ANOTHER OF ROCKWELL’S DRAWINGS

WELTSCHMERZ

VICTORY

I’m hard at work painting by day and drawing at night. Twenty-five good drawings are done. On the fair, warm days Rockwell spends most of his time out-of-doors. Being Sir Lancelot still delights him and there’s not a stump in the vicinity that has not been scarred by his attacks with lance and sword. These stumps are really mostly all giants. I am now reading the Department of Agriculture year book. It’s very instructive.

Tuesday, January twenty-first.

The north wind rages to-night. It is cold and clear starlight. With the violent wind-gusts the snow sweeps by in clouds-sweeps by except for what sweeps in. Over my work table it descends in a fine, wet spray so that I’ve had to cover that place with canvas and work elsewhere. A wild day it has been and a wild night is before us. And yesterday was little brother to it.

These days are wonderful but they are terrible. It is thrilling now with Olson absent to reflect that we are absolutely cut off from all mankind, that we cannot, in this raging sea, return to the world nor the world come to us. Barriers must secure your isolation in order that you may experience the full significance of it. The romance of an adventure hangs upon slender threads. A banana peeling on a mountain top tames the wilderness. Much of the glory of this Alaska is in the knowledge I have that the next bay—which I may never choose to enter—is uninhabited, that beyond those mountains across the water is a vast region that no man has ever trodden, a terrible ice-bound wilderness.

We begin to think less of Olson’s return. I have settled to my work and can imagine things continuing as they are for weeks. They will continue so unless the wind forsakes the north. Two days ago after a very cold night we awoke to thunder and lightning—and snow! In two hours the sun was out. That afternoon I stripped and danced awhile in the snow—a little while. Then, after a hot bath, out again in my nakedness for a roll in the snow, dressed,—and felt a new man. Rockwell loves it all more and more. He seems absolutely contented and spends hours a day outdoors.

What a marvel is a child’s imagination! It is a treat for Rockwell to play “man-eater” at bedtime and attack me furiously. And if at any time I’ll just enter his pretend-world it’s all he can wish for. Another filthy mess of fox-food has been prepared and a new sack of salt fish put to soak in the lake. I do hate that chore. Pioneering I relish; ranching I despise, at least blue fox ranching. The miserable things slink about so in such sick and mean spirited fashion.

Thursday, January twenty-third.

Sometimes the smoke goes up the flue—and sometimes down. And that’s not good for the fire. I sit within six inches of the stove with a frozen nose and icy feet. The wind sifts through the walls. Now, with our moss calking shrunken and dried and shriveled further with the cold, our cabin would be light without windows. These are so far the coldest days of winter. Although it blows straight from the north, whence only fair weather comes, the day is dark with drifting snow cloud high. The water of the bay is hidden in driving vapor. We cut wood and stuff it everlastingly into the stove. To-day seventy pieces for the ravenous air-tight, big chunks, have been cut and split—and we’ll cut again to-morrow. But with all the trouble of cold weather we’d be mightily disappointed if the winter slipped by without it.

It’s a real satisfaction to find that my calculations in supplies, in bedding, in heating equipment were just right for conditions here. We’re running low now in cereals and milk but we had planned to visit Seward this month to restock. Olson’s absence is quite outside of all plans. If he isn’t sick it’s hard to explain reasonably in any way.

For the past three weeks I have made on an average no less than one good drawing a day, really drawings I’m delighted with. I’ve struck a fine stride and moreover a good system for my work here to continue upon. During the day I paint out-of-doors from nature by way of fixing the forms and above all the color of the out-of-doors in my mind. Then after dark I go into a trance for a while with Rockwell subdued into absolute silence. I lie down or sit with closed eyes until I “see” a composition,—then I make a quick note of it or maybe give an hour’s time to perfecting the arrangement on a small scale. Then when that’s done I’m care free. Rockwell and I play cards for half an hour, I get supper, he goes to bed. When he’s naked I get him to pose for me in some needed fantastic position, and make a note of the anatomy in the gesture of my contemplated drawing. Little Rockwell’s tender form is my model perhaps for some huge, hairy ruffian. It’s a great joke how I use him. Generally I have to feel for the bone or tendon that I want to place correctly.

