d weary, and dragged my legs after me. The snow still fell in great
moist flakes. At last I reached Gronland; far out, near the church, I
sat down to rest on a seat. All the passers-by looked at me with much
astonishment. I fell a-thinking.

Thou good God, what a miserable plight I have come to! I was so
heartily tired and weary of all my miserable life that I did not find
it worth the trouble of fighting any longer to preserve it. Adversity
had gained the upper hand; it had been too strong for me. I had become
so strangely poverty-stricken and broken, a mere shadow of what I once
had been; my shoulders were sunken right down on one side, and I had
contracted a habit of stooping forward fearfully as I walked, in order
to spare my chest what little I could. I had examined my body a few
days ago, one noon up in my room, and I had stood and cried over it the
whole time. I had worn the same shirt for many weeks, and it was quite
stiff with stale sweat, and had chafed my skin. A little blood and
water ran out of the sore place; it did not hurt much, but it was very
tiresome to have this tender place in the middle of my stomach. I had
no remedy for it, and it wouldn't heal of its own accord. I washed it,
dried it carefully, and put on the same shirt. There was no help for
it, it....

I sit there on the bench and ponder over all this, and am sad enough. I
loathe myself. My very hands seem distasteful to me; the loose, almost
coarse, expression of the backs of them pains me, disgusts me. I feel
myself rudely affected by the sight of my lean fingers. I hate the
whole of my gaunt, shrunken body, and shrink from bearing it, from
feeling it envelop me. Lord, if the whole thing would come to an end
now, I would heartily, gladly die!

Completely worsted, soiled, defiled, and debased in my own estimation,
I rose mechanically and commenced to turn my steps homewards. On the
way I passed a door, upon which the following was to be read on a
plate--"Winding-sheets to be had at Miss Andersen's, door to the
right." Old memories! I muttered, as my thoughts flew back to my former
room in Hammersborg. The little rocking-chair, the newspapers near the
door, the lighthouse director's announcement, and Fabian Olsen, the
baker's new-baked bread. Ah yes; times were better with me then than
now; one night I had written a tale for ten shillings, now I couldn't
write anything. My head grew light as soon as ever I attempted it. Yes,
I would put an e