Little Poems in Prose

X ONE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING AT last alone. One hears no more of any- thing but the wheels of some belated and ex- hausted cabs. For some hours we shall be lords of silence, if not rest. At last the tyranny of the human countenance disappears, and I shall not suffer except from myself. At last! it is then allowed me to take mine ease in a bath of shadows. First let me double- lock the door. It seems to me that this turning of the key will intensify my solitude and strengthen the barricades that separate me from the world. Horrible life; horrible town! Let us go over the day’s work. I saw several men of letters, one of whom asked me if it was possible to go to Russia by land. He doubtless thought Russia was an island. I disputed enthusiastically with the editor of a review who replied to every ob- jection: “This is an honest newspaper;”— implying that all other newspapers were edited by scoundrels. I saluted a score of people, of whom I do not know fifteen. I scattered hand-