Hunger

by Knut Hamsun

  The word stood out sharply against the darkness before me.

  I sit with open eyes, amazed at my find and laughing for joy. Then I start whispering: they might be spying on me, and I intended to keep my invention a secret. I had passed over into the sheer madness of hunger; I was empty and without pain and my thoughts were running riot. I debate with myself in silence. With the oddest jumps in my line of thought, I try to ascertain the meaning of my new word. It didn’t have to mean either God or amusement park, and who had said it should mean cattle show? I clench my fist angrily and repeat once more, Who said that it shall mean cattle show? All things considered, it wasn’t even necessary that it should mean padlock or sunrise. It wasn’t difficult to make sense of such a word. I would wait and see. Meanwhile I would sleep on it.

  I lie there on the bunk chuckling, but I don’t say anything, express no opinion one way or the other. A few minutes go by and I get nervous, the new word worries me incessantly and keeps coming back; in the end it takes possession of all my thoughts and makes me stop laughing. I had made up my mind what the word shouldn’t mean, but had taken no decision on what it should mean. That is a minor question! I said aloud to myself, clutching my arm and repeating that it was a minor question. The word had been found, thank God, and that was the main thing. But my thoughts worry me ceaselessly and keep me from falling asleep; nothing seemed to me good enough for this rare word. Finally I sit up in bed again, clasp my head with both hands and say, No, that’s just what is impossible, letting it mean emigration or tobacco factory! If it could mean something like that, I would have decided in its favor long ago and taken the consequences. No, the word was really suited to mean something spiritual, a feeling, a state of mind—couldn’t I understand that? And I try to jog my memory to come up with something spiritual. Then it seems to me that someone is speaking, sticking his nose into my chat, and I answer angrily, What was that? Oh my, you’ll get the prize for biggest idiot! Knitting yarn? Go to hell!2 Why should I be under an obligation to let it mean knitting yarn when I was particularly opposed to its meaning knitting yarn? I had invented the word myself, and I was perfectly within my rights in having it mean anything whatsoever, for that matter. As far as I knew, I hadn’t yet expressed an opinion. . . .

  But my brain grew more and more perplexed. At last I jumped out of bed to find the water tap. I wasn’t thirsty, but my head was feverish and I felt instinctively a need for water. When I had had my drink, I went back to bed again and decided that I was going to sleep, by hook or by crook. I closed my eyes and forced myself to be quiet. I lay for several minutes without moving a muscle, began to sweat and felt the blood pulse violently through my veins. Wasn’t it just too funny, though, that he should look for money in the cornet! And he coughed, just once. Is he still walking around down there? Sitting on my bench? . . . The blue mother-of-pearl . . . the ships . . .

  I opened my eyes. How could I keep them closed anyway, when I wasn’t able to sleep! The same brooding darkness around me, the same unfathomable black eternity which my thoughts recoiled from and couldn’t grasp. What could I compare it to? I made the most desperate efforts to find a word black enough to signify this darkness for me, a word so horribly black that it would dirty my mouth when I uttered it. Good God, how dark it was! I am again put in mind of the harbor, the ships, those black monsters which lay waiting for me. They wanted to suck me up and hold me tight and sail with me by sea and land, through dark kingdoms that no humans had ever seen. I can feel myself on board, pulled out to sea, soaring in the clouds, descending, descending. . . . I give a hoarse scream of terror and clutch the bed; I had been on such a perilous journey, had whizzed down through space like a faggot. How wonderful it was to feel safe again as I clapped my hand against that hard bunk bed! This is what it’s like to die, I said to myself, and now you’re going to die! I lay thinking about this, that now I was going to die, for a few moments. Then I sit up in bed and ask sternly, “Who said I was going to die? Having found the word myself, I have the right to decide what it shall mean. . . .” I could hear that I was raving, could hear it even as I spoke. My madness was a delirium of weakness and exhaustion, but I was not out of my senses. All at once the thought flashed through my brain that I had gone mad. Terror-struck, I jump out of bed. I stagger over to the door, which I try to open, hurl myself against it a couple of times to force it, bang my head against the wall, groan aloud, bite my fingers, sob and curse. . . .