Last night I drew laughing to myself. A lion was my subject. I have often envied Blake and some of the old masters their ignorance of certain forms that let them be at times so delightfully, impressively naÏve. I’ve thought it matters not a bit how little you know about the living form provided you proceed to draw the thing according to some definite, consistent idea. Don’t conceal your ignorance with a slur, be definite and precise even there. Well, by golly, this lion gave me my chance to be unsophisticated; such a silly, smirking beast as I drew! At last it became somewhat rational and a little dignified, but it still looks like a judge in a great wig. But a lion that lets a naked youth sleep in his paws as this one does may be expected to be a little unbeastly. When I began to write these pages to-night the stars were out. Now it snows or hails on the roof!

Saturday, January twenty-fifth.

It is bitterly cold weather, as cold continuously as I’ve ever experienced. Both yesterday and to-day the wind has been exceptionally violent and the air full of flying snow. Both of Olson’s water barrels—in the house—have frozen solid. One bulged and burst the bottom rolling itself off onto the floor.

Sunday, January twenty-sixth.

A day of hard work with Rockwell in bed for a change. Just a little stomach upset—and he’s all right now. Felled a tree and cut up fifteen feet of it, taking advantage of this glorious day. It was much milder than for days it has been and it still holds so to-night. There’s no wind and that makes ever so much difference in the cabin. Now if it will hold calm and mild for a day we’ll see whether or not Olson is yet ready to return.

Tuesday, January twenty-eighth.

I’m reading “Zarathustra,” “Write with blood, and thou wilt learn that blood is spirit.” So that book was written. Last night I made a drawing of Zarathustra leading the ugliest man by the hand out into the night to behold the round moon and the silver waterfall. What a book to illustrate! The translator of it says that Zarathustra is such a being as Nietzsche would have liked himself to be,—in other words his ideal man. It seems to me that the ideal of a man is the real man. You are that which in your soul you choose to be; your most beautiful and cherished vision is yourself. What are the true, normal conditions of life for any man but just those perfect conditions with which he would ideally surround himself. A man is not a sum of discordant tendencies—but rather a being perfect for one special place; and this is Olson’s creed.

My chief criticism of Zarathustra is his taste for propaganda. Why, after all, concern himself with the mob. In picturing his hero as a teacher has not Nietzsche been tricked away from a true ideal to an historical one? Of necessity the great selfish figures of all time have gone down to oblivion. It’s the will of human society that only the benefactors of mankind shall be cherished in memory. A pure ideal is to be the thing yourself, concerning yourself no bit with proving it. And if the onward path of mankind seems to go another way than yours—proud soul, let it.

Wednesday, January twenty-ninth.

Alaska can be cold! Monday broke all records for the winter. Tuesday made that seem balmy. It was so bitterly cold here last night in our “tight little cabin” that we had to laugh. Until ten o’clock when I went to bed the large stove was continuously red hot and running at full blast. And yet by then the water pails were frozen two inches thick—but ten feet from the stove and open water at supper time, my fountain pen was frozen on the table, Rockwell required a hot water bottle in bed, the fox food was solid ice, my paste was frozen, and that’s all. My potatoes and milk I had stood near the stove. At twelve o’clock the clock stopped-starting again from the warmth of breakfast cooking. I put the water pail at night behind the stove close to it, and yet it was solid in the morning. We burn an unbelievable amount of wood, at least a cord a week in one stove. So I figure we earn a dollar a day cutting wood. We felled another tree to-day and cut most of it up. Still we manage to gain steadily with our wood pile always in anticipation of worse weather. Last night at sundown the bay appeared indescribably dramatic. Dense clouds of vapor were rising from the water obscuring all but a few peaks of the mountains and darkening the bay. But above the sun shone dazzlingly on the peaks and through the thinner vapor, coloring this like flames. It was as if a terrible fire raged over the bay. This morning for hours it was dark from clouds of vapor. They swept in over our land and coated the trees of the shore with white frost.

Yesterday I had to go to the lake and chop out a bag of fish for the foxes. I returned covered with ice and the fish were frozen solid before I reached the cabin. I cut them up to-day with the axe and cooked a week’s supply of food for the foxes.

