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good. They are interested in socialism, but more
as amateurs than as militant actors, though Marcus
has associated several of his clerks with him in his
business. But he belongs to the class who do not like
to talk much about what they do. The family consists
of three children.[1]
There is much more poetry here, much more of the
romance of life, than we have imagined. Life here
is a new youth. Even the climate is youthful, but
not always most agreeably so: it is very fickle. The
first days I spent in Brooklyn were so bitterly cold
that I was frozen, both body and soul. Now for three
days it has been so warm that I have lain at night
with my windows open, have seen the stars shining
through the Venetian shutters, and been saluted in
the crimson dawn by the mildest zephyrs of that air
and that odor which has in it something magical.
November 7. I have not been able to write for several
days. My life is a daily warfare against kindness,
politeness, and curiosity, during which I am often
weary and worn out. Often, also, I feel the wafting
influence of an extraordinary youthfulness and
enjoyment gush through my soul. I felt this one day
during a conversation with the
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