Part 21 (1/2)

August 20th.

I thought that I would surely have heard from my poet by now. I am not a good waiter.

The senior-partner's nephew is a young German, over to learn the language.

He is on a furlough from the army. He has close-cropped hair, a low forehead, and two front teeth like a squirrel's. When he smiles he makes you think of a horse. He has opinions, commercial and political, which he enunciates in a loud voice. Think of listening to Prussian opinions!

And there is another clerk who was meant for a variety-show specialist.

He hums comic songs and cracks jokes, and conducts witty pantomime incessantly. He is very popular. He is never quiet. Sometimes he slaps you on the back.

I wrestle with my soul all day; the rage of it is like to burst me. The infinite pettiness of it--that is the thing! I am bitten and stung by a swarm of poisonous flies!

August 24th.

Another twelve dollars yesterday! I gasp with relief as if I were hauling a load up successive slopes; here is so much gained, so much safe. I have gotten along on twelve dollars; I have a little over thirty-five.

I believe these things are more wearing than the toil of writing; I know I find it so. Then I accomplish something; here I work myself into nervous frenzies, and chafe and pant for nothing. I can feel how it weakens me; I can feel that I have less elasticity, less _elan_ every day. Ah, G.o.d, let me go!

August 25th.

Why doesn't he answer my letter?

August 27th.

To-day I took myself off in a corner. I said: ”Am I not here, have I not this thing to _do_? The power that I have in my soul--it is to be used for the doing of _this_; if I am to save my soul, it must be by the doing of _this_! And I am a fool that I do not face the fact. I shall be free some day--that I know--I have only to bide my time and wait.

Meanwhile I am to stay here--or until I have money enough; and now I will turn my soul to iron, and do it! I am going to study what I can in this place, and at night I am going to speed home and get into a book. I will never stop again, and never give up--and above all never think, and never feel! I will get books of fact to read--I will read histories, and no more poetry. I will read Motley, and Parkman, and Prescott, and Gibbon, and Macaulay.--Macaulay will not afflict me with wild yearnings, I guess.”

--Is there any author in the world more vulgar than Macaulay?--unless it be Gibbon. Or possibly Chesterfield.

I have heard Chesterfield's letters referred to as a ”school for gentlemen.” When the world is a little bit civilized, men will read them as they now read Machiavelli's Prince.

--All these resolutions while I was selling wholesale-paper! I fought quite a battle, and heard some of the old-time music. What a task for a poet,--to fight _not_ to live!