I turned round towards my landlord. He had the greatest trouble to keep himself from laughing out loudly.
“Did you see the old chap?” he whispered. “Ah Lord! did you see the old chap? He is sitting looking on,” and he placed himself once more before the keyhole.
I went over to the window, and sat down. This sight had brought all my thoughts into merciless disorder, and put an end to my bright mood. Well, what concern was it of mine? When the husband himself agreed to it, ay, even found his greatest diversion in it, there was no reason why I should take it to heart. And as far as the old fellow was concerned, well, the old fellow was, once for all, an old fellow, and no more. Perhaps he didn’t even notice it. Maybe that he just sat and dozed. God knows, he may have been dead; it would not surprise me in the least if he were dead; I would have no scruples of conscience on this score.
I took forth my papers once more, and determined to thrust all irrelevant impressions aside. I had left off right in the middle of a sentence in the inquisitor’s address—“Thus dictate God and the law to me, thus dictates also the counsel of my wise men, thus dictate I and my own conscience …” I looked out of the window to think over what his conscience should dictate to him. A little row reached me from the room inside. Well, it was no affair of mine, anyway. Besides, the old chap was surely dead—died perhaps this morning about four; it was therefore entirely and totally indifferent to me what noise arose. Why the devil should I sit thinking about it? Keep quiet now! “Thus dictate I and my own conscience …” But everything conspired against me; the man over at the keyhole did not stand quiet a second. I could now and then hear his stifled laughter, and see how he shook. Outside in the street, too, something was taking place that disturbed me. A little lad sat and amused himself in the sun on the opposite side of the pavement. He was happy and in fear of no danger—just sat and knotted together a lot of paper streamers, and injured no one. Suddenly he jumps up and begins to curse; he goes backwards to the middle of the street and catches sight of a man, a grown-up man, with a red beard, who is leaning out of an open window in the second storey, and who spat down on his head. The little chap cried with rage, and swore impatiently up at the window; and the man laughed in his face. Perhaps five minutes passed in this way. I turned aside to avoid seeing the little lad’s tears.
“Thus dictate I and my own conscience …” I found it impossible to get any farther. At last everything began to get confused; it seemed to me that even that which I had already written was unfit to use, ay, that the whole idea was contemptible rubbish. How could one possibly talk of conscience in the Middle Ages? Conscience was first invented by Dancing-master Shakespeare, consequently my whole address was wrong. Was there, then, nothing of value in these pages? I ran through them anew, and solved my doubt at once. I discovered grand pieces—downright lengthy pieces of remarkable merit—and once again the intoxicating desire to set to work again darted through my breast—the desire to finish my drama.
I got up and went to the door, without paying any attention to my landlord’s furious signs to go out quietly; I walked out of the room firmly, and with my mind made up. I went upstairs to the second floor, and entered my former room. The man was not there, and what was to hinder me from sitting here for a moment? I would not touch one of his things. I wouldn’t even once use his table; I would just seat myself on a chair near the door, and be happy. I spread the papers hurriedly out on my knees. Things went splendidly for a few minutes. Retort upon retort stood ready in my head, and I wrote uninterruptedly. I filled one page after the other, dashed ahead over stock and stone, chuckled softly in ecstacy over my happy vein, and was scarcely conscious of myself. The only sound I heard in this moment was my own merry chuckle.
A singularly happy idea had just struck me about a church bell—a church bell that was to peal out at a certain point in my drama. All was going ahead with overwhelming rapidity. Then I hear a step on the stairs. I tremble, and am almost beside myself; sit ready to bolt, timorous, watchful, full of fear at everything, and excited by hunger. I listen nervously, just hold the pencil still in my hand, and listen. I cannot write a word more. The door opens, and the pair from below enter.
Even before I had time to make an excuse for what I had done, the landlady calls out, as if struck of a heap with amazement:
“Well, God bless and save us, if he isn’t sitting here again!”
“Excuse me,” I said, and I would have added more, but got no farther; the landlady flung open the door, as far as it would go, and shrieked:
“If you don’t go out, now, may God blast me, but I’ll fetch the police!”
I got up.
“I only wanted to say goodbye to you,” I murmured; “and I had to wait for you. I didn’t touch anything; I only just sat here on the chair. …”
“Yes, yes; there was no harm in that,” said the man. “What the devil does it matter? Let the man alone; he—”
By this time I had reached the end of the stairs. All at once I got furious with this fat, swollen woman, who followed close to my heels
