by Knut Hamsun
It was broad daylight when I opened my eyes, and I had a hunch it was almost noon. I pulled on my shoes, wrapped up my blanket and headed back to the city. There was no sun to be seen today either, and I was frozen stiff; my legs were dead and my eyes started watering as though they couldn’t stand the daylight.
It was three o’clock. My hunger was getting rather bad, I felt faint and threw up a bit here and there on the sly. I took a turn down to the Steam Kitchen, read the items on the board and shrugged my shoulders conspicuously, as though salt meat and pork weren’t food for me. From there I went on to Jærnbanetorvet Square.
Suddenly a curious confusion flashed through my head; I walked on, refusing to pay any attention to it, but it got worse and worse and finally I had to sit down on a doorstep. My mind was suffering a complete transformation, a tissue in my brain had snapped. I gasped for air a couple of times and remained sitting there, wondering. I was not insensible, being clearly aware of the slight pain in my ear from yesterday, and when an acquaintance came by I knew him at once, got up and bowed.
What sort of painful new sensation was this, coming on top of all the others? Was it a result of sleeping on the damp ground? Or was it due to the fact that I hadn’t had breakfast yet? All in all, it was simply absurd to live like this. Holy Christ, what had I done to deserve this special persecution anyway! I simply couldn’t understand. It struck me suddenly that I might as well turn myself into a crook right away and take the blanket to “Uncle’s” basement. I could pawn it for one krone in cash, get myself three decent meals and keep going until I thought of something else. I would put off Hans Pauli with a fib. I was already on my way to the basement but stopped in front of the entrance, shook my head doubtfully and turned around.
As I walked away I felt more and more pleased that I had conquered this great temptation. The consciousness of being honest went to my head, filling me with the glorious sensation that I was a man of character, a white beacon in the midst of a turbid human sea with floating wreckage everywhere. To hock someone else’s property for a meal, to eat and drink and your soul be damned,2 to call yourself a crook to your face and hide from your own eyes—never! Never! The idea had never been in earnest, it had scarcely even occurred to me; you couldn’t really be held responsible for your idle, fleeting thoughts by the way, especially when you had an awful headache and were nearly killing yourself schlepping a blanket that belonged to someone else.
Anyhow, something was bound to turn up in the way of help at the right time! There was that shopkeeper on Grøn-landsleret, for example. Had I been pestering him every hour of the day since sending in my application? Had I rung his bell at all times and been turned away? I hadn’t as much as reported back to him for his answer. It didn’t have to be an entirely fruitless attempt, perhaps I had been lucky this time. Luck often followed such a strangely winding path. So I set out for Grønlandsleret Street.
The last shock that had passed through my brain had left me somewhat weak, and I walked extremely slowly, thinking about what I would say to the shopkeeper. Maybe he was a good soul; if he was in the right mood, he might even let me have a krone in advance without my asking. Such people were apt to come up with some really excellent ideas every now and then.
I sneaked into a doorway and blackened the knees of my trousers with spit so I’d look fairly respectable, left my blanket behind a box in a dark corner, crossed the street and stepped into the little store.
A man stands before me, busy pasting together bags from old newspapers.
“I would like to see Mr. Christie,” I said.
“That’s me,” the man replied.
Well! My name was such and such, I had taken the liberty of sending him an application, and I was wondering if it had done me any good.
He repeated my name a couple of times and started laughing. “Well, here you are,” he said, taking my letter from his breast pocket. “Sir, take note, if you please, of the way you deal with figures. You have dated your letter 1848!” And the man roared with laughter.
“Yes, that’s pretty bad,” I said, crestfallen—a slip, absent mindedness, I admitted that.
“You see, I must have someone who won’t ever make a mistake with figures,” he said. “I’m very sorry—your handwriting is so clear, and I also like your letter otherwise, but . . .”
I waited awhile; this couldn’t possibly be the man’s last word. He addressed himself to his bags again.
“Well, that’s a shame,” I said, “an awful shame, really.” But needless to say, it would never happen again, and that little slip of the pen couldn’t have made me unfit for keeping books altogether, could it?
“No, I’m not saying that,” he replied, “but still it carried so much weight with me that I decided in favor of someone else right away.”
“So the position is taken?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Oh, dear! Well, there’s nothing more to be done about that, is there?”
“No. I’m sorry, but—”
“Goodbye,” I said.
A brutal, red-hot anger flared up in me. I fetched my parcel in the entranceway, clenched my teeth, ran into peaceful folk on the sidewalk without apologizing. When a gentleman stopped and reprimanded me sharply for my behavior, I turned around and screamed a single meaningless word into his ear, shook my fists under his nose and walked on, appalled by a blind rage that I couldn’t control. He called a policeman, and I could wish for nothing better than to get my hands on a policeman for a moment, so I slowed my pace on purpose to give him a chance to overtake me; but he didn’t come. What sense could there possibly be to having absolutely all one’s most sincere and diligent endeavors come to nothing? Why had I written 1848 anyway? What was that damned year to me? Here I was walking around so hungry that my intestines were squirming inside me like snakes, and I had no guarantee there would be something in the way of food later in the day either. And as time went on I was getting more and more hollowed out, spiritually and physically, and I stooped to less and less honorable actions every day. I lied without blushing to get my way, cheated poor people out of their rent, even had to fight off the thought, mean as could be, of laying hands on other people’s blankets, all without remorse, without a bad conscience. Rotten patches were beginning to appear in my inner being, black spongy growths that were spreading more and more. And God sat up in his heaven keeping a watchful eye on me, making sure that my destruction took place according to all the rules of the game, slowly and steadily, with no letup. But in the pit of hell the devils were raising their hackles in fury because it was taking me such a long time to commit a cardinal sin, an unforgivable sin for which God in his righteousness had to cast me down. . . .