Rockwell has been a trump. The weather can’t be too cold for him. This morning he pulled his end of the saw without rest. He rarely goes out now without his horse, lance, and sword and he addresses me always as “My lord.” Surely Lancelot himself was no gentler knight. And now it’s bedtime. The cold is less than last night but still I sit huddled at the stove. It is the bitter wind that makes the trouble.

Thursday, January thirtieth.

A splendid day of wood cutting. It was milder and quite windless in our cove, although in the bay there were whitecaps. A light snow had begun to fall by noon and it continues. To increase our lead on the weather we set to work upon a twenty-eight inch tree. We had to throw it somewhat against its natural lean and it was a terrible job. The wedge would not enter the frozen tree and when it at last did it wouldn’t lift the great mass that rested on it. Only after an hour’s continuous pounding with the heavy sledge-hammer did I drive the wedge in clear to the head, and then the great tree fell. The fall of one of these monsters—for to us they seem gigantic—is thrilling. This one went straight where we had aimed it, down a narrow avenue in the woods. Ripping and crashing it fell carrying down a smaller tree with its limbs. Then Rockwell and I set to work with the saw. When the drums were split we hauled them to the cabin on Olson’s Yukon sled. And now our wood pile is a joyous sight, while within the cabin we have a whole, cold day’s supply.

Last night just as I was going to bed Rockwell began to talk in his sleep about some wild adventure with his imaginary savages. I asked him if he were cold. “No, my lord,” he murmured and slept on. Very fine barley soup to-day. Water in which barley had been boiled, two bouillon cubes, onions browned in bacon fat. Rockwell said it was the best yet.

Saturday, February first.

Again the days are like spring. Yesterday began the thaw and today continues it with rain most of the time. So we’ve stayed within doors, Sir Lancelot and my lordship working here at our craft. I have just completed my second drawing for the day. One a day has been the rate for a month—but yesterday the spirit didn’t work. But the news! A great, old tramp steamer entered yesterday. That must carry mail and freight and send Olson back to us. If only it were a regular liner I’d know for sure. It is possible this steamer has been chartered to relieve the situation. Well—the next fair, calm day will show.

Sunday, February second.

It’s before supper. Rockwell, who has just run out-of-doors for a romp, calls at this moment that he has lost his slipper in the snow and is barefooted. Out-of-doors is to us like another room. Mornings we wash in the snow, invariably. And with a mug of water in hand clean our teeth out there—and this in the coldest weather. We scour our pots with snow before washing them, throw the dish water right out of the door, and generally are in and out all day.... It is surely nonsense to think that changes of temperature give men colds. Neither of us has had a trace of a cold this winter, we haven’t even used handkerchiefs—only sleeves. Nor does it give one a cold to be cold. I’ve tried that often enough to know. And a variable climate has, too, nothing to do with it, for what variableness could exceed an Alaska winter. Colds, like bad temper and loss of faith, are a malady of the city crowd.

It rains—this moment, the next it will hail—and then snow. Sometime to-day the sun has shone, sometime the wind has blown, and for the rest been calm. Altogether it has been too uncertain for us to expect Olson. And now for the sour-dough hot cakes and supper. For Rockwell, barley, “the marrow of men.”

Rockwell to-day asked me how kings earned their living. I said they didn’t earn it—just got the people to give it to them.

“What’s that,” he said laughing, “some sort of a joke they play on the people?”

So I guess it takes education to appreciate privilege. Incidentally, the war must be over and the heroes, having proved by their might that might does not make right—or that it does? (!) now have doffed the soldier’s uniform of glory for the little-honored clothes of toil.

Monday, February third.

We are in the second month of Olson’s absence. To-day it stormed mostly; heavy snow in the morning. Through the thick of it we heard faintly a steamer whistle. It seemed to be receding, outward bound. At four o’clock while a light snow fell the lightning played merrily and thunder crashed. It is like this: snow for half an hour, then rain—silence and calm for a few minutes. Suddenly huge hailstones pelt the roof, for all the world like rocks. This lasts a few seconds, there’s a fierce gust of wind showering ice and snow from the tree tops down upon us, again calm and silence—and the performance is ready to begin again.