  All was quiet, only my own voice reechoed from the walls. I had fallen on the floor, no longer able to stagger about in the cell. Then I glimpse high up, right in front of my eyes, a grayish square in the wall, a whitish tone, a hint of something—it was the daylight.3 Ah, what a delicious sigh of relief I gave! I threw myself flat on the floor and wept with joy over this blessed glimpse of light, sobbed out of gratitude, threw a kiss toward the window and behaved like a lunatic. At this moment, too, I was conscious of what I did. All despondency was gone immediately, all pain and despair had ceased, and I didn’t have a single unfulfilled wish right then as far as my thoughts could reach. I sat up on the floor, folded my hands, and waited patiently for daybreak.

  What a night it had been! Strange, I thought with surprise, that they hadn’t heard any noise. But then I was in the reserved section, high above all the prisoners. A homeless cabinet minister, if I might say so. Still in the best of moods, my eyes turned toward the ever-lightening window in the wall, I amused myself by acting the cabinet minister, calling myself Von Tangen and affecting a bureaucratic style. My fantasies had not ceased, I was only much less nervous. If only I hadn’t made the deplorable slip of leaving my billfold at home! Might I have the honor of assisting the cabinet minister to bed? And in dead earnest, with much ceremony, I went over to the bunk and lay down.

  It was now light enough to enable me to make out the contours of the cell fairly well, and a little later I could see the big door handle. This distracted my thoughts; the monotonous darkness, so exasperatingly thick that it had prevented me from seeing myself, was broken. Soon my blood grew quieter, and shortly I felt my eyes close.

  I was awakened by a couple of raps on my door. I jumped up hastily and dressed in a hurry; my clothes were still soaking wet from last night.

  “You will report downstairs to the guard on duty,” the officer said.

  So I would have to suffer through fresh formalities, I thought, afraid.

  I entered a big room downstairs where thirty or forty people were sitting, all homeless. One by one their names were called from the register, one by one they were given a meal ticket. The guard on duty was constantly saying to the officer by his side, “Did he get a ticket? Don’t forget to give them tickets. They look as though they could do with a meal.”

  I was eyeing those tickets and wanted one for myself.

  “Andreas Tangen, journalist!”

  I stepped forward and bowed.

  “Oh dear, how did you get here?”

  I explained it all to him, giving the same story as last night; I told barefaced lies without blinking, lied with sincerity: Had been out a bit late, I was afraid, in a café, lost my gate key . . .

  “Well,” he said and smiled, “that’s how it goes. Anyway, did you sleep well?”

  “Like a cabinet minister!” I replied. “Like a cabinet minister!”

  “I’m pleased!” he said and stood up. “Goodbye.”

  And I left.

  A ticket, a ticket for me too! I haven’t eaten for more than three long days and nights. A loaf of bread! But nobody offered me a ticket and I didn’t dare request one. That would have aroused instant suspicion. They would begin to poke around in my private affairs and find out who I really was; they would arrest me for making false pretenses.—Head high, with the bearing of a millionaire and my hands gripping my lapels, I stride out of the jail.

  The sun shone warmly by now, it was ten o’clock and the traffic at Youngstorvet Square was in full swing. Where was I to go? I pat my pocket to feel my manuscript;
come eleven I would try to see the editor. I stand awhile by the balustrade observing the activity below me; meanwhile my clothes had started steaming. Hunger again announced itself, gnawing and tugging at my chest and giving me small, sharp twinges of pain. Didn’t I have a single friend, an acquaintance I could turn to? I search my memory for a man good for ten øre and can’t find him. But what a beautiful day it was, with plenty of sun and light all around me; the sky flowed like a lovely ocean along the Lier mountains. . . .

  Without knowing it, I was on my way home.

  I was terribly hungry and picked up a wood chip in the street to chew on. It helped. Why hadn’t I thought of that before!

  The gate was open, the stableboy wished me good morning as usual.

  “Nice weather!” he said.

