by Knut Hamsun
I chewed steadily on my wood shaving and shambled through the streets as fast as I could. Before I knew it, I was way down at Jærnbanetorvet Square. The clock of Our Savior’s showed half-past one. I stopped awhile, pondering. My face broke out in a cold sweat, it oozed its way down into my eyes. “Come let’s go for a walk to the pier!” I said to myself. “That is, if you can spare the time.” And I bowed to myself and went down to Jærnbane Pier.
Out there were the ships, and the sea swayed in the sunshine. There was a hustle and bustle everywhere—blasting steam whistles, porters with crates on their shoulders, and lively sea shanties coming from the barges. Not far away from me sits a cake vendor, bending her brown nose over her merchandise; the small table in front of her is hideously loaded with dainties, and I turn away in distaste. She fills the entire quay with her kitchen odors; ugh, open the windows! I turn to a gentleman sitting next to me and try earnestly to make him see the nuisance of having cake vendors here, there and everywhere. . . . No? But surely he had to admit that . . . The good man smelled a rat, however, and didn’t even let me finish what I had to say before getting up and leaving. I got up too and followed him, firmly set on convincing the man that he was wrong.
“For sanitary reasons, if for nothing else,” I said, patting him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, I’m a stranger here and know nothing about the sanitary conditions,” he said, giving me a frightened stare.
Well, that altered the case, his being a stranger. . . . Could I do him some favor? Show him around? No? For it would be a pleasure to me, and it would cost him nothing. . . .
But the man was dead set on getting rid of me and rapidly crossed the street to the other sidewalk.
I went back to my bench again and sat down. I was very restless, and the big barrel organ that had begun to play a little further on made me even more so. A regular metallic music, a snatch of Weber to which a little girl sings a mournful ballad. The poignant flute-like sound of the organ ripples through my blood, my nerves begin to vibrate as though resonating with it, and a moment later I fall back upon the bench, murmuring and humming along with the music. What whims one’s feelings give rise to when one is starving! I feel caught up in these notes, dissolved into a tune—I float, and I perceive so clearly how I float, soaring high above the mountains, dancing through realms of light. . . .
“A penny!” says the little organ-girl, holding out her tin plate, “just a penny!”
“Sure,” I answer automatically, jumping up and rummaging through my pockets. But the child thinks that I just want to make fun of her and goes away immediately, without a word. This mute resignation was too much for me, it would have suited me better if she had bawled me out. Overcome with pain, I called her back. “I don’t have a penny,” I said, “but I’ll remember you later, perhaps tomorrow. What’s your name?” That was a pretty name, I wouldn’t forget it. “Till tomorrow, then . . .”
But I understood quite well that she didn’t believe me, although she never said a word, and I wept with despair that this little guttersnipe refused to believe me. I called her back once more, tore open my coat and wanted to give her my vest. “I’ll make it all up to you,” I said, “just wait a moment—”
I didn’t have a vest.
How could I even look for it! Weeks had gone by since it was in my possession. What was the matter with me anyhow? Flabbergasted, the girl didn’t wait any longer but beat a hasty retreat. And I had to let her go. People crowded together around me, laughing aloud. A police officer forces his way up to me and wants to know what’s up.
“Nothing,” I answer, “nothing at all. I just wanted to give my vest to that little girl over there . . . for her father. . . . It’s nothing to laugh at. I would simply go home and put on another one.”
“No ruckus in the street!” says the officer. “So, move along now!” And he nudges me on my way. “Are these your papers?” he shouts after me.
“Dammit, yes, my newspaper article, many important writings! How could I be so careless!”
I grab my manuscript, make certain that it is in the proper order, and leave without staying another moment or taking a look around, up to the editor’s office. It was now four by the clock of Our Savior’s.