Tuesday, February fourth.

It has been so changeable to-day that we are still uncertain of Olson’s intentions. We snowshoed down the beach in the beautiful, soft, new snow so at least to have a look toward Seward. There lay the bay calm and beautiful—and spotless. The scale of things is so tremendous here that I’ve little idea how far we shall be able to see the little, bobbing boat when it does come.

We sawed a lot of wood to-day bringing our pile clear up into the gable peak. It becomes a mania seeing the pile grow. In quiet weather we cut to forestall the storm; in the storm we still cut to be well ahead for days that may be worse. It is beautifully mild now. On February first Rockwell brought in some budding twigs. The alders all seem to be in bud and some charming, red-stemmed shrubs as well. It is midnight and past. My drawing is finished, the stove is piled for the night, cereal and beans in place upon it, so—Good-night.

Wednesday, February fifth.

A beautiful snowstorm all the day and to-night, still and mild. Rockwell has been out in it all day dressed in my overalls and mittens. He plays seal and swims in the deep snow. We built a snow house together. It is now about seven feet in diameter inside and as cozy as can be. I’m sure Rockwell will want to sleep there when it’s finished. A curtain of icicles hangs before our little window.

I have carefully figured the cost of our living here from the food bills, all of which I have kept. I have bought $114.82 worth of provisions. I still have on hand $19.10 worth. For one hundred and fifty days it has cost us sixty-four cents a day for two, or thirty-two cents each,—a little over ten cents a meal. This for the current high prices everywhere and additionally high in Alaska seems very reasonable living. The figures include the very expensive Christmas luxuries.

Friday, February seventh.

Yesterday, THE SUN! For how many days he might have been shining at us I don’t know, for it has been cloudy. However at noon it was all over the ground about us and shining in at my window. What a joyous sight after months of shadow! To-night the sun at setting again almost reached us. And yesterday as if spring had already come we begin the day with snow baths at sunrise. Ha! That’s the real morning bath! And to-day again. We step out-of-doors and plunge full length into the deep snow, scour our bodies with it, and rush back into the sheltering house and the red-hot stove. To Rockwell belongs all credit, or blame, for this madness. He will do it—and I’m ashamed not to follow. These two days have been cold and windy, north days,—but how beautiful! All of the day Rockwell plays out-of-doors swimming in the deep snow, now a seal, again a walrus. Gee, he’s the great fellow for northern weather. Cooked the filthy fox mess yesterday, washed clothes to-day, sawed wood on both. Now it’s twelve-thirty at night and I’m tired.

Saturday, February eighth.

All about me stand the drawings of my series, the “Mad Hermit.” They look mighty fine to me. Myself with whiskers and hair! First, to-day, when the storm abated a bit, we sank a bag of fish in the lake and then started on snowshoes for the ridge to the eastward. The snow lay in the woods there heavy and deep. No breath of wind had touched it. The small trees, loaded, bent double making shapes like frozen fountains. Some little trees with their branches starting far from the ground formed with their drooping limbs domed chambers about their stems. Coming down it was great sport. We could slide down even in our sticky snowshoes. Rockwell, who was soaked through, undressed and spent the afternoon naked, playing wild animal about the cabin. Then at six-thirty we both had hot baths, and snow baths following. I begin to relish the snow bath. Rockwell was the picture of health and beauty afterwards with his rose-red cheeks and blue eyes.

Monday, February tenth.

Yesterday morning I bathed in a snowstorm, this morning it was too terribly, howlingly blusterous to run out into it. And now since one o’clock it is as calm and mild as it ever could be. Within the cabin it’s even more cozy than usual. The snow is banked up against the big window to a third the window’s height. By day the light seems curtained, by night doubly bright from reflected lamplight. Heavy drifts are everywhere. Last night fine snow filtered in upon our faces as we slept but not enough to be uncomfortable. The cabin is fortunately placed as to drifts and our door-yard remains clear with a splendid bathing bank skirting it. Rockwell is at work now upon multiplication tables. He’s a real student and is always seriously occupied with something in his hours indoors.

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