  “Yes,” I answered. That was all I could think of to say. Could I ask him to lend me a krone? He would probably be glad to if he could. Besides, I had written a letter for him once.

  He stood there trying out something on his tongue, something he wanted to say.

  “Yeah, nice weather. Hmm. I’m supposed to pay my landlady today. You wouldn’t be so kind as to lend me five kroner, would you? Just for a few days. You helped me out once before, remember.”

  “No, I really can’t, Jens Olai,” I answered. “Not now. Maybe later, this afternoon perhaps.” And I staggered up the stairs to my room.

  I threw myself on my bed and laughed. What a lucky dog I was to have him steal a march on me! My honor was saved. Five kroner—good grief, man! You could just as well have asked me for five shares in the Steam Kitchen or for an estate out in Aker township.

  The thought of those five kroner made me laugh louder and louder. Wasn’t I a hell of a fellow though, eh? Five kroner! Sure, here was the right man! My mirth kept rising and I gave myself up to it: Damn it all, what a smell of cooking around here! A kitchen-fresh smell of meat patties from lunch time, phew! And I push open the window to let this disgusting smell out. Waiter, a steak, please! Facing the table, this rickety table I had to support with my knees when writing, I bowed deeply and asked, Pardon me, but would you like a glass of wine? No? My name is Tangen, Cabinet Minister Tangen. Unfortunately I’ve been out a bit late . . . the gate key . . .

  My thoughts were again running riot, racing along trackless paths. I was conscious all along that I was talking incoherently, and I didn’t say a single word without hearing and understanding it. I said to myself, Now you’re talking incoherently again! Still, I couldn’t help it. It was like talking in your sleep while being awake. My head was light, without pain and without pressure, and my mind was without a cloud. I sailed off, putting up no resistance.

  Come in! Yes, just come in! As you can see, all of rubies. Ylajali! Ylajali! The red, fluffy silk divan! How heavily she’s breathing! Kiss me, my love—again, again. Your arms are like amber, your lips are flaming red. . . . Waiter, I ordered a steak. . . .

  The sun shone in through my window, downstairs I could hear the horses chomping their oats. I sat munching on my wood chip, in high spirits, happy as a child. I had been continually groping for my manuscript; it wasn’t even in my thoughts, but my instinct told me it was there, my blood reminded me of it. I pulled it out.

  It had gotten wet, and I spread it out and placed it in the sun. Then I began to pace back and forth in my room. How depressing everything looked! Small tin shavings scattered all over the floor, but not a chair to sit in, not even a nail in the bare walls. It had all gone to “Uncle’s” basement and been consumed. A few sheets of paper on the table, coated with a thick layer of dust, were my sole possessions; that old green blanket on the bed had been lent to me by Hans Pauli some months ago. . . . Hans Pauli! I snap my fingers. Hans Pauli Pettersen will help me out! I try to recall his address. How could I have forgotten Hans Pauli! He was bound to be very hurt that I hadn’t come to him right away. I quickly don my hat, gather up the manuscript and hurry down the stairs.

  “Listen, Jens Olai,” I call into the stable. “I’m pretty sure I’ll have something for you this afternoon.”

  On reaching the jail I can see it’s past eleven, and I decide to drop in at the editor’s then and there. I stopped outside the door to the office to check if my pages were in the right order; I smoothed them carefully out, stuck them back in my pocket and knocked. My heart beat audibly as I entered.

  Scissors is there as usual. I ask timidly for the editor. No answer. The man sits there with a pair of long scissors digging up small news items in the out-of-town papers.

  I repeat my question and step closer.

  “The editor hasn’t come in yet,” Scissors said finally, without looking up.

  When would he be there?

  Couldn’t say, couldn’t say at all.

  How late would the office be open?

  To this I got no answer, and I had to leave. Scissors hadn’t glanced at me throughout; he had heard my voice and recognized me by that. This is how unwelcome you are here, I thought, they don’t even bother to answer you. I wonder if it is by order of the editor. True enough, from the very moment my famous story at ten kroner was accepted, I had flooded him with manuscripts, pestering him almost every day with useless things he’d had to read and return to me. Perhaps he wanted to put an end to it, take his precautions. . . . I set out for the Homansbyen section.

