And so I knelt down and unwrapped The Captive. “There is much fire in this,” I said; “once I thought it would explode, I did. It was a shot that would have been heard around the world, sir! Only I could not pull the trigger.”
The man stared at me, and so I burned it, page by page, and laughed, and sang a foolish song that I thought of: Stride la vampa!
And afterward I unwrapped the journal. I laughed at my journal—'tis a foolish thing; but then all at once my conscience touched me. I said: “Is it not a shame? Is it not small of you? They would not heed you!—fool, what of it? Perhaps it is not their fault—certainly it is their sorrow. But you will not get much higher than you are now by trampling upon them.”
And so I stopped; and I wrapped up my journal again. “You have fire enough now, sir,” I said to the man. “I will keep this to build another fire with.”
I went on. “Let them have it,” I said, “let them make what they can out of it.” And then I laughed aloud: “And they will discuss it! And there will be reviews of it! And wise articles about it! And learned scholars will write tomes upon it, showing how many sentences there are in it ending with a punctuation mark; and old ladies and Methodist ministers will shake their heads over it and say: 'See what comes of not believing in Adam!'”
I walked on, singing the Ride of the Valkyries, the children staring at me, going to Sunday-school.
But I was glad that there was another copy of The Captive left. I love even that wicked editor now.
—All that was a day and a half ago. I am not so happy now, but I am very calm. I have found my righteousness again, and I can take whatever comes.