salt and 
 driftwood came to my sensitive nostrils; and, 
 as the sea took on the myriad hues of her lofty 
 sister, a blood-red cloud dropped down, and 
 the hungry waves leaped up and closed over 
 it. Where it sank — lo ! Aphrodite rose to view 
 in all the marvelous grandeur of her Venus 
 beauty. Her copper-bronze hair glittered and 
 streamed in the salt air, her arms played in 
 and out among the waves, and she smiled — 
 a smile no woman of earth could reproduce. 
 My soul went forth to meet and mingle with 
 
The Journal of Iris Valj^an. 85 
 
 his strange fantasy — this offspring of my 
 
 )rain, while I — I stood shivering and alone, a 
 
 lark little thing against a darker background 
 
 )f houses and trees and — wickedness! 
 
 It is only in moments like this that I soar 
 
 )eyond my inborn apathy, beyond the pain 
 
 )f knowing I am a frail child fallen by some 
 
 rick of Fate in an alien place, where my soul 
 
 ileeds and my beautiful nature is distorted 
 
 md drawn because it cannot expand in a world 
 
 vhose women stun my sensitive being with 
 
 :heir glaring imperfections ; women with whom 
 
 [ have few thoughts and fewer traits in unison. 
 
 3, the weariness — the unspeakable misery of 
 
 t all! 
 
 * * * 
 
 November 2^th. — I have conceived an in- 
 satiable desire for a statue of Sapho that I 
 saw in a china shop a fortnight ago. Each 
 day adds intensity to my longing and to my* 
 soul's rebellion against the power that denies 
 it me. Why will not the shopkeeper make 
 the price conform to my purse? Often I go 
 to the shop and look long and lovingly at the 
 beautiful bronze figure. O, the daintiness 
 Df her sandaled feet and tapering fingers, the 
 oerfection of her naked arms and throat! A 
 
86 The Journal oi? Iris Valjean. 
 iff., 
 
 band of Roman gold, richly jeweled, holds the 
 flowing hair away from a radiant face; her 
 figure bends slightly, eagerly forward, and 
 her right hand is raised to shade dark eyes in 
 whose depths lurk witchery and passion; a 
 pose expectant, life-like, inspiring! 
 
 I love the nude in art. I thank God for a 
 sound, normal brain, a brain with no inward 
 eye of lust and wantonness. I see naught 
 but the divine beauty of Nature's handiwork. 
 People who decry the nude do so from in- 
 herited prejudice or moral degeneracy. It 
 is difficult to analyze my present mood; it is 
 a thing mysterious and erratic. The pecu- 
 liarities of my nature are so much a law unto 
 themselves that my mind can exert no per- 
 ceptible influence over the mood that enslaves 
 me. Just now I know only that I am tired ; 
 O, cieux! so very, very tired. 
 
 * * * 
 
 November 26th. — The physician tells me 
 Eugene is better, but I — I who love him, 
 know that he is dying. This slight rally is 
 only the last flickering of a flame that is nearly 
 spent. 
 
The: Journal of Iris Valjean. 87 
 
 November lyth. — O, the suspense, the mad- 
 lening suspense I suffer in having to stand idly 
 3y while Eugene's life trembles in the balance ! 
 [ have all the fires of hell in my soul, and no 
 glimmer of hope! The thoughts that crowd 
 ipon my mind make my heart beat wildly 
 md my breath come fast. I am choking in 
 :he sting of my unspeakable helplessness, 
 rhe mystery of death is greater than the mys- 
 :ery of life, and when we know the one, we 
 ;hall know the other. 
 
 * * * 
 
 November 2Sth, 1900. — Eugene is dead! 
 
 I have lost my only friend — my a-l-l, yet I 
 jive no outward sign of the desolation in my 
 leart. My grief is too bitter for tears, besides 
 here is no solace in tears for a sorrow like 
 nine — no solace in giving it voice. One must 
 ;ndure in silence. O Death! thou thief and 
 nurderer! thou maker of orphans and wid- 
 )ws! thou destroyer of hearts! thou vampire! 
 hou crawling, flying, slimy, devilish thing! 
 3, what — am — I saying? I — I am suffering! 
 
 My brain throbs and roars like a thousand 
 lemons. My heart aches, my throat aches. 
 '. am not responsible — no. 
 
88 J jTh^IJournai. of Iris VaIvJe;an. 
 
 Sometimes I believe there is an astral twi- 
 light in which our souls must wander after 
 death. 
 