  Hans Pauli Pettersen was a peasant student living in the attic of a five-story building, and so Hans Pauli Pettersen was a poor man. But if he had a krone he didn’t begrudge it. I would get it as surely as if I already held it in my hand. Every minute of the way I was looking forward to having this krone, and I felt certain I would get it. When I reached the front door it was locked and I had to ring the bell.

  “I’m here to see Pettersen, the student,” I said, about to enter. “I know where his room is.”

  “Pettersen, the student?” the maid repeats. Was it the one who used to live in the attic? He had moved. She didn’t know where, but he had asked that his letters be sent down to Hermansen on Toldbod Street, and the maid gave the number.

  I walk, full of hope and faith, all the way down to Toldbod Street to ask about Hans Pauli’s address. This was my last resort, and I had to use it. On the way I passed a newly-built house, in front of which a couple of carpenters were planing. I picked a few shiny shavings from the pile, stuck one in my mouth and put the other away in my pocket for later. I kept on going. I groaned from hunger. I had seen a fabulously big ten-øre loaf in the window of a bakery, the biggest loaf of bread that could be had for that price. . . .

  “I’m here to find out the address of Mr. Pettersen, the student.”

  “Bernt Anker Street, number 10, the attic.” Was I going out there? Oh, then perhaps I would be kind enough to take along a couple of letters that had come for him?

  Once more I walk uptown, the same way I had come, again I pass the carpenters, now sitting with their tin pails between their knees eating their good, warm Steam Kitchen meal, go past the bakery, where the loaf of bread is still in its place, and at last reach Bernt Anker Street half-dead with exhaustion. The door is open, and I start up all those trying flights of stairs to the attic. I take the letters from my pocket, to put Hans Pauli in a good mood at one blow when I entered. He surely wouldn’t refuse me a helping hand when I explained my situation to him, oh no; Hans Pauli had such a big heart, I’d always said that about him.

  I found his card on the door. “H. P. Pettersen, stud. theol.—gone home.”

  I sat down instantly, sat on the bare floor tired as a log, undone by prostration. I repeat mechanically a couple of times, Gone home! Gone home! Then I keep perfectly still. There wasn’t a tear in my eyes, I had neither thoughts nor feelings of any kind. I sat staring at the letters with wide-open eyes without doing a thing. Ten minutes went by, perhaps twenty or more, and I still sat there on the same spot, not moving a finger. This dull stupor was almost like a nap. Then I hear someone coming up the stairs and I get up and say, “I’m looking for Mr. Pettersen,
the student—I have two letters for him.”

  “He’s gone home,” the woman answers. “But he’ll be back after the vacation. I could take the letters, of course, if you like.”

  “Thanks, that’s nice of you,” I said, “then he’ll get them as soon as he comes back. They might contain something important. Goodbye.”

  When I got outside I stopped and said aloud in the middle of the street, clenching my fists, “I will tell you one thing, my dear Lord—you are a so-and-so!” Then I nod furiously up at the clouds, gritting my teeth, “I’ll be damned, but you are a real so-and-so!”

  I took a few steps and stopped again. Suddenly changing my posture, I fold my hands, lean my head sideways and ask in a sweet, sanctimonious voice, “Have you indeed turned to him, my child?”

  It didn’t sound right.

  “With a capital H, I say, with an H as big as a cathedral! Once more, ‘Have you indeed called upon Him, my child?’ ” Then I lower my head, make my voice sorrowful and answer, “No.”

  That didn’t sound right either.

  “You don’t know how to act the hypocrite, you fool! Yes, you should say, yes, I have called upon my God and Father! And you should utter your words to the most pitiful tune you have ever heard. So, once more! Yes, that’s better. But you have to sigh, sigh like a colicky horse. That’s it.”

  I walk along instructing myself like this, stamping my feet impatiently when I don’t get it right and reviling myself for a blockhead, while the astonished passersby turn around to watch me.