I quickened my walk, forging ahead faster and faster, swung suddenly to the left and, excited and angry, stepped into a light, decorated entranceway. I didn’t stop, not even for a second, but the entire curious décor of the entrance immediately penetrated my consciousness. As I ran up the stairs the most trifling details of the doors, the ornaments, and the paving stood out clearly in my mind’s eye. I furiously rang a bell on the second floor. Why did I stop exactly on the second floor? And why grab exactly this bell rope, which was the farthest from the stairway?
A young lady in a gray dress with black trimmings opened the door. She looked at me in amazement for a moment, then she shook her head and said, “We don’t have anything today.” And she made as though to close the door.
Why in the world had I gotten myself involved with this person? She took me for a beggar out of hand, and I suddenly became cold and calm. I took off my hat and made a respectful bow and, pretending I hadn’t heard her words, said with extreme politeness, “I beg your pardon, miss, for ringing so loudly, I wasn’t familiar with the bell. There’s supposed to be an ailing gentleman here who has advertised for someone to wheel him about in his carriage.”
She turned this mendacious fancy over in her mind awhile and seemed to grow doubtful what to think of me.
“Really? An elderly gentleman, a two hours’ ride every day, at forty øre an hour?”
“No.”
“Then I beg your pardon again,” I said; “maybe it was on the first floor. In any event, I just wanted to recommend a person of my acquaintance in whom I take an interest. My name is Wedel-Jarlsberg.” I bowed again and withdrew. The young lady turned flaming red; in her embarrassment she remained rooted to the spot, but followed me with an intent gaze as I descended the stairs.
My composure had returned and my head was clear. The lady’s words to the effect that she had nothing to give me today had struck me like a cold shower. I had come to such a pass now that anybody could point at me mentally and say to herself: There goes a beggar, one of those who get their food handed to them through the front door!
On Møller Street I stopped outside a tavern and sniffed the fresh aroma of meat roasting inside; I had already put my hand on the doorknob and was about to go in to no purpose, but I thought better of it and walked away. When I got to Stortorvet Square and looked for a spot where I could rest awhile, all the benches were taken, and I searched in vain all around the church for a quiet place where I could settle down. Of course! I said gloomily to myself, of course, of course! And I took to wandering again. I made a detour down to the drinking fountain at the corner of the Arcades and drank a mouthful of water, then went on, dragging myself forward step by step, taking time for long pauses in front of every shop window and stopping to follow every passing carriage with my eyes. I felt a white heat in my head, and my temples were pounding strangely. The water I had drunk disagreed very badly with me, and I vomited a bit here and there in the street. In this way I got as far as Christ’s Cemetery. I sat down with my elbows on my knees and my head between my hands; in this curled-up position I was comfortable and no longer felt the gnawing pain in my chest.
A stonecutter lay on his stomach on top of a large granite slab beside me, cutting an inscription; he was wearing blue glasses and immediately reminded me of an acquaintance whom I had nearly forgotten, a man who worked in a bank and whom I had met some time ago in the Oplandske Café.
If only I could cast off all sense of shame and turn to him! Tell him the truth straight out—that I was getting to be rather strapped and had difficulty keeping body and soul together. I could give him my shaving book. . . . I’ll be damned, my shaving book! Coupons for almost one krone! I reach nervously for this valuable treasure. When I don’t find it fast enough, I jump up, search for it in a cold sweat, and find it finally at the bottom of my breast pocket together with other papers, blank and filled with writing, worthless. I count these six coupons many times, forward and backward; I didn’t really need them very much, it could be taken as a caprice on my part, a whimsical notion that I didn’t feel like shaving anymore. I was tided over by half a krone, a white half krone in silver from the Kongsberg mint! The bank closed at six, I could be on the lookout for my man outside the Oplandske Café around seven or eight.
I sat there rejoicing in this thought for quite a while. Time was passing, the wind was blowing hard in the chestnut trees around me, and the day was coming to an end. But wasn’t it a bit cheap to come and sneak six shaving coupons into the hands of a young gentleman who worked in a bank? For all I knew, he might have two chock-full shaving books in his pocket, with coupons that were far, far nicer and cleaner than mine. I felt in all my pockets for some more things which I could throw in with them, but found none. What if I offered him my tie? I could easily do without as long as I buttoned my coat up tight, which I had to do anyway since I no longer had a vest. I undid it, a big cravat-type bow tie that covered half my chest, brushed it carefully, and wrapped it in a piece of white writing paper together with the shaving book. Then I left the cemetery and went down to the Oplandske Café.
