WAITING
Thursday, November fourteenth.
We're ready to go to Seward the moment the weather moderates--which
may be not for two weeks or two months. I've packed blankets and
several days' food in a great knapsack so that if we're driven to land
somewhere we'll not perish of hunger. And this trip while it may be
carried out speedily may on the other hand strand us days without
number in Seward and cost three or four times that many dollars.
The wind is still in the North, the days are wonderfully beautiful,
and the nights no less. This very night Rockwell and I skated for the
third time, Ah, but it was glorious on the lake, the moon high above
us in a cloudless sky, the snow and ice on the mountain sides
glistening and the spruces black. We skated together hand in hand like
sweethearts; going far to one end of the lake in the teeth of the wind
and returning before it like full-rigged ships. And Rockwell whose
second skate to-day this was improves every minute.
I've cut Rockwell's hair, four months' growth. He has had the
appearance of a boy of the Middle Ages with his hair cut to a line
above his eyes. Now he's truly a handsome fellow--and such a man under
the hardships of this cold place and rough life that I'm very proud of
him.
Saturday, November sixteenth.
Still it blows, yesterday and to-day, cold, clear, and blue,--and the
moon these nights stands straight above us and stays till dawn,
setting far in the north. It is really cold. Olson is quite miserable
and wonders how we can keep at our wood cutting and skating. But I
think I shall never live in such cold again as in that first winter on
Monhegan in my unfinished house when on cold days the water pails four
feet from the stove froze over between the times I used them, and my
beans at soak froze one night on the lighted stove. We love this
weather here. While the cabin is drafty I pile on fuel remorselessly,
and that's a real delight after having all my life had truly to count
the pieces of coal and wood. The ice on the pond is six inches thick,
part of it clear black that one can see the bottom through. This
morning Rockwell changed to heavy underwear. He complains always of
the heat, day and night.
The days go on about as usual varied only by an occasional weekly or
monthly chore and success or failure in my painting. This morning with
Olson's help I brought my boat up onto the land above the beach. The
boat is an extremely heavily built eighteen-foot dory with a heavy
keel; and yet the wind carried it four feet last night and, if it had
not been secured, might have blown it down into the water where the
waves would soon have wrecked it. This night I shall not read in bed;
it's quite too far away from the stove.
Sunday, November seventeenth.
We jumped from bed in a hurry this morning believing that the apparent
stillness boded a calm day and a fit one for the Seward trip. But the
sea beyond our cove was running swiftly and within two hours there was
a gale of wind and some snow. Cold it was and dark. We'd hardly put
the lamp out after breakfast, before we lighted it again for late
dinner. Still in that short daylight I painted and Rockwell skated and
painted, and we both cut a lot of wood. I've spent the evening
writing, trying an article for "The Modern School." We turned my boat
over and secured it to the ground with ropes just in time to escape
the fall of snow to-night that lies deep on the ground. The moon is up
and through the clouds there comes a general illumination like
daylight.
Monday, November eighteenth.
To-day a storm from the southeast. It blows like fury. Breakfast by
lamplight, work until dark, then dinner--in the neighborhood of three
o'clock or maybe four--more work, and a nap, for I felt exhausted.
Rockwell goes to bed and is read to, I work a while longer, then a
light supper for which Rockwell gets up again, then--the dishes washed
and R. again in bed--a call on Olson for three quarters of an hour,
leaving there at ten, to work again till some wild hour. What a
strangely arranged day! I'm determined to have a clock. But now it
will be seen that no more time must be spent this night upon this
diary. Amen.
Tuesday, November nineteenth.
A dreary, dreary, a weary day. But I've worked or somehow been
ceaselessly busy and now I'm about ready for my nightcap of reading
and bed. Four canvases stretched and primed stand to my credit and
that alone is one day's work in effort and conquered repugnance.
What a tedious work. My Christmas letters are written, nearly all of
them. And as Christmas draws near it seems more and more impossible
without home and the children. It will be a huge make-believe for one
of our family here!
[Illustration: ROCKWELL'S DREAM]
There's a big storm at sea from the look of the water and the sound of
the wind. And the rain falls drearily and on the roof it rattles. From
the tall trees the great drops fall like stones; they beat to pieces,
little by little, the paper roof, and now when the rain is hardest we
hear the drip, drip of the water on the floor. But we are
comfortable--so what of it all.
I read "Big Claus and Little Claus" to Rockwell to-night. That's a
great story and we roared over it. Rockwell doesn't like the stories
about kings and queens, he says, "They're always marrying and that
kind of stuff." Just the same Rockwell himself has his life and
marriage pretty closely planned,--the journey from the East alone, the
wife to be found at Seattle to save her carfare--and yet not put off
as far as Alaska, for there they don't look nice enough,--and then
life in Alaska to the end of his days. And I'm to be along if I'm not
dead,--as I probably shall be, he says.
I have just finished the life of Blake and am now reading Blake's
prose catalogue, etc., and a book of Indian essays of Coomeraswamy.
