The sun shone warmly, early as it was. It was ten o'clock, and the traffic in Young's Market was in full swing. Which way should I take? I slapped my pockets and felt for my manuscript. At eleven I would try and see the editor. I stand a while on the balustrade, and watch the bustle under me. Meanwhile, my clothes commenced to steam. Hunger put in its appearance afresh, gnawed at my breast, clutched me, and gave small, sharp stabs that caused me pain.
Had I not a friend--an acquaintance whom I could apply to? I ransack my memory to find a man good for a penny piece, and fail to find him.
Well, it was a lovely day, anyway! Sunlight bright and warm surrounded me. The sky stretched away like a beautiful sea over the Lier mountains.
Without knowing it, I was on my way home. I hungered sorely. I found a chip of wood in the street to chew--that helped a bit. To think that I hadn't thought of that sooner! The door was open; the stable-boy bade me good-morning as usual.
"Fine weather," said he.
"Yes," I replied. That was all I found to say. Could I ask for the loan of a shilling? He would be sure to lend it willingly if he could; besides that, I had written a letter for him once.
He stood and turned something over in his mind before he ventured on saying it.
"Fine weather! Ahem! I ought to pay my landlady today; you wouldn't be so kind as to lend me five shillings, would you? Only for a few days, sir. You did me a service once before, so you did."
"No; I really can't do it, Jens Olaj," I answered. "Not now--perhaps later on, maybe in the afternoon," and I staggered up the stairs to my room.
I flung myself on my bed, and laughed. How confoundedly lucky it was that he had forestalled me; my self-respect was saved. Five shillings! God bless you, man, you might just as well have asked me for five shares in the Dampkökken, or an estate out in Aker.
And the thought of these five shillings made me laugh louder and louder. Wasn't I a devil of a fellow, eh? Five shillings! My mirth increased, and I gave way to it. Ugh! what a shocking smell of cooking there was here--a downright disgustingly strong smell of chops for dinner, phew! and I flung open the window to let out this beastly smell. "Waiter, a plate of beef!" Turning to the table --this miserable table that I was forced to support with my knees when I wrote--I bowed profoundly, and said:
"May I ask will you take a glass of wine? No? I am Tangen--Tangen, the Cabinet Minister. I--more's the pity--I was out a little late ... the door-key." Once more my thoughts ran without rein in intricate paths. I was continually conscious that I talked at random, and yet I gave utterance to no word without hearing and understanding it. I said to myself, "Now you are talking at random again," and yet I could not help myself. It was as if one were lying awake, and yet talking in one's sleep.
My head was light, without pain and without pressure, and my mood was unshadowed. It sailed away with me, and I made no effort.
"Come in! Yes, only come right in! As you see everything is of ruby-- Ylajali, Ylajali! that swelling crimson silken divan! Ah, how passionately she breathes. Kiss me--loved one--more--more! Your arms are like pale amber, your mouth blushes.... Waiter I asked for a plate of beef!"
The sun gleamed in through the window, and I could hear the horses below chewing oats. I sat and mumbled over my chip gaily, glad at heart as a child.
I kept all the time feeling for my manuscript. It wasn't really in my thoughts, but instinct told me it was there--'twas in my blood to remember it, and I took it out.
It had got wet, and I spread it out in the sun to dry; then I took to wandering up and down the room. How depressing everything looked! Small scraps of tin shavings were trodden into the floor; there was not a chair to sit upon, not even a nail in the bare walls. Everything had been brought to my "Uncle's," and consumed. A few sheets of paper lying on the table, covered with thick dust, were my sole possession; the old green blanket on the bed was lent to me by Hans Pauli some months ago.... Hans Pauli! I snap my fingers. Hans Pauli Pettersen shall help me! He would certainly be very angry that I had not appealed to him at once. I put on my hat in haste, gather up the manuscript, thrust it into my pocket, and hurry downstairs.
"Listen, Jens Olaj!" I called into the stable, "I am nearly certain I can help you in the afternoon."
