Голод
Part I
Fartherawaylaytheruinsofaburnt-outsmithy,whichsomelabourerswerebusyclearingaway.Ileantwithmyelbowsrestingonthewindow-frameandgazedintoopenspace.Itpromisedtobeaclearday—autumn,thattender,cooltimeoftheyear,whenallthingschangetheircolour,anddie,hadcometous.Theever-increasingnoiseinthestreetsluredmeout.Thebareroom,thefloorofwhichrockedupanddownwitheverystepItookacrossit,seemedlikeagasping,sinistercoffin.Therewasnoproperfasteningtothedoor,either,andnostove.Iusedtolieonmysocksatnighttodrythemalittlebythemorning.TheonlythingIhadtodivertmyselfwithwasalittleredrocking-chair,inwhichIusedtositintheeveningsanddozeandmuseonallmannerofthings.Whenitblewhard,andthedoorbelowstoodopen,allkindsofeeriesoundsmoanedupthroughthefloorandfromoutthewalls,andtheMorgenbladetnearthedoorwasrentinstripsaspanlong.
Istoodupandsearchedthroughabundleinthecornerbythebedforabiteforbreakfast,butfindingnothing,wentbacktothewindow.
Godknows,thoughtI,iflookingforemploymentwilleveragainavailmeaught.Thefrequentrepulses,half-promises,andcurtnoes,thecherished,deludedhopes,andfreshendeavoursthatalwaysresultedinnothinghaddonemycouragetodeath.Asalastresource,Ihadappliedforaplaceasdebtcollector,butIwastoolate,and,besides,Icouldnothavefoundthefiftyshillingsdemandedassecurity.