The office is closed. I steal noiselessly down the stairs, scared as a thief, and stop in a daze outside the gate. What should I do now? I lean up against the wall, staring down at the stone pavement and pondering. A pin lies gleaming before my feet, and I bend down and pick it up. What if I removed my coat buttons, how much would I get for them? Maybe it wouldn’t do me any good, buttons were just buttons. But I went ahead and examined them from all sides and found them to be as good as new. So it was a happy thought all the same, I could cut them loose with my half-pocketknife and take them over to the Basement. The hope of being able to sell these five buttons revived me instantly, and I said, “It’s going to be all right, you’ll see!” My joy got out of control and I began at once to remove the buttons, one after another. While doing so, I carried on the following silent chat with myself:
Well, you see, one has become rather poor—a momentary difficulty. . . . Worn-out, you say? Mind your tongue, please! I would like to see the person who wears out less buttons than I do. Let me tell you, I always go with my coat open; it has come to be a habit with me, an idiosyncrasy. . . . Oh well, if you don’t want to. But I won’t take less than ten øre for them, at a minimum. . . . No, good Lord, who ever said that you have to do it? You can just shut up and let me be. . . . Okay, go right ahead and call the police then. I’ll wait here while you go get the officer. And I won’t steal anything from you. . . . Well, goodbye, goodbye! My name incidentally is Tangen, I’ve been out a bit late. . . .
Then someone is on the stairs. I am instantly called back to reality, recognize Scissors and hastily slip the buttons into my pocket. He wants to get by, doesn’t even answer my greeting, is suddenly very busy inspecting his fingernails. I stop him and ask about the editor.
“He’s not in.”
“You’re lying!” I said. And with a nerve which made me wonder at myself, I continued, “I must talk to him, it’s urgent. I have something to report from the Prime Minister’s.”
“Why can’t you tell it to me?”
“To you?” I said, giving Scissors the once-over.
It helped. He came straight back upstairs with me and opened the door. My heart was in my mouth. I clenched my teeth hard to bolster my courage, knocked and stepped into the editor’s private office.
“Oh, hello! It’s you?” he said cordially. “Sit down.”
If he had shown me the door on the spot, it would have been more welcome. I was ready to cry and said, “I beg your pardon—”
“Sit down,” he repeated.
So I sat down and explained that I had another article it was important for me to get into his paper. I had taken such pains with it, it had cost me much effort.
“I’ll read it,” he said, taking it. “Everything you write probably costs you some effort; but you are much too high-strung. If you could just be a little more level-headed! There’s always too much fever. However, I’ll read it.” And he turned back to his desk again.
There I sat. Did I dare ask him for a krone? Explain to him why there was always so much fever? Then he would be sure to help me; it wasn’t the first time.
I got up. Hmm! But the last time I saw him he had complained about money, had even sent the bill collector out to scrape together some for me. Maybe it would be the same thing now. No, it mustn’t happen. Couldn’t I see that he was working?
“Is there anything else?” he asked.
“No,” I said, making my voice firm. “When may I drop in again?”
“Oh, any time you pass by,” he answered. “In a couple of days or so.”
I couldn’t make my request pass my lips. This man’s friendliness seemed to be boundless, and I would know how to appreciate it. Sooner starve to death. And I left.
Not even when I s
tood outside and could again feel the onslaught of hunger did I regret having left the office without asking for that krone. I took the other wood shaving out of my pocket and put it in my mouth. Again it helped. Why hadn’t I done so before? “You should be ashamed of yourself!” I said aloud. “Could you really dream of asking this man for a krone and once again cause him embarrassment?” And I gave myself a proper tongue-lashing for this piece of impudence I had dreamed up. “By God, that’s the meanest thing I’ve ever heard!” I said—“rushing at a man and nearly scratching his eyes out just because you need a krone, miserable dog that you are! So, move on! Faster! Faster, you lout! I’ll teach you!”