Arrived at the Town Hall I saw that it was past eleven, and I determined on going to the editor at once. I stopped outside the office door to see if my sheets were paged rightly, smoothed them carefully out, put them back in my pocket, and knocked. My heart beat audibly as I entered.
"Scissors" is there as usual. I inquire timorously for the editor. No answer. The man sits and probes for minor items of news amongst the provincial papers.
I repeat my question, and advance a little farther.
"The editor has not come yet!" said "Scissors" at length, without looking up.
How soon would he come?
"Couldn't say--couldn't say at all!"
How long would the office be open?
To this I received no answer, so I was forced to leave. "Scissors" had not once looked up at me during all this scene; he had heard my voice, and recognized me by it. You are in such bad odour here, thought I, that he doesn't even take the trouble to answer you. I wonder if that is an order of the editor's. I had, 'tis true enough, right from the day my celebrated story was accepted for ten shillings, overwhelmed him with work, rushed to his door nearly every day with unsuitable things that he was obliged to peruse only to return them to me. Perhaps he wished to put an end to this--take stringent measures.... I took the road to Homandsbyen.
Hans Pauli Pettersen was a peasant-farmer's son, a student, living in the attic of a five-storeyed house; therefore, Hans Pauli Pettersen was a poor man. But if he had a shilling he wouldn't stint it. I would get it just as sure as if I already held it in my hand. And I rejoiced the whole time, as I went, over the shilling, and felt confident I would get it.
When I got to the street door it was closed and I had to ring.
"I want to see Student Pettersen," I said, and was about to step inside. "I know his room."
"Student Pettersen," repeats the girl. "Was it he who had the attic?" He had moved.
Well, she didn't know the address; but he had asked his letters to be sent to Hermansen in Tolbod-gaden, and she mentioned the number.
I go, full of trust and hope, all the way to Tolbod-gaden to ask Hans Pauli's address; being my last chance, I must turn it to account. On the way I came to a newly-built house, where a couple of joiners stood planing outside. I picked up a few satiny shavings from the heap, stuck one in my mouth, and the other in my pocket for by-and-by, and continued my journey.
I groaned with hunger. I had seen a marvellously large penny loaf at a baker's--the largest I could possibly get for the price.
"I come to find out Student Pettersen's address!"
"Bernt Akers Street, No. 10, in the attic." Was I going out there? Well, would I perhaps be kind enough to take out a couple of letters that had come for him?
I trudge up town again, along the same road, pass by the joiners--who are sitting with their cans between their knees, eating their good warm dinner from the Dampkökken--pass the bakers, where the loaf is still in its place, and at length reach Bernt Akers Street, half dead with fatigue. The door is open, and I mount all the weary stairs to the attic. I take the letters out of my pocket in order to put Hans Pauli into a good humour on the moment of my entrance.
He would be certain not to refuse to give me a helping hand when I explained how things were with me; no, certainly not; Hans Pauli had such a big heart--I had always said that of him.... I discovered his card fastened to the door--"H. P. Pettersen, Theological Student, 'gone home.'"
I sat down without more ado--sat down on the bare floor, dulled with fatigue, fairly beaten with exhaustion. I mechanically mutter, a couple of times, "Gone home--gone home!" then I keep perfectly quiet. There was not a tear in my eyes; I had not a thought, not a feeling of any kind. I sat and stared, with wide-open eyes, at the letters, without coming to any conclusion. Ten minutes went over--perhaps twenty or more. I sat stolidly on the one spot, and did not move a finger. This numb feeling of drowsiness was almost like a brief slumber. I hear some one come up the stairs.
"It was Student Pettersen, I ... I have two letters for him."
"He has gone home," replies the woman; "but he will return after the holidays. I could take the letters if you like!"
"Yes, thanks! that was all right," said I. "He could get them then when he came back; they might contain matters of importance. Good-morning."
When I got outside, I came to a standstill and said loudly in the open street, as I clenched my hands: "I will tell you one thing, my good Lord God, you are a bungler!" and I nod furiously, with set teeth, up to the clouds; "I will be hanged if you are not a bungler."