The clock of the city jail showed seven. I hovered around the café, shuffling up and down along the iron railing and keeping a sharp lookout for all who came and went. Finally, at about eight o’clock, I saw the young man, fresh and elegant, coming up the hill and cutting across toward the café entrance. The moment I caught sight of him my heart ran riot in my breast like a caged bird, and I came straight to the point, without even saying hello.
“A half krone, my old friend!” I said, making myself bold. “Here—here’s value for your money.” And I stuck the little packet into his hand.
“Haven’t got it,” he said, “I swear to God!” And he turned his purse inside out under my very eyes. “I was out last night and went bust. You must believe me, I haven’t got it.”
“Of course, my friend, I understand,” I answered, taking his word for it. There was no reason, after all, why he should lie in such a trifling matter; in fact, his blue eyes seemed all but moist when he examined his pockets and didn’t find anything. I turned back. “Please excuse me, then,” I said. “I just happen to be in a tight spot right now.”
I was already some distance down the street when he called after me about the packet.
“Keep it, just keep it!” I replied. “You are quite welcome to it. It’s only a couple of small things, a trifle—pretty much all my possessions on this earth.” I was moved by my own words—they sounded so dismal in the evening twilight—and burst into tears.
The wind was blowing more briskly, the clouds scudded furiously across the sky, and it became chillier and chillier as it grew dark. Walking down the street I cried without a break, feeling more and more sorry for myself, and time after time I repeated a few words, an exclamation which drew fresh tears when they were about to stop: “Oh God, I’m so miserable! Oh God, I’m so miserable!”
An hour passed—it passed exceedingly slowly and sluggishly. I hung about on Torv Street awhile, sat on the steps, slipped into the entranceways when someone came by, or stood staring vacuously into the illuminated little shops where people were scurrying about with merchandise and money. At last I found myself a snug spot behind a lumber pile between the church and the Arcades.
No, I couldn’t go out to the woods tonight, no matter what; I didn’t have the strength for it and it was so endlessly far away. I would stay where I was and get through the night as best I could. If it became too cold I could stroll about a bit by the church, I didn’t intend to make any more fuss about that. I leaned back and drowsed.
The noise around me diminished, the stores closed, the footsteps of the pedestrians were heard more and more seldom, and eventually the lights went out in the windows. . . .
Opening my eyes, I noticed a figure in front of me; the shiny buttons that gleamed toward me made me suspect a policeman. I couldn’t see the man’s face.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening,” I answered, feeling scared. I got up, embarrassed. He stood motionless awhile.
“Where do you live?” he asked.
By force of habit, and without reflecting, I named my old address, the little attic room I had given up.
He stood awhile again.
“Have I done something wrong?” I asked fearfully.
“No, not at all,” he answered. “But you ought to go home now, don’t you think, it’s cold lying here.”
“Yes, it’s chilly, I can feel it.”
I said good night and instinctively set out for my old place. If I watched my step I was pretty sure I could walk up without being heard—there were eight flights of stairs in all, and only the two top ones had creaky steps.
I took off my shoes in the entrance and went up. It was quiet everywhere. On the second floor I heard the slow tick tock of a clock and a child crying softly; then I heard nothing more. I found my door, lifted it slightly on its hinges and opened it without a key as I was used to doing, entered the room and pulled the door shut without a sound.
Everything was just as I had left it—the curtains were pulled away from the windows and the bed was empty. Over on the table I glimpsed a piece of paper, probably my note
to the landlady. So she hadn’t even been up here since I went away. I fumbled with my hand over the white spot and felt to my surprise that it was a letter. A letter? I take it over to the window, scan the badly written characters as best I can in the dark, and finally make out my own name. Aha! I think, the landlady’s answer, warning me not to set foot in the room anymore in case I should wish to come back!
And slowly, quite slowly, I walk out of the room again, carrying my shoes in one hand, the letter in the other, and the blanket under my arm. Clenching my teeth, I tread lightly on the creaky steps, make it safely down all those flights of stairs, and find myself in the entranceway once more.
I put on my shoes again, taking my time with the laces; I even sit still for a moment after I’m done, staring blankly ahead of me and holding the letter in my hand.
Then I stand up and leave.
The flickering light of a street lamp twinkles up the way, so I walk right under the light, lean my parcel up against the lamppost and open the letter, doing it all with extreme slowness.
A stream of light seems to surge through my breast, and I hear myself giving a little cry, a meaningless sound of joy: the letter was from the editor, my story was accepted, it had gone directly to the composing room! “A few minor changes . . . corrected a few slips of the pen . . . promising work . . . to be printed tomorrow . . . ten kroner.”
Laughing and crying, I leaped up and raced down the street, stopped to slap my thighs and flung a solemn oath into space for no particular reason. And time passed.
All night long, till daybreak, I went yodeling about the streets dazed with joy, repeating: promising work, meaning a little masterpiece, a stroke of genius. And ten kroner!
PART TWO
A COUPLE OF WEEKS LATER I found myself out-of-doors one night.