—I heard a gull to-day—far, far up—a mere speck in the sky. I started, as I watched him vanish. Then I said: “But you, too, will have to come down and mingle in the turmoil and the danger!”
May 6th.
I go over into the Park—the springtime is in full glory, all the sights that used to thrill my heart are there; the splendor of new verdure and young flowers, the birds that I love rioting in song. But it moves me not in the least, it only makes me ten times more mournful. I turn away.
Why, once an apple spray in blossom was to me a drunken ecstasy.
—Shall I ever know what it is to be generous, and rich and royal in my heart again? To know that surging fulness of emotion that makes you think of gold and purple and regal pomp?
I tell you the whole thing is a question of money with me. I have come down to the bare bed-rock of sordidness—I must have money—money!—It is everything in this world to me. I can never think of anything else again until I have it.
I see myself going out into the world and fighting as other men fight, and making a place in it for myself.