The intense and illuminating fervor of Blake! I have just read this:
"The human mind cannot go beyond the gift of God, the Holy Ghost. To
suppose that Art can go beyond the finest specimens of Art that are
now in the world is not knowing what Art is; it is being blind to the
gifts of the Spirit." Here in the supreme simplicity of life amid
these mountains the spirit laughs at man's concern with the form of
Art, with new expression because the old is outworn! It is man's own
poverty of vision yielding him nothing, so that to save himself he
must trick out in new garb the old, old commonplaces, or exalt to be
material for art the hitherto discarded trivialities of the mind.
Wednesday, November twentieth.
To-morrow we hope to get off--although it still storms. There's a
terrific sea running but even such a sea would trouble us less than
the chop of the north wind. The wind above all else is to be feared
here.
I painted little--it was so dark. Somehow on these short days it is
difficult to accomplish much. Certain things _have_ to be done by
daylight: the chopping of wood, carrying of water from a hundred yards
away, lamp filling, and some cooking. I made myself a lot of envelopes
to-day and second-coated the canvases of yesterday's stretching. And
now it is bedtime for to-morrow we rise early. Oh! the porcupine
returned to-day and was discovered feeding calmly near the cabin. He
showed no alarm at Rockwell's approach, and, when finally after some
hours of undisturbed nibbling and napping Rockwell carried him home by
his tail and set him down a little distance from his old cage, he ran
straight there and interned himself.
Friday, November twenty-second.
Both yesterday and to-day are to be recorded. The porcupine is dead!
And yesterday he endeared himself so to us, playing about in the house
with the utmost content. The cause of his death we cannot know--unless
it was our kindness. Rockwell with Olson's leather mittens on did
carry him about a good deal. Of course they are creatures nocturnal
and we had planned to let him have his regular hours for exercise and
feeding, Rockwell delighting in the plan that he should stay with him
in the woods at night, which I was certainly going to let him try. But
it's over,--and Pet No. 2 has gone to his happy hunting grounds.
It storms, yesterday violently with such wind and rain as seemed
incredible. The thin paper roof made the noise deafening so that I
could not sleep; and the surf beat and the forest roared; it was a
wild night. To-day is better though it pours every half hour. When,
_when_ shall we get to Seward! And here before me are displayed all
the pretty Christmas presents I have made and that Rockwell has made.
Here we sit, these dark short days, working together at the same table
just like two professional craftsmen. On these days I cannot
paint,--and Olson calls upon us more than he should. Still, we let him
sit here in silence and he is wise enough to be quite content. Now it
is late. The stove is out and I must go to bed. Two meals only
to-day,--another is due me. Oh! I made myself a beautiful die for note
paper yesterday and printed it on my envelopes to-day.
[Illustration: THE CABIN WINDOW]
Saturday, November twenty-third.
It dawned calm with rain hanging in the air. We hurried with our
breakfast in the hope that we should get off; but within an hour at
the turn of the tide the northwest wind whipped down from the
mountains and the rain fell in torrents. And now at a late hour of the
night it still rains although the wind has fallen. We felled a tree
to-day and partly cut it up. Although it was dismally dark all the
time I managed to paint a little. And I wrote much and drew in black
and white. Rockwell has been industrious as usual, drawing at my side.
He told me an amusing anecdote of little Kathleen that is worthy to go
down here. When in play she wants to change her doll's name she sends
for the pretend doctor, again herself, and he operates on the doll.
Cutting a hole in her stomach he stuffs into it a little piece of
paper on which he has written the new name. And so the name is
changed.
Tried some cottonseed oil of Olson's to-day that was too bad. A year
or two ago he was given a case of spoiled mayonnaise dressing for fox
food. Olson saved the oil which had separated from the rest of it. I
made dough for doughnuts while I heated the oil to fry ourselves that
great treat. Then arose a pinching, rancid odor that almost made me
ill but which Rockwell called delicious. However I baked the
doughnuts. Still, the oil unheated seemed not bad.
Sunday, November twenty-fourth.
Olson declares this day to be Sunday and in honor of the day he gave
me a cup of milk for junket. And in honor of the day, whatever it is,
I worked so hard that now I'm tired out. The day began with snow and
continued with it. It blustered and blew much as a day in March and
the bay looked wild. And now to-night it is clear and starlight. Will
the north wind begin to blow again to-morrow? The chances are that it
will and Seward and the sending of my mail will be as far away as
ever. I painted with some success for the snow makes the cabin
lighter. Really my picture looks well. Eight canvases are far along so
that I'm proud of them. We cut wood to-day of course; it would be
great fun if only we'd more minutes of daylight to spare. Steamer must
be due in Seward now. We've seen none for two weeks or longer.
Monday, November twenty-fifth.
It rages from the northeast! The bay is a wild expanse of breakers.