Then I took a few strides, and stopped again. Suddenly, changing my attitude, I fold my hands, hold my head to one side, and ask, with an unctuous, sanctimonious tone of voice: "Hast thou appealed also to him, my child?" It did not sound right!
With a large H, I say, with an H as big as a cathedral! once again, "Hast thou invoked Him, my child?" and I incline my head, and I make my voice whine, and answer, No!
That didn't sound right either.
You can't play the hypocrite, you idiot! Yes, you should say, I have invoked God my Father! and you must set your words to the most piteous tune you have ever heard in your life. So--o! Once again! Come, that was better! But you must sigh like a horse down with the colic. So--o! that's right. Thus I go, drilling myself in hypocrisy; stamp impatiently in the street when I fail to succeed; rail at myself for being such a blockhead, whilst the astonished passers-by turn round and stare at me.
I chewed uninterruptedly at my shaving, and proceeded, as steadily as I could, along the street. Before I realized it, I was at the railway square. The dock on Our Saviour's pointed to half-past one. I stood for a bit and considered. A faint sweat forced itself out on my face, and trickled down my eyelids. Accompany me down to the bridge, said I to myself--that is to say, if you have spare time!--and I made a bow to myself, and turned towards the railway bridge near the wharf.
The ships lay there, and the sea rocked in the sunshine. There was bustle and movement everywhere, shrieking steam-whistles, quay porters with cases on their shoulders, lively "shanties" coming from the prams. An old woman, a vendor of cakes, sits near me, and bends her brown nose down over her wares. The little table before her is sinfully full of nice things, and I turn away with distaste. She is filling the whole quay with her smell of cakes--phew! up with the windows!
I accosted a gentleman sitting at my side, and represented forcibly to him the nuisance of having cake-sellers here, cake-sellers there.... Eh? Yes; but he must really admit that.... But the good man smelt a rat, and did not give me time to finish speaking, for he got up and left. I rose, too, and followed him, firmly determined to convince him of his mistake.
"If it was only out of consideration for sanitary conditions," said I; and I slapped him on the shoulders.
"Excuse me, I am a stranger here, and know nothing of the sanitary conditions," he replied, and stared at me with positive fear.
Oh, that alters the case! if he was a stranger.... Could I not render him a service in any way? show him about? Really not? because it would be a pleasure to me, and it would cost him nothing....
But the man wanted absolutely to get rid of me, and he sheered off, in all haste, to the other side of the street.
I returned to the bench and sat down. I was fearfully disturbed, and the big street organ that had begun to grind a tune a little farther away made me still worse--a regular metallic music, a fragment of Weber, to which a little girl is singing a mournful strain. The flute-like sorrowfulness of the organ thrills through my blood; my nerves vibrate in responsive echo. A moment later, and I fall back on the seat, whimpering and crooning in time to it.
Oh, what strange freaks one's thoughts are guilty of when one is starving. I feel myself lifted up by these notes, dissolved in tones, and I float out, I feel so clearly. How I float out, soaring high above the mountains, dancing through zones of light!...
"A halfpenny," whines the little organ-girl, reaching forth her little tin plate; "only a halfpenny."
"Yes," I said, unthinkingly, and I sprang to my feet and ransacked all my pockets. But the child thinks I only want to make fun of her, and she goes away at once without saying a word.
This dumb forbearance was too much for me. If she had abused me, it would have been more endurable. I was stung with pain, and recalled her.
"I don't possess a farthing; but I will remember you later on, maybe tomorrow. What is your name? Yes, that is a pretty name; I won't forget it. Till tomorrow, then...."
But I understood quite well that she did not believe me, although she never said one word; and I cried with despair because this little street wench would not believe in me.
Once again I called her back, tore open my coat, and was about to give her my waistcoat. "I will make up to you for it," said I; "wait only a moment" ... and lo! I had no waistcoat.
