Hunger

Tuesday. Sunshine and quiet--a strangely bright day. The snow had disappeared. There was life and joy, and glad faces, smiles, and laughter everywhere. The fountains threw up sprays of water in jets, golden-tinted from the sun-light, azure from the sky.... At noon I left my lodgings in Tomtegaden, where I still lived and found fairly comfortable, and set out for town. I was in the merriest humour, and lazied about the whole afternoon through the most frequented streets and looked at the people. Even before seven o'clock I took a turn up St. Olav's Place and took a furtive look up at the window of No. 2. In an hour I would see her. I went about the whole time in a state of tremulous, delicious dread. What would happen? What should I say when she came down the stairs? Good-evening? or only smile? I concluded to let it rest with the smile. Of course I would bow profoundly to her. I stole away, a little ashamed to be there so early, wandered up Carl Johann for a while, and kept my eyes on University Street. When the clocks struck eight I walked once more towards St. Olav's Place. On the way it struck me that perhaps I might arrive a few minutes too late, and I quickened my pace as much as I could. My foot was very sore, otherwise nothing ailed me. I took up my place at the fountain and drew breath. I stood there a long while and gazed up at the window of No. 2, but she did not come. Well, I would wait; I was in no hurry. She might be delayed, and I waited on. It couldn't well be that I had dreamt the whole thing! Had my first meeting with her only existed in imagination the night I lay in delirium? I began in perplexity to think over it, and wasn't at all sure. "Hem!" came from behind me. I heard this, and I also heard light steps near me, but I did not turn round, I only stared up at the wide staircase before me. "Good-evening," came then. I forget to smile; I don't even take off my hat at first, I am so taken aback to see her come this way. "Have you been waiting long?" she asks. She is breathing a little quickly after her walk. "No, not at all; I only came a little while ago," I reply. "And besides, would it matter if I had waited long? I expected, by-the-way, that you would come from another direction." "I accompanied mamma to some people. Mamma is spending the evening with them." "Oh, indeed," I say. We had begun to walk on involuntarily. A policeman is standing at the corner, looking at us. "But, after all, where are we going to?" she asks, and stops. "Wherever you wish; only where you wish." "Ugh, yes! but it's such a bore to have to decide oneself." A pause. Then I say, merely for the sake of saying something: "I see it's dark up in your windows." "Yes, it is," she replies gaily; "the servant has an evening off, too, so I am all alone at home." We both stand and look up at the windows of No. 2 as if neither of us had seen them before. "Can't we go up to your place, then?" I say; "I shall sit down at the door the whole time if you like." But then I trembled with emotion, and regretted greatly that I had perhaps been too forward. Supposing she were to get angry, and leave me. Suppose I were never to see her again. Ah, that miserable attire of mine! I waited despairingly for her reply. "You shall certainly not sit down by the door," she says. She says it right down tenderly, and says accurately these words: "You shall certainly not sit down by the door." We went up. Out on the lobby, where it was dark, she took hold of my hand, and led me on. There was no necessity for my being so quiet, she said, I could very well talk. We entered. Whilst she lit the candle--it was not a lamp she lit, but a candle--whilst she lit the candle, she said, with a little laugh: "But now you mustn't look at me. Ugh! I am so ashamed, but I will never do it again." "What will you never do again?" "I will never ... ugh ... no ... good gracious ... I will never kiss you again!" "Won't you?" I said, and we both laughed. I stretched out my arms to her, and she glided away; slipped round to the other side of the table. We stood a while and gazed at one another; the candle stood right between us. "Try and catch me," she said; and with much laughter I tried to seize hold of her. Whilst she sprang about, she loosened her veil, and took off her hat; her sparkling eyes hung on mine, and watched my movements. I made a fresh sortie, and tripped on the carpet and fell, my sore foot refusing to bear me up any longer. I rose in extreme confusion. "Lord, how red you did get!" she said. "Well it was awfully awkward of you." "Yes, it was," I agreed, and we began the chase afresh. "It seems to me you limp." "Yes; perhaps I do--just a little--only just a little, for that matter." "Last time you had a sore finger, now you have got a sore foot; it is awful the number of afflictions you have." "Ah, yes. I was run over slightly, a few days ago." "Run over! Tipsy again? Why, good heavens! what a life you lead, young man!" and she threatened me with her forefinger, and tried to appear grave. "Well, let us sit down, then; no, not down there by the