 The fire in the grate leaps up, and, behold ! 
 a gaunt, distorted figure, with piercing eyes, 
 sits in the chair I left vacant when I opened 
 my desk. I scan its features without a 
 tremor, although I know instinctively my 
 visitor is Death. The eyes of bottomless 
 depths are fixed upon the clock that sits on 
 the mantel above the flickering grate. There ! 
 It strikes t-w-o — that mysterious hour of the 
 morning when a momentous change takes 
 place in the pulse of every sleeping person; 
 a battle of Life and Death, when the heart- 
 beats are so faint that only a herculean effort 
 on the part of Life establishes the normal reg- 
 ularity and wins the victory; otherwise Death 
 wins, and night after night he strides forth 
 in search of prey and blows his chill breath 
 against the heart of saint and sinner alike. 
 
 "Why are you come?" I ask, advancing 
 toward him without hesitation. * 'Cannot you 
 see I am awake? that you will have no op- 
 portunity for another twenty-four hours?" 
 
 "I came," he says, "because it is my cus- 
 tom. I expected to find you sleeping." 
 
 IL.ofC. 
 
Thio Journal oi^ Iris Vai^j^an. 89 
 
 At this he^places his misshapen feet on the 
 fender, and, setthng back in his chair, becomes 
 silent. I sit beside him, my hands folded idly 
 in my lap. I catch a glimpse of my face in a 
 mirror, and I am struck by its pallor, but it is 
 nothing — only the shadows from my violet 
 gown. It is a very unbecoming color. 
 
 My mind is chaos. Suddenly I ask, pas- 
 sionately: "What have you done with Eu- 
 gene?" 
 
 "I have left him where I shall some day 
 take y-o-u.'' 
 
 "And that is?" I query. 
 
 No answer. 
 
 A maddening eagerness possesses me. My 
 suspense is as the tortures of the damned, and 
 I keep repeating: "And that is ?" 
 
 The answer comes slowly and emphat- 
 ically: "Neither heaven — nor hell." 
 
 There is a silence between us. The clock 
 ticks, the fire crackles. 
 
 "You do not question further?" 
 
 "No-o," I say, in a voice scarcely more 
 than a whisper, "I am content." 
 
 Rising, I take a prayerbook in the French 
 from the mantel, a legacy from Eugene, on 
 the fly-leaf of which is the signature of my 
 
90 The Journal of Iris Valjean. 
 
 famous countryman, Victor Hugo. I read: 
 
 ''Au delh du torn beau . ' ' 
 
 I glance toward my guest, and discover 
 the chair empty. I am alone; aye, more 
 than alone. Conscious of an inward fever- 
 ishness that burns to my heart's core, I put 
 the little book back in its place tenderly, lov- 
 ingly, and sighing, sink into the chair lately 
 
 occupied by my appalling visitor. 
 
 * * * 
 
 November 2gth. — The sun shines and dances 
 over the frost-kissed ground. I sit at my 
 little window, and, for some unexplainable 
 reason, I think of Tolstoi's "Resurrection." 
 
 How more than human it is! It is broad, 
 and deep, and strong as life itself. It is a 
 tempestuous sea — the sea of life lashed and 
 whipped by the storm and slowly, mysteri- 
 ously quieted by a master's hand. It tells 
 the story of every human passion. It is life! 
 
 * * * 
 
 December 5th. — Last night the wind blew 
 a terrific gale. Wild was the rain that swept 
 the earth and beat in angry spasms against 
 my shutter. But above the roar, and lash, 
 and din I heard a knock upon the outer door — 
 a hurried, eager summons, as if some poor, ex- 
 
The Journal of Iris Valjean. 91 
 
 hausted wayfarer sought shelter and charity. 
 I threw wide my door and peered into the 
 porch shadows in feverish haste to know if I 
 had a visitor, or was deceived by some freak 
 of the storm. Suddenly a figure brushed past 
 me and stepped under the soft, red light of 
 the hall lamp, while simultaneously the door 
 closed with a jar that sent a weird echo vi- 
 brating through the house. I raised my eyes 
 and looked into the face of — a dead man. 
 Damp and matted was the brown of his hair, 
 and the once white flesh was purplish. His 
 shroud hung in wet, sticky fragments, and 
 the odor of decayed earth and boxwood brought 
 a momentary faintness to my heart and sense. 
 
 There was no need to fear. 
 
 My friend in life could not be other in 
 death; cannot be aught else even when ashes 
 to ashes and dust to dust. 
 
 * * * 
 
 December yth. — This morning the sun rose 
 and smiled into my room in spite of drawn 
 blinds and canopied bed. It found a tiny 
 crevice and stole in, creeping shyly nearer 
 and nearer until it rested like a warm kiss 
 upon my hair and forehead. 
 
