And now it is all settled. A body has to talk in a body's own room, and a body's nose has to turn up with indignation as a body announces the fact. And so here I sit, waiting for the expressman to come for my trunk.
Now that it is over it does not seem so bad. I am like a snail—once back in my shell, I do not care what happens. I have given up trying to write The Captive, and so nothing bothers me any more.—I have forgotten all about it now, it is years behind me.
But I have seen it all; I can get it back in good time. I do not fear.
I have rolled up a little bundle, a tooth-brush and some manuscripts principally; and I send the rest to a friend's house. I have had an inspiration. Why should I stay in this hot and steaming place?—Why should I be “barricaded evermore within the walls of cities?” Ich will ins Land!
Why did I not think of this in the beginning? I am going now to see the springtime!—“the only pretty ring time, when birds do sing—hey ding-a-ding!”
That was a real idea. I do not know where I am going; but I will walk and get somewhere—there will be woods. I'll sleep in hay-ricks if it can't be managed any other way.
Away, away from men and towns,
To the wildwood and the downs!
I could have been through in three weeks now, I believe. But it was not to be. We have to take what comes to us—
Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate.
I'm glad I don't have to write poetry like that!