“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 ecstasy 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 heard 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 good-bye 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--”