PAGE 2
Unjudged
by
* * * * *
March 17. Why do I begin a journal now, a thing I have never done before? Had another asked the question, I could have turned it off with a laugh, but with myself it will not do. I must answer it, and honestly. Know then, my ego who catechises, I have things to tell, feelings to describe that are new to me and which I cannot tell to another. The excuse sounds childish; but listen: I speak it softly: I love, and he who loves is ever as a child. I smile at myself for making the admission. I, a man whose hair is thinning and silvering, who has written of love all his life, and laughed at it. Oh, it’s humorous, deliciously humorous. To think that I have become, in reality, the fool I pictured others in fancy!
April 2. Gods, she was beautiful to-night!–the way she came to meet me: the long skirt that hung so gracefully, and that fluffy, white, sleeveless thing that fitted her so perfectly and showed her white arms and the curves of her throat. I forgot to rise, and I fear I stared at her. I can yet see the smile that crept through the long lashes as she looked at me, and as I stumbled an apology she was smiling all the time. How I came away I swear I don’t know. Instinct, I suppose; for now at last I have an incentive. I must work mightily, and earn a name–for her.
April 4. He says it is a strong plot and that he will help me. That means the book will succeed. I wonder how a man feels who can do things, not merely dream them. I expected he would laugh when I told him the plot, especially when I told whom the woman was; but he didn’t say a word. He thinks, as I do, that it would be better to leave the story’s connection with her a surprise until the book is published. He is coming up here to work to-morrow. “Keep a plot warm,” he says: “especially one with a love in it.” He looked at me out of the corner of his eye as he spoke, so peculiarly I hardly knew whether he was laughing at me or not. I suppose, just now, my state of mind is rather obvious and amusing.
May 3. As I expected, the reaction is on. What a price we have to pay for our happy moments in this world! I’m tired to-night and a little discouraged, for I worked hard all day, and did not accomplish much. “Lack of inspiration,” he said. “The heroine is becoming a trifle dim. Hadn’t you better go and enthuse a little to-night?”
I was not in a mood to be chaffed; I told him shortly: “No, you had better go yourself.”
He smiled and thanked me. “With your permission,” he said, “I will.”
Nature certainly has been kind to him, for he is handsome and fascinating beyond any man I ever knew. I wanted to use him in the story, but he positively refused. He said that I would do better. So we finally compromised on a combination. “The man” has his hair and my eyes, his nose and my mouth. Over the chin we each smiled a little grimly, for it is stubborn–square, and fits us both. After all, it is not a bad ensemble. The character has his weak points, but, all in all, he is not bad to look upon.
June 10. We went driving this evening, she and I, far out into the country, going and coming slowly. The night was perfect, with a full moon and a soft south wind. Nature’s music makers were all busy. On the high places, the crickets sang loudly their lonesome song to the night, while from the distant river and lowlands there came the uncertain minor of countless frogs in chorus.