She was folding her cup, pressing my missive to her breast. There was no question that she understood.
Dearest friend!
Was it silly that I cried?
12th—The poet left the Heights to exchange his MS. for a gallon of whiskey.
He carried a demijohn, which was as apt to him as a baby to a woman.
I volunteered to clean his holy grotto.
The little cottage brought me a thought of one Jap sage who lived by choice in a ten-foot square mountain hut. The venerable Mr. Chomei Kamo wrote his immortal “Ten-Foot Square Record.” A bureau, a bed, and one easy chair—everything in the poet’s abode inspires repose—occupy every bit of space in Mr. Heine’s cottage. The wooden roof is sound enough against a storm. A fountain is close by his door. Whenever you desire, you may turn its screw and hear the soft melody of rain.
That’s plenty. What else do you covet?
The closetlessness of his cottage is a symbol of his secretlessness. How enviable is an open-hearted gentleman! Woman can never tarry a day in a house without a closet.
He never closes his door through the year.