92 Ths Journal of Iris Vai^ji^.an. 
 
 It has changed the whole day for me; 
 changed the current of my brain into a brighter 
 channel. It was as if God spoke: "Thou 
 shalt this day be glad." 
 
 I get a great deal out of the little things 
 in life; yes, the smallest things make up the 
 substance of my existence. 
 
 I try to find, and d-o find, inborn modesty 
 
 in a beggar-maid, some semblance of goodness 
 
 in a thief, the ghost of chastity in a harlot. 
 
 I study every person that touches me in my 
 
 daily life; in fact, I study humanity and find 
 
 it interesting. 
 
 * * * 
 
 December i^th. — I have read somewhere: 
 "Woman's inhumanity to woman has made 
 countless thousands mourn." 
 
 This is a text for a minister. Its evils 
 should be proclaimed from the pulpit with 
 the same enthusiasm that marks the teach- 
 ings of the God and the Christ. It is a pesti- 
 lence — a plague as old as the world and far 
 more deplorable than any plague of Biblical 
 times. It is something a wife should pray 
 that her child may not possess. A woman 
 harboring sex-malice is accursed! She is the 
 devil's own creation — a leper in the full sense. 
 
The Journal of Iris Valjean. 93 
 
 The sun is sinking to rest, and a fierce 
 )reeze is soughing through the poplars. I 
 hall put on my hat and go out, that the wind 
 nay kiss my flushed cheek, that I may be 
 oothed and rested and l-o-v-e-d by this blus- 
 ering fellow, this flirt whose sweethearts are 
 egion. 
 
 * * * 
 
 December T,oth. — "Ships that pass in the 
 light and speak one another in passing. * * 
 Duly a look and a voice and then darkness 
 igain and a silence." 
 
 To-day a longing steals over me to hear a 
 ^-oice that is stilled, to hear a footstep that 
 
 •5 wont to set my pulses bounding. My 
 vurldly possessions — my life — would I give 
 or this fleeting paradise. 'Tis passing strange 
 :he thoughts that come to me. I sometimes 
 vish I had no finer instincts, that I were 
 coarse in body, and soul, and mentality; then 
 [ would know naught of suffering; I would 
 consider the passing of a life a mere episode; 
 . would have no care for to-day or to-morrow. 
 Cruly, a blissful state, and yet, could such a 
 ransition take place at the wishing, I would 
 lot dare to voice these words; rather would 
 
94 The Journal of* Iris Vaijean. 
 
 I cry out: "I am satisfied to be as I am." 
 
 Ah, me! the perverseness of human nature! 
 
 * * * 
 
 December 31//^. — I am so tired, so strangely 
 tired — my life and I. 
 
 It is snowing, and the wind is singing a 
 song of sorrow and rage. I sit alone before 
 the firelight and watch the flames flitting over 
 my gray gown; I feel them beating against 
 the barred gates of my heart, yet there is no 
 ''Open sesame." They leap into my pallid face, 
 but there is no flush of recognition. At last, 
 as if weary from repeated failures, they sink 
 into a state of coma and thence into a spark- 
 less, livid red. 
 
 The old clock in the hall below stairs strikes 
 the midnight hour. Outside the bells are 
 ringing a requiem to the old, and a welcome to 
 the new year. 
 
 I rouse m3^self from the half-doze into 
 which I am unconsciously drifting, and, sigh- 
 ing, say: "A new year; I meet it fearlessly; 
 it can bring no greater sorrow than I have 
 known, and lesser grief will find no lodging 
 for my heart is already an overcrowded hos- 
 telry. 
 
The Journal oi^ Iris Valjean. 95 
 
 My eyes fall upon a little miniature on the 
 mantel — the face of a man whose eyes look 
 smilingly into mine. "Eugene!" I cry, pas- 
 sionately, "you were my king — my k-i-n-g!" 
 
 The bells are dying out — the fire is grow- 
 ing ashen — I am cold, so cold. 
 
 From the next room a cry breaks in upon 
 my consciousness — the wail of a baby. The 
 child, little 'Gene — I had forgotten the child! 
 The dark gates of my soul swing open under 
 the force of maternal vitality. I stand trans- 
 formed, every nerve thrilled with the first 
 perfect realization of my great privilege — 
 the bringing up of Eugene's boy. I hurry 
 toward my boudoir, saying softly: "S-sh — ^^! 
 baby mine, mother is coming! mother is 
 coming!" 
 
 L' envoi. 
 
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