—, Sunday, March 23, 1913.
I had not intended writing in my diary to-day, but at the end of the month. This evening, alone in the house, everything quiet, the fire gently singing, even the cat asleep. I was reading in the kitchen Dickens’ “Great Expectations.” I just heard a sound and find my brother Percy asleep on the sofa in the next room. A feeling of peace came over me as I laid down my book that I was prompted to write in my diary, for moments of peace have been so infrequent of late that it was a remarkable contrast to my wild vagaries and desperately suppressed emotions.
For I am working again. I arrived here night of Saturday, March 1st, and on Tuesday the 4th, commenced work with —— at the fine salary of $55 a month, with prospects. They offered $50; I suggested it —— and we compromised on $55. Of course, there have been openings in my line at higher salaries, but I took the first thing and will not change, as it seems good as business goes, unless the prospects do not materialize.
Though I hated to acknowledge it to myself, I needed to get back to work more than anything else to save me. I had my opportunity, or rather I saved up $400 by sacrifices in Havana, and then sat down and did nothing until half was gone, afterwards wasting the rest in a wild goose chase after my destiny.
However, I entered into my work with a spirit of hopeful resignation. Being inevitable, and for the first time in my work, acknowledging it, I will not say I attend to it more conscientiously, but I grip myself when a wave of the old dissatisfaction passes over me and work, work.
At night I sleep, but at intervals during day and evening, and in the morning I find it a great effort not to fly off the handle in protest of it all, but keep on just the same.
I have had several passionate weak outbursts during the month, several times I have made a fool of myself by venting my temper on those around me, but generally I hold myself in better and am more conscious of having command of myself.
As for my ideas and ambition. It is still alive. The will to live is stronger than any misery as a force for life as against death. Taking this as a mere basis, I must of necessity have some larger view than the mere cramping effect of a clerkship.
I work, because I must and under protest, but I try to do my best, and I work honestly and I earn my salary and more, as much as I can under the circumstances.
I am just getting settled and am getting my books together. I am now going in for drama and I still have a soft spot in my heart for philosophy, although I am still at the beginning of Kant’s Critique. I read a little of it to-day.
I still feel the call of a larger mission, but I feel more like going about it in a practical, business-like way, because I realize I must. I acknowledge that. Experience has had to push facts down my throat before I would face them with the aid of Bernard Shaw.
I feel more sincere now. A tendency I have noted to theatricalism I will sternly suppress. I sometimes act cruelly after a mental struggle and I just hold myself by calling on Neitzsche and the philosophy of the superman, and then woe betide the one who crosses me.
While I will not force it, and avoid self-pity, I cannot help feeling at bottom the tragedy of life to me. It is such an effort to live, there is so little to look back on, no youth, no sweetheart, no love except that of the children, and the mistaken love of a weak mother. The short peace to-night stands out but as soon as I became conscious of it I said to myself that I must cultivate that frame of mind to do the best work and find out the truth quickest.