door; you are far too reserved! Come here--you there, and I here--so, that's it ... ugh, it's such a bore with reticent people! One has to say and do everything oneself; one gets no help to do anything. Now, for example, you might just as well put your arm over the back of my chair; you could easily have thought of that much out of your own head, couldn't you? But if I say anything like that, you open your eyes as wide as if you couldn't believe what was being said. Yes, it is really true; I have noticed it several times; you are doing it now, too; but you needn't try to persuade me that you are always so modest; it is only when you don't dare to be otherwise than quiet. You were daring enough the day you were tipsy--when you followed me straight home and worried me with your witticisms. 'You are losing your book, madam; you are quite certainly losing your book, madam!' Ha, ha, ha! it was really shameless of you." I sat dejectedly and looked at her; my heart beat violently, my blood raced quickly through my veins, there was a singular sense of enjoyment in it! "Why don't you say something?" "What a darling you are," I cried. "I am simply sitting here getting thoroughly fascinated by you--here this very moment thoroughly fascinated.... There is no help for it.... You are the most extraordinary creature that ... sometimes your eyes gleam so, that I never saw their match; they look like flowers ... eh? No, well, no, perhaps, not like flowers, either, but ... I am so desperately in love with you, and it is so preposterous ... for, great Scott! there is naturally not an atom of a chance for me.... What is your name? Now, you really must tell me what you are called." "No; what is your name? Gracious, I was nearly forgetting that again! I thought about it all yesterday, that I meant to ask you--yes, that is to say, not all yesterday, but--" "Do you know what I named you? I named you Ylajali. How do you like that? It has a gliding sound...." "Ylajali?" "Yes." "Is that a foreign language?" "Humph--no, it isn't that either!" "Well, it isn't ugly!" After a long discussion we told one another our names. She seated herself close to my side on the sofa, and shoved the chair away with her foot, and we began to chatter afresh. "You are shaved this evening, too," she said; look on the whole a little better than the last time--that is to say, only just a scrap better. Don't imagine ... no; the last time you were really shabby, and you had a dirty rag round your finger into the bargain; and in that state you absolutely wanted me to go to some place, and take wine with you--thanks, not me!" "So it was, after all, because of my miserable appearance that you would not go with me?" I said. "No," she replied and looked down. "No; God knows it wasn't. I didn't even think about it." "Listen," said I; "you are evidently sitting here labouring under the delusion that I can dress and live exactly as I choose, aren't you? And that is just what I can't do; I am very, very poor." She looked at me. "Are you?" she queried. "Yes, worse luck, I am." After an interval. "Well, gracious, so am I, too," she said, with a cheerful movement of her head. Every one of her words intoxicated me, fell on my heart like drops of wine. She enchanted me with the trick she had of putting her head a little on one side, and listening when I said anything, and I could feel her breath brush my face. "Do you know," I said, "that ... but, now, you mustn't get angry--when I went to bed last night I settled this arm for you ... so ... as if you lay on it ... and then I went to sleep." "Did you? That was lovely!" A pause. "But of course it could only be from a distance that you would venture to do such a thing, for otherwise...." "Don't you believe I could do it otherwise?" "No, I don't believe it." "Ah, from me you may expect everything," I said, and I put my arm around her waist. "Can I?" was all she said. It annoyed me, almost wounded me, that she should look upon me as being so utterly inoffensive. I braced myself up, steeled my heart, and seized her hand; but she withdrew it softly, and moved a little away from me. That just put an end to my courage again; I felt ashamed, and looked out through the window. I was, in spite of all, in far too wretched a condition; I must, above all, not try to imagine myself any one in particular. It would have been another matter if I had met her during the time that I still looked like a respectable human being--in my old, well- off days when I had sufficient to make an appearance; and I felt fearfully downcast! "There now, one can see!" she said, "now one can just see one can snub you with just the tiniest frown--make you look sheepish by just moving a little away from you" ... she laughed, tantalizingly, roguishly, with tightly-closed eyes, as if she could not stand being looked at, either. "Well, upon my soul!" I blurted out, "now you shall just see," and I flung my arms violently around her shoulders. I was mortified. Was the girl out of her senses? Did she think I was totally inexperienced! Ha! Then I would, by the living.... