_September 26._
For a week I have been unable to write a single line in my diary. When
it comes night, I am tired, exhausted, at the end of my strength. I
think of nothing but going to bed and to sleep. To sleep! If I could
always sleep!
Oh! what a shabby place, My God! You can have no idea of it!
For a yes, for a no, Madame makes you run up and down the two cursed
flights of stairs. One has not even time to sit down in the linen-room
and breathe a little, when ... drinn!... drinn!... drinn!... one
has to get up and start again. It makes no difference if one is not
feeling well, drinn!... drinn!... drinn! In these days I have pains
in my loins that bend me in two, and gripe my stomach, and almost make
me cry out. That cuts no figure; drinn!... drinn!... drinn!... One
has no time to be sick; one has not the right to suffer. Suffering
is a master's luxury. We, we must walk, and fast, and forever; walk
at the risk of falling. Drinn!... drinn!... drinn!... And if one
is a little slow in coming at the sound of the bell, then there are
reproaches and angry scenes.
"Well, what are you about? You do not hear, then? Are you deaf? I have
been ringing for three hours. It is getting to be very provoking."
And this is what generally happens.
"Drinn!... drinn!... drinn!..."
That throws you from your chair, as if impelled by a spring.
"Bring me a needle."