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A
week
passed
in
glory
and
gladness
.
I
had
got
over
the
worst
this
time
,
too
.
I
had
had
food
every
day
,
and
my
courage
rose
,
and
I
thrust
one
iron
after
the
other
into
the
fire
.
I
was
working
at
three
or
four
articles
,
that
plundered
my
poor
brain
of
every
spark
,
every
thought
that
rose
in
it
;
and
yet
I
fancied
that
I
wrote
with
more
facility
than
before
.
The
last
article
with
which
I
had
raced
about
so
much
,
and
upon
which
I
had
built
such
hopes
,
had
already
been
returned
to
me
by
the
editor
;
and
,
angry
and
wounded
as
I
was
,
I
had
destroyed
it
immediately
,
without
even
re-reading
it
again
.
In
future
,
I
would
try
another
paper
in
order
to
open
up
more
fields
for
my
work
.
Supposing
that
writing
were
to
fail
,
and
the
worst
were
to
come
to
the
worst
,
I
still
had
the
ships
to
take
to
.
The
Nun
lay
alongside
the
wharf
,
ready
to
sail
,
and
I
might
,
perhaps
,
work
my
way
out
to
Archangel
,
or
wherever
else
she
might
be
bound
;
there
was
no
lack
of
openings
on
many
sides
.
The
last
crisis
had
dealt
rather
roughly
with
me
.
My
hair
fell
out
in
masses
,
and
I
was
much
troubled
with
headaches
,
particularly
in
the
morning
,
and
my
nervousness
died
a
hard
death
.
I
sat
and
wrote
during
the
day
with
my
hands
bound
up
in
rags
,
simply
because
I
could
not
endure
the
touch
of
my
own
breath
upon
them
.
If
Jens
Olaj
banged
the
stable
door
underneath
me
,
or
if
a
dog
came
into
the
yard
and
commenced
to
bark
,
it
thrilled
through
my
very
marrow
like
icy
stabs
piercing
me
from
every
side
.
I
was
pretty
well
played
out
.
Day
after
day
I
strove
at
my
work
,
begrudging
myself
the
short
time
it
took
to
swallow
my
food
before
I
sat
down
again
to
write
.
At
this
time
both
the
bed
and
the
little
rickety
table
were
strewn
over
with
notes
and
written
pages
,
upon
which
I
worked
turn
about
,
added
any
new
ideas
which
might
have
occurred
to
me
during
the
day
,
erased
,
or
quickened
here
and
there
the
dull
points
by
a
word
of
colour
--
fagged
and
toiled
at
sentence
after
sentence
,
with
the
greatest
of
pains
.
One
afternoon
,
one
of
my
articles
being
at
length
finished
,
I
thrust
it
,
contented
and
happy
,
into
my
pocket
,
and
betook
myself
to
the
"
commandor
.
"
It
was
high
time
I
made
some
arrangement
towards
getting
a
little
money
again
;
I
had
only
a
few
pence
left
.
The
"
commandor
"
requested
me
to
sit
down
for
a
moment
;
he
would
be
disengaged
immediately
,
and
he
continued
writing
.
I
looked
about
the
little
office
--
busts
,
prints
,
cuttings
,
and
an
enormous
paper-basket
,
that
looked
as
if
it
might
swallow
a
man
,
bones
and
all
.
I
felt
sad
at
heart
at
the
sight
of
this
monstrous
chasm
,
this
dragon
's
mouth
,
that
always
stood
open
,
always
ready
to
receive
rejected
work
,
newly
crushed
hopes
.
"
What
day
of
the
month
is
it
?
"
queried
the
"
commandor
"
from
the
table
.
"
The
28th
,
"
I
reply
,
pleased
that
I
can
be
of
service
to
him
,
"
the
28th
,
"
and
he
continues
writing
.
At
last
he
encloses
a
couple
of
letters
in
their
envelopes
,
tosses
some
papers
into
the
basket
,
and
lays
down
his
pen
.
