I have been studying some of the French novelists--some of Maupassant yesterday. What a strange creature is a Frenchman! A nervous, hysterical, vain, diseased creature! * * * * * “The Gallic disease!” Let that be a phrase. * * * * * The Gallic disease is this: to see only one thing in life, to know only one purpose, to understand only one pleasure; to have every road lead to that, every thought, every phrase. To know that every character in a book is thinking it; to know that every man who is introduced is looking for a woman! And that as soon as he finds her, they must forthwith--whatever be their age, rank, character, and position at the moment--begin to burn with unclean desires! That is what one might call the _convention_ of French fiction. It gets very monotonous when you are used to it; it takes all of the interest out of the story. For there is but one ending to such a story. One's whole being is lowered by contact with that incessant animal appeal. * * * * * December 8th. I have discovered another trouble--as if I did not have enough! I am to suffer from indigestion! It plagues me continuously--I can not do anything for an hour after a meal, no matter what simplest thing I have eaten. And so all through my life I am to be hindered in my work by having to wrestle with this handicap! Just as if I had not been a clean man, but some vulgar _bon vivant_. * * * * * December 10th. This is my fifth publisher. They said they thought it would take two weeks, but it has been three already, and they have not even answered my letter of inquiry. I see you can put no reliance on them in the matter of time. * * * * * December 11th. In two days more it will be three months since I gave up my situation. I count my little hoard day by day, as a castaway might, or a besieged garrison. I have begun to try to get along on cheap foods again--(that is the reason of my indigestion). Yesterday I burned a mess of oatmeal, and now I shall live on burned oatmeal for I know not how long. I was cooking a large quantity to save time. * * * * * I count my store. I have come the last month on eleven dollars! I have been doing my own washing, and reading the newspapers at a library. I buy nothing but food--chiefly bread and milk and cereals. Why is it that everything that is cheap has no taste? Sometimes I am angry because I can not have anything good to eat, but I only write my dignified sentiments here. * * * * * I am getting down to the limit again; I sit shuddering. I shall have to get some work again; I can not bear to think of it! What shall I do? If I go to that slavery again it will be the death of my soul, for I have no hope, and I can not fight as I did before.