I missed Dora many months after she made me move from her
house. As for Max, the thought of him, his jealousy and the way
he groveled before me the last time I had seen him, would give me
a bad taste in the mouth. I both pitied and despised him, and I
hated my guilty conscience; so I would try to keep him out of my
mind. What I missed almost as much as I did Dora was her home.
There was no other to take its place. There was not a single family
in New York or in any other American town who would invite me
to its nest and make me feel at home there. I saw a good deal of
Meyer Nodelman, but he never asked me to the house. And so I
was forever homesick, not for Antomir--for my native town had
become a mere poem--but for a home
I did some reading on the road. There was always some book in
my hand-bag--some volume of Spencer, Emerson, or
Schopenhauer (in an English translation), perhaps. I would also
read articles in the magazines, not to mention the newspapers. But
I would chiefly spend my time in the smoker, talking to the other
drummers or listening to their talk.
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