April, 1909. I am beginning to be so tired of the confusion of the
streets. The work at the Library has become irksome. I am tired of
reading, too, and feel as if my last prop had been taken from under me,
when I have no longer the desire to read.
I handle the books, place them, record dates, handle books again, place
them, record dates, handle books again--the very smell of the booky
atmosphere is sickening to me.
I suppose I need rest. But how can I rest when I have my daily living
to earn? I won't touch those hundred and seventy-five dollars if I
never have a vacation. I should lose all my courage if I had to spend
a dollar of that money, except for the final end--nine years hence.
Even the thought of stopping work makes me feel weary.
* * * * *
July 1. So the money is gone! I have been trying to face this fact
the last hour. The long sickness of ten weeks has taken it all, for I
was too proud to go to the hospital without paying my way. I let no
one know how matters stood with me. I have come out of St. Luke's
feeling so weak, so indifferent to life, to everything I thought made
my own small life worth living.--And it is so hot here! So breathless!
A great longing has come upon me to get away somewhere. Since I have
been so sick things look different to me. The energy of life seems to
have gone out of me, and I want to creep away into some place far, far
away from this city, where I can live a more normal life.
But how can I make the break? Where can I go? How begin all over
again in this awful struggle to get work, and succeed in anything? My
courage has failed me.
I closed the books. I was wondering if I should destroy them and in
this fashion burn all my bridges behind me.
"No," I spoke aloud; "I 'll save them, but I will never keep another
journal."