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.
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