Personal Journal Entry: April 5, 1900
Madame du Bois at the pastry shop has been very kind. My money from home - my father doesn't know that my mother still sends me some - and what little monies I have made writing for a local newspaper don't always cover my daily costs, and when Madame found out, she offered to feed me a meal a day for a poem a day. It seemed like an unfair exchange to me, but she and her husband seem to think very highly of me. I don't know why.
I saw Harold Zidler again today. He is well and working on another production. Says he might have a job for me as a writer and that he'll keep me posted. He has said that before. I smiled and nodded and said I looked forward to hearing from him. I don't expect I shall.
I helped the family two floors down move their piano today. They're son is learning and it was bothering the neighbours to hear him practice, so they wanted to move it to the other wall. I was given coffee - who in Paris drinks tea but me, it seems? - and some bread and cheese. That shall do me well until later. Pianos are not light.
I listen to him practice now and I don't mind at all, but then I live in the garret and not next door. I sit at my window, the manuscript for my story complete on the desk behind me. I drain the glass of the last of my whiskey and realize I'll need to go out for more later.
Later.
I saw Harold Zidler again today. He is well and working on another production. Says he might have a job for me as a writer and that he'll keep me posted. He has said that before. I smiled and nodded and said I looked forward to hearing from him. I don't expect I shall.
I helped the family two floors down move their piano today. They're son is learning and it was bothering the neighbours to hear him practice, so they wanted to move it to the other wall. I was given coffee - who in Paris drinks tea but me, it seems? - and some bread and cheese. That shall do me well until later. Pianos are not light.
I listen to him practice now and I don't mind at all, but then I live in the garret and not next door. I sit at my window, the manuscript for my story complete on the desk behind me. I drain the glass of the last of my whiskey and realize I'll need to go out for more later.
Later.