I started running to punish myself, left street after street behind me at full blast, pushed myself on with suppressed shouts, and screamed mutely and furiously at myself whenever I felt like stopping. Meanwhile I had gotten to way up in Pilestrædet Lane. When I stood still at last, on the verge of tears from anger at not being able to run any farther, my whole body trembled and I threw myself down on some steps. “No, hold it,” I said. And to torture myself properly I got up again and forced myself to remain standing, and I laughed at myself and gloated over my own exhaustion. Finally, after several minutes had elapsed, I nodded, giving myself permission to sit down; but even then I chose the most uncomfortable spot on the steps.
God, how delicious it was to rest! I wiped the perspiration from my face and drank in the air in long, fresh gulps. How I had run! But I didn’t regret it, I had it coming. Why had I wanted to ask for that krone anyway? Now I could see the consequences! And I began to talk gently to myself, giving the sort of admonitions a mother would. I grew more and more maudlin and, weak and tired, started crying. A quiet and heartfelt crying, an inward sobbing without a tear.
I sat on the same spot for a quarter of an hour or more. People came and went and nobody bothered me. Some kids were playing here and there around me, and a little bird warbled in a tree on the other side of the street.
A policeman came up to me and said, “Why are you sitting here?”
“Why I’m sitting here?” I said. “Because I like to.”
“I’ve been watching you the last half hour,” he said. “You’ve been sitting here for half an hour, haven’t you?”
“Just about,” I answered. “Anything else?” I got up angrily and left.
On reaching the marketplace I stopped and looked down at the ground. Because I like to! What sort of answer was that? Because I’m tired, you should have said, and you should have said it with a mournful voice—you’re a blockhead, you’ll never learn to act the hypocrite!—because of exhaustion! And you should have sighed like a horse.
When I got to the fire station I stopped again, stirred by a new idea. I snapped my fingers, burst into a loud laugh that astonished the passersby and said, You know, now you should go and visit Levion, the parson. Yes, by golly, you really should. Well, just to try. What have you got to lose? Besides, it’s such beautiful weather.
I entered Pascha’s Bookstore, found the address of Pastor Levion in the city directory and started out. Now or never! I said. And don’t try any tricks! Conscience, you say? No nonsense now; you’re too poor to afford a conscience. You’re hungry, don’t forget, you’ve come on a matter of importance, the one thing most needful. But you must lay your head on your shoulder and make your voice tuneful. You don’t want to? Then I won’t go another step with you, now you know. Look, you are sorely troubled, fighting an awesome battle with the powers of darkness and with big, silent monsters at night, and you hunger and thirst for wine and milk and receive them not. That’s the pass to which you’ve come. And here you are without as much as spit in your lamp. But you do believe in grace, thank God for that, you haven’t yet lost your faith! And then you shall fold your hands and affect the believer in grace like the very devil. As far as Mammon is concerned, you hate Mammon in all his guises. As for a hymn book, that’s a different matter, a remembrance worth a few kroner. . . . I stopped at the parson’s door and read: “Office hours from 12 to 4.”
No nonsense now! I said again, we’re going through with it. So, down with your head, a little more. . . . I rang the bell at the private entrance.
“I’m looking for the pastor,” I said to the maid. I wasn’t able, however, to include any mention of God.
“He’s gone out,” she replied.
Gone out! Gone out! That ruined my plan, made a total muddle of everything I had meant to say. What had I gained, then, by this long walk? There I was.
“Is it something special?” the maid asked.
“Not at all!” I answered, “not at all. We just were having such a lovely God’s weather that I felt like walking out here to pass the time of day.”
There I stood, and there she stood. I stuck out my chest on purpose to make her aware of the pin holding my coat together. I begged her with my eyes to see what I had come for, but the poor dear didn’t understand a thing.
Such a lovely God’s weather, indeed. Wasn’t the mistress home either?
Oh yes, but she had rheumatism and lay on a sofa unable to move. . . . Perhaps I would like to leave a message or something?
No, not at all. I just took walks like this every now and then, to get some exercise. It was so beneficial after dinner.
I started going back. What was the point of chatting any longer? Besides I had begun to feel dizzy; no mistake, I was about to crack up in real earnest. Office hours from 12 to 4; I had knocked an hour too late: the hour of grace was past.
