I had moved to a new flat and had been living there a month. I was telling Aunty about it.

“ I live with a quiet family； they pay no attention to me， even if I ring three times. Besides， it is a noisy house， full of sounds and disturbances¹ caused by the weather， the wind， and the people. I live just above the street gate； every carriage that drives out or in makes the pictures on the walls move about. The gate bangs and shakes the house as if there were an earthquake. If I am in bed， the shocks go right through all my limbs， but that is said to be strengthening to the nerves. If the wind blows， and it is always blowing in this country， the long window hooks outside swing to and fro， and strike against the wall. The bell on the gate to the neighbor's yard rings with every gust² of wind.

“The people who live in the house come home at all hours， from late in the evening until far into the night； the lodger³ just above me， who in the daytime gives lessons on the trombone， comes home the latest and does not go to bed before he has taken a little midnight promenade⁴ with heavy steps and in iron heeled shoes.

“There are no double windows. There is a broken pane⁵ in my room， over which the landlady⁶ has pasted some paper， but the wind blows through the crack despite that and produces a sound similar to that of a buzzing wasp⁷. It is like the sort of music that makes one go to sleep. If at last I fall asleep， I am soon awakened⁸ by the crowing of the cocks. From the cellarman's hencoop the cocks and hens announce that it will soon be morning. The small ponies， which have no stable， but are tied up in the storeroom under the staircase， kick against the door and the paneling as they move about.

“The day dawns. The porter， who lives with his family in the attic， comes thundering down the stairs； his wooden shoes clatter； the gate bangs and the house shakes. And when all this is over， the lodger above begins to occupy himself with gymnastic exercises； he lifts a heavy iron ball in each hand， but he is not able to hold onto them， and they are continually falling on the floor， while at the same time the young folks in the house， who are going to school， come screaming with all their might. I go to the window and open it to get some fresh air， and it is most refreshing¹² - when I can get it， and when the young woman in the back building is not washing gloves in soapsuds， by which she earns her livelihood¹³. Otherwise it is a pleasant house， and I live with a quiet family！”

This was the report I gave Aunty about my flat， though it was livelier at the time， for the spoken word has a fresher sound than the written.

“You are a poet！” cried Aunty. “Just write down all you have said， and you will be as good as Dickens！ Indeed， to me， you are much more interesting. You paint when you speak. You describe your house so that one can see it. It makes one shudder¹⁴. Go on with your poetry. Put some living beings into it - people， charming people， especially unhappy ones.”

I wrote down my description of the house as it stands， with all its sounds， its noises， but included only myself. There was no plot in it. That came later.