What in the world made me look for it? Weeks had gone by since it was in my possession. What was the matter with me, anyway? The astonished child waited no longer, but withdrew fearsomely, and I was compelled to let her go. People throng round me, laugh aloud; a policeman thrusts his way through to me, and wants to know what is the row.
"Nothing!" I reply, "nothing at all; I only wanted to give the little girl over there my waistcoat ... for her father ... you needn't stand there and laugh at that ... I have only to go home and put on another."
"No disturbance in the street," says the constable; "so, march," and he gives me a shove on.
"Is them your papers?" he calls after me.
"Yes, by Jove! my newspaper leader; many important papers! However could I be so careless?" I snatch up my manuscript, convince myself that it is lying in order and go, without stopping a second or looking about me, towards the editor's office.
It was now four by the clock of Our Saviour's Church. The office is shut. I stead noiselessly down the stairs, frightened as a thief, and stand irresolutely outside the door. What should I do now? I lean up against the wall, stare down at the stones, and consider. A pin is lying glistening at my feet; I stoop and pick it up. Supposing I were to cut the buttons off my coat, how much could I get for them? Perhaps it would be no use, though buttons are buttons; but yet, I look and examine them, and find them as good as new--that was a lucky idea all the same; I could cut them off with my penknife and take them to the pawn-office. The hope of being able to sell these five buttons cheered me immediately, and I cried, "See, see; it will all come right!" My delight got the upper hand of me, and I at once set to cut off the buttons one by one. Whilst thus occupied, I held the following hushed soliloquy:
Yes, you see one has become a little impoverished; a momentary embarrassment ... worn out, do you say? You must not make slips when you speak? I would like to see the person who wears out less buttons than I do, I can tell you! I always go with my coat open; it is a habit of mine, an idiosyncrasy.... No, no; of course, if you won't, well! But I must have a penny for them, at least.... No indeed! who said you were obliged to do it? You can hold your tongue, and leave me in peace.... Yes, well, you can fetch a policeman, can't you? I'll wait here whilst you are out looking for him, and I won't steal anything from you. Well, good-day! Good-day! My name, by the way, is Tangen; have been out a little late.
Some one comes up the stairs. I am recalled at once to reality. I recognize "Scissors," and put the buttons carefully into my pocket. He attempts to pass; doesn't even acknowledge my nod; is suddenly intently busied with his nails. I stop him, and inquire for the editor.
"Not in, do you hear."
"You lie," I said, and, with a cheek that fairly amazed myself, I continued, "I must have a word with him; it is a necessary errand--communications from the Stiftsgaarden. 5
"Well, can't you tell me what it is, then?"
"Tell you?" and I looked "Scissors" up and down. This had the desired effect. He accompanied me at once, and opened the door. My heart was in my mouth now; I set my teeth, to try and revive my courage, knocked, and entered the editor's private office.
"Good-day! Is it you?" he asked kindly; "sit down."
If he had shown me the door it would have been almost as acceptable. I felt as if I were on the point of crying and said:
"I beg you will excuse...."
"Pray, sit down," he repeated. And I sat down, and explained that I again had an article which I was extremely anxious to get into his paper. I had taken such pains with it; it had cost me much effort.
"I will read it," said he, and he took it. "Everything you write is certain to cost you effort, but you are far too impetuous; if you could only be a little more sober. There's too much fever. In the meantime, I will read it," and he turned to the table again.
There I sat. Dared I ask for a shilling? explain to him why there was always fever? He would be sure to aid me; it was not the first time.
I stood up. Hum! But the last time I was with him he had complained about money, and had sent a messenger out to scrape some together for me. Maybe it might be the same case now. No; it should not occur! Could I not see then that he was sitting at work?
Was there otherwise anything? he inquired.
"No," I answered, and I compelled my voice to sound steady. "About how soon shall I call in again?"
"Oh, any time you are passing--in a couple of days or so."
I could not get my request over my lips. This man's friendliness seemed to me beyond bounds, and I ought to know how to appreciate it. Rather die of hunger! I went.