To-day an idea occurred to me, one that should have occurred before. Once upon a time I was introduced to the editor of the ----. Perhaps he will not remember it, I said. But anyhow, why not try? I will take him The Captive--perhaps he can use it in the magazine--who knows? I knew nothing better to do, so I went there. He was very polite--he did remember my face. He was fearfully busy, it seemed. He did not think there was much likelihood of a magazine's publishing a blank-verse tragedy; but I told him how I had worked, and he said he'd read it. And so there's one chance more! My poor, foolish heart is always ready to tremble with new hope. But faith in that book was so _ground_ into it! --I asked him to read it at once, I explained that I was in great haste. I think he understood what I meant. My clothes show it. I have been hoarding my money--counting every cent. I dread the world so! Now that I am so broken, so laden with misery, it sounds about me as one jeer of mockery. But I shall have to be hunting a place soon--you never can tell how long it may take you, and the chances are so terrible. I will not do anything until I hear from this one man, however. He promised to let me know in a week. * * * * * I did not see him at the publisher's--he has another office besides. He had huge piles of papers and books about him; he is an important man, I guess; can it be that he will be the one to save me? I think: “Oh if he knew, he would!” I find myself thinking that of all the world--if I could only make them understand! Poor, impotent wretch, if I could only find the _word_! --Or is it simply my blind egotism that makes me think that? * * * * * February 6th. I do not think that what I write can be of much interest. It must be monotonous--all this despair, this endless crying out, this endless repetition of the same words, the same thought. Yet that is all that my life is! That is just what I do every day--whenever I am not reading a book to forget myself. It is all so simple, my situation! That is the most terrible thing about it, it is the same thing always and forever. * * * * * I have lived so much agony through this thing--it would not startle me if I saw that my hair had turned white. I know I feel like an old man. I am settled down into mournfulness, into despair; I can do nothing but gaze back--I have lived my life--I have spent my force--I am tired and sick. I! I! I!--do you get tired of hearing it? It was not always like that; once you read a little about a book. * * * * * February 8th. This is the fifth day. I am counting the days, I have been counting the very hours. He said he would be a week. And I--only think of it--I have but two dollars and sixty cents left! Hurry up! Hurry up!