III

beginning to speak, and I am her chosen voice. I feel that if I do not respond, if I do not come to her, she will be dumb forever. No; I can not remain here any more. For I can not be strenuous enough to be miserably happy; nor stupid enough to be contentedly miserable. I confess I have been spoiled by those who call themselves spiritual sisters of mine. The houris be dam’d. And if I don’t leave this country soon, I’ll find myself sharing the damnation again⁠—in Bohemia.⁠— “The power of the soul is doubled by the object of its love, or by such labor of love as it undertakes. But, here I am, with no work and nobody I can love; nay, chained to a task which I now abominate. If a labor of love doubles the power of the soul, a labor of hate, to use an antonym term, warps it, poisons it, destroys it. Is it not a shame that in this great Country⁠—this Circe with her golden horns of plenty⁠—one can not as much as keep his blood in circulation without damning the currents of one’s soul? O America, equally hated and beloved of Khalid, O Mother of prosperity and spiritual misery, the time will come when you shall see that your gold is but pinchbeck, your gilt-edge bonds but death decrees, and your god of wealth a carcase enthroned upon a dunghill. But you can not see this now; for you are yet in the false dawn, floundering tumultuously, worshipping your mammoth carcase on a dunghill⁠—and devouring your spiritual children. Yes, America is now in the false dawn, and as sure as America lives, the true dawn must follow. “Pardon, Shakib. I did not mean to end my letter in a rhapsody. But I am so wrought, so broken in body, so inflamed in spirit. I hope to see you soon. No, I hope to see myself with you on board of a Transatlantic steamer.”