⁂ Harper’s Magazine, October, 1882.
January 13th, 188-.—Twenty-nine to-day, with two painful facts staring me blankly in the face. I am reduced almost literally to my last cent, and have no prospect of increasing this sum. For the first time in my life I may as well examine the situation impartially. It is not my fault that it is a physical impossibility for me to get up early in the morning, and therefore that I never have stayed in any office more than two or three weeks at the longest. It is constitutional. I can’t write a good hand, or keep books correctly, for the same reason. Mathematics were left out of my composition. I must smoke, and it is impossible for me to smoke a poor cigar. If I am in debt for cigars, as well as other necessities, how can I help it? I would willingly work if I could only find the kind of work that would suit me. I am not a fool. There is not a man in New York who speaks French with a better accent than I do. I can sing better than most amateurs. There is no vanity in saying that people consider me good-looking. I don’t find it difficult to please when I make an effort, and yet I am a complete failure. It is not my fault. I’m a round peg in a square hole. I ought to have been the oldest son of a duke, with a large allowance. Instead, I am a helpless orphan, with nothing a year. I seem to joke; in reality I am in despair. Fortunately, my landlady trusts me blindly, or I would be turned into the street.
I have sold or pawned all my valuables. I might pawn my dress suit and studs, but if I did, I couldn’t go out to dinner if I were asked, and that is always a saving. I cannot get a place in an opera company, because my voice has not been sufficiently trained. There always is something to prevent my success, no matter what I try.
To-day I met Morton in the street. He stopped me and said: “By the way, Valentine, your name will come up at the Amsterdam very soon. You are sure to get in.”
Imagine paying club dues in my present condition! Yet to belong to the Amsterdam has been one of my ambitions. I had to get out of it, and said, in an offhand way: “Ah, thanks, Morton, but you may as well take my name off the list. I’m thinking of living out of town.”
So I am—I think of occupying six feet of real estate in the country, if something doesn’t happen soon. Morton always irritates me. He is one of those prosperous, fortunate creatures, always so completely the thing, that I feel hopelessly my own deficiencies.
January 15th.—Something has happened. I have an idea. It strikes me as strange, yet feasible. When I came in this afternoon I found a letter lying on my table. I opened it; it ran as follows:
“New York, January 14, 188-.
“Families who are about to give receptions, dinner parties, or other entertainments will be gratified to know that persons who will assist in making these events pleasant and enjoyable can be obtained through the medium of the Globe Employment Bureau. These persons will not be professionals, but parties of culture and refinement, who will appear well, dress elegantly, and mingle with the guests, while able and willing to play, sing, converse fluently, tell a good story, give a recitation, or anything that will help to make an evening pass pleasantly.
“The Globe Employment Bureau in this plan simply complies with the increasing demands of a large class of its patrons. The attendance of these persons, young or old, can be had for the sum of fifteen dollars per evening each. We will guarantee them to be strictly honorable and reliable persons. Respectfully yours,