How regularly and steadily things had gone downhill with me for a long
time, till, in the end, I was so curiously bared of every conceivable
thing. I had not even a comb left, not even a book to read, when things
grew all too sad with me. All through the summer, up in the churchyards or
parks, where I used to sit and write my articles for the newspapers, I had
thought out column after column on the most miscellaneous subjects.
Strange ideas, quaint fancies, conceits of my restless brain; in despair I
had often chosen the most remote themes, that cost me long hours of
intense effort, and never were accepted. When one piece was finished I set
to work at another. I was not often discouraged by the editors' "no." I
used to tell myself constantly that some day I was bound to succeed; and
really occasionally when I was in luck's way, and made a hit with
something, I could get five shillings for an afternoon's work.

Once again I raised myself from the window, went over to the
washing-stand, and sprinkled some water on the shiny knees of my trousers
to dull them a little and make them look a trifle newer. Having done this,
I pocketed paper and pencil as usual and went out. I stole very quietly
down the stairs in order not to attract my landlady's attention (a few
days had elapsed since my rent had fallen due, and I had no longer
anything wherewith to raise it).

It was nine o'clock. The roll of vehicles and hum of voices filled the
air, a mighty morning-choir mingled with the footsteps of the pedestrians,
and the crack of the hack-drivers' whips. The clamorous traffic everywhere
exhilarated me at once, and I began to feel more and more contented.
Nothing was farther from my intention than to merely take a morning walk
in the open air. What had the air to do with my lungs? I was strong as a
giant; could stop a dray with my shoulders. A sweet, unwonted mood, a
feeling of lightsome happy-go-luckiness took possession of me. I fell to