Oh, think not of that poetry! Think of the music! The surging, drunken, overwhelming waves of music! Do you not hear them—do you not hear them?—
Wie sie schwellen,
mich umrauschen!
Soll ich athmen,
soll ich lauschen!
So the thing went; and I panted and throbbed, and sank down upon the ground for weakness. There came to me all that mad poetry that I had written myself, all that victory that I had won, that freedom, that vision, that glory! It came to me ten times over, for was it not everything to me now? It was more than I could bear, it split my brain.
And it would not leave me. All through the long, long night I prayed and wept with it; and in the morning I reeled through the street with it, and men stared at me.
But here was one time when I did not fear men! I was free—I was a soul at last. I had won the victory, I went my way as a god. I had renounced, I had given up fear, I had given up my self. My mind was made up, and I never change my mind. I had passed the death-sentence upon myself, I walked through the streets as a disembodied soul—as the Captive dragged to the banquet-hall.
But no, I went to my torture of myself.
I went to the store. It was early Sunday morning, and the place was just open.—I got my papers and put them under my arm—my original draft of The Captive, and all my journal. I went down the street and came to a place where a man was burning some trash.
I was a demon in my strength just then; my head reeled, but I went with the dancing step of new-born things. I stood upon the heights, I “laughed at all Sorrow-play and Sorrow-reality”! “Ho, sir,” I cried, “I have things here that will make a fire for you!”