At Stortorvet Square I sat down on one of the benches near the church. God, how black everything was beginning to look for me! I didn’t cry, I was too tired; utterly exhausted, I sat there without doing a thing, sat still and starved. My chest was most affected, smarting awfully with a curiously burning sensation. Nor would chewing wood shavings help anymore; my jaws were tired of their fruitless labor and I let them rest. I gave up. On top of it all, a piece of brown orange peel I had found in the gutter and immediately started gnawing at had made me nauseous. I was sick; the swollen veins in my wrists looked blue.
Just why, then, had I been procrastinating? Running around the livelong day for the sake of a krone to keep body and soul together for a few more hours! When all was said and done, wasn’t it a matter of indifference whether the inevitable happened one day earlier or one day later? If I had acted like a respectable person, I would have gone home and laid myself to rest a long time ago—given up. At this moment my mind was lucid: I was going to die. It was fall now and everything had gone to sleep. I had tried every way out, made the most of every resource I knew of. I indulged myself sentimentally with this thought, and every time I still cherished hopes of a possible rescue I whispered dismissively, “You fool, you’ve started to die already!” I ought to write a few letters, have everything ready, get prepared. I would wash myself with great care and fix up my bed nicely; I would lay my head on a few sheets of white writing paper, the cleanest thing I had left, and the green blanket I could . . .
The green blanket! The same instant I was wide-awake, the blood rose to my head and my heart went pitapat. I get up from the bench and start walking; with life stirring afresh in every recess of my body, I repeat over and over again these isolated words: The green blanket! The green blanket! I walk faster and faster, as though I had to catch up with something, and shortly I find myself at home in my tinsmith’s shop once more.
Without pausing a moment or wavering in my decision, I go over to the bed and roll up Hans Pauli’s blanket. I would be very surprised if this clever idea of mine didn’t save me. I rose infinitely above the stupid misgivings that sprang up in me,4 I didn’t give a hoot for them. I was no saint, carrying virtue to the point of idiocy, my sanity was intact. . . .
I took the blanket under my arm and went to 5 Stener Street.
I knocked and stepped into the large unfamiliar hall for the first time; the bell on the door gave lots of desperate strokes above my head. Chewing, his mouth full of food, a man comes
in from an adjoining room and takes his place behind the counter.
“Please, lend me half a krone on my glasses!” I said. “I’ll redeem them in a couple of days, without fail.”
“What? They are steel frames, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“No, I can’t.”
“Well, no, I suppose you can’t. Anyway, it was just idle talk. But here I’ve got a blanket that I really haven’t any use for anymore, and it occurred to me you might be willing to take it off my hands.”
“Unfortunately I have an entire storeroom full of bedclothes,” he replied. And when I had unfolded it, he just threw one glance at it and shouted, “Pardon me, but no, I haven’t any use for it either.”
“I wanted to show you the poorest side first,” I said. “The other side is much better.”
“Maybe so, but it’s no use—I don’t want it, and you won’t get ten øre for it anywhere.”
“I know it isn’t worth anything,” I said, “but I thought it could be thrown in with another old blanket at the auction.”
“No, it won’t do.”
“Twenty-five øre?” I said.
“No! I just don’t want it, man, I won’t have it in my house.”
I took the blanket under my arm again and went home.
I pretended to myself that nothing had happened, spread the blanket on the bed again, smoothed it nicely the way I used to, and tried to erase every trace of my last action. I couldn’t possibly have had all my wits about me the moment I decided to play this dirty trick. The more I thought about it, the more preposterous it appeared to me. It must have been an attack of weakness, some relaxation in my innermost being that had caught me off guard. Anyway, I hadn’t fallen into the trap, something told me I was letting myself in for trouble, and I had expressly tried with the glasses first. And I was extremely happy that I hadn’t had the opportunity to go through with this sin, which would have stained the last hours of my life.
I wandered out onto the streets again.