They bear into our cove and thunder on the beach. A mad day and a wild
night. And Seward is as far off as ever! It is now my hope that a
steamer will go to Seward before me. Olson finds by his diary that
none has been seen to go there for two weeks. I began two new pictures
to-day trying for the first time to paint after dark. My lamp is so
inadequate in this dark interior--it burns only a three-quarter inch
wick--that I can work only in black and white. But I've laid in the
whole picture in that way. Rockwell spends several hours a day
out-of-doors exploring the woods, searching out porcupine trails and
caves. It is weeks since I have stopped my work even for a walk. In
this "out-of-doors life" I see little of out-of-doors. It's a blessing
to me to have to saw wood every day.
[Illustration: "GO TO BED"]
I finished Coomeraswamy's "Indian Essays" to-day, an illuminating and
inspiring book. Coomeraswamy defines mysticism as a belief in the
unity of life. The creed of an artist concerns us only when we mean by
it the tendency of his spirit. (How hard it is to speak of these
intangible things and not use words loosely and without exact
meaning.) I think that whatever of the mystic is in a man is
essentially inseparable from him; it is his by the grace of God. After
all, the qualities by which all of us become known are those of which
we are ourselves least conscious. The best of me is what is quite
impulsive; and, looking at myself for a moment with a critic's eye,
the forms that occur in my art, the gestures, the spirit of the whole
of it is in fact nothing but an exact pictorial record of my
unconscious living idealism.
Tuesday, November twenty-sixth.
After a terribly stormy and cold night the day was fair with the wind
comfortably settled in the north as if he meant to stay there. Only at
night has it been calm. To-night again is so and if I had not Rockwell
on my hands to make me timid I'd go at night to Seward. Olson was a
real Santa Claus to-day. First he gave us Schmier Kase, then a good
salt salmon--two years old which he said we'd "better try"--and
to-night a lot of butter churned by him from goat's milk. It looks
like good butter and, with the added coloring matter, more palatable
than the natural white butter of the goat. We felled two trees
to-day--fairly small ones. We consume a vast amount of wood with our
all-night fire. Well--to-morrow, let us say again, we'll be off to
Seward.
Wednesday, November twenty-seventh.
To-day, if we had known how the weather would turn, we should have
started. It was lovely, cold but fair with the wind in the
south-west. It had in the morning all appearances of a heavy blow and
we failed to get in shape to take advantage of its calming as the
afternoon advanced. At any rate I have a little picture of it with the
soft haze of the day and the loose clouds. I painted besides on the
large canvas of Superman begun a few days ago. Olson lent me his
"grub-box" to use, a wooden box of small grocery size with a cover
fastened with a strap and buckle. Such a box is part of the outfit of
every man on the Yukon. My emergency grub is now in it, my letters,
Christmas presents, and all that's bound for Seward. Rockwell took
Squirlie out for an airing to-day, wrapping him with tender care in a
sweater. They went for a long way into the woods like good companions.
Then Rockwell drew a portrait of his muffled pet which is destined for
Clara's Christmas.
Thursday, November twenty-eighth.
This continual waiting is getting upon my nerves. Most of to-day I
spent tinkering with the engine. It goes now--in a water barrel. The
trouble with the best of these little motors is that the moment they
get wet they stop, and they are attached at such an exposed place, on
the stern, that they will get wet if there's much of a sea. Then
you're in a bad fix for it's impossible to make any headway rowing
with the engine--or rather the propeller--dragging. Most of the
engines are hung right on the stern and can be readily detached and
drawn into the boat. But mine fits into a sort of pocket built in the
stern and is difficult even on land to lift out. It weighs decidedly
over a hundred pounds. So I don't relish getting caught with such an
equipment. I must have mentioned, by the way, that the engine was
"thrown in" with the boat as of no value.
So there's the day gone. To-night we go to bed early and if it is calm
just before daylight in the morning we shall start at once.
[Illustration: DRIFTWOOD]
Friday, November twenty-ninth.
Last night a terrific storm from the east. A few blasts struck the
house with such force that it seemed our thin roof could not stand it.
Of course it is really quite strong enough but the noise of those
sudden squalls bearing along snow and ice from the tree tops is simply
appalling. In the morning it became milder but continued to rain and
snow and for most of the day to blow heavily from the eastward. In the
afternoon to my despair a steamer entered for Seward; she'll doubtless
leave at daylight. There goes one of my chances to get my Christmas
mail off.
I painted splendidly to-day and am in the seventh heaven over
it,--which takes away some of my gloom at never reaching Seward. A
long call from Olson to-night. He sits here patiently and silently
while I draw. It snows steadily. What will to-morrow bring?
Francis Galton, the inquirer into human faculty, would have been
charmed at Rockwell's casual mention of the colors of proper names.
They do apparently assume definite colors that seem to him appropriate
and characteristic beyond question. Clara, too, sees names as colors.
Father is blue, Mother is a darker blue. The breadth of vowel sound
apparently, judging from this and other examples he gave me, lowers
the tone of color. Kathleen is a light yellow, very light. Now for a
bite to eat, for I've had but two meals--and then to bed.