of cooking there was here--a downright disgustingly
strong smell of chops for dinner, phew! and
I flung open the window to let out this beastly smell.
"Waiter, a plate of beef!" Turning to the table
--this miserable table that I was forced to support
with my knees when I wrote--I bowed profoundly,
and said:

"May I ask will you take a glass of wine? No? I am Tangen--Tangen, the
Cabinet Minister. I--more's the pity--I was out a little late ... the
door-key." Once more my thoughts ran without rein in intricate paths. I
was continually conscious that I talked at random, and yet I gave
utterance to no word without hearing and understanding it. I said to
myself, "Now you are talking at random again," and yet I could not help
myself. It was as if one were lying awake, and yet talking in one's sleep.

My head was light, without pain and without pressure, and my mood was
unshadowed. It sailed away with me, and I made no effort.

"Come in! Yes, only come right in! As you see everything is of
ruby--Ylajali, Ylajali! that swelling crimson silken divan! Ah, how
passionately she breathes. Kiss me--loved one--more--more! Your arms are
like pale amber, your mouth blushes.... Waiter I asked for a plate of
beef!"

The sun gleamed in through the window, and I could hear the horses below
chewing oats. I sat and mumbled over my chip gaily, glad at heart as a
child.

I kept all the time feeling for my manuscript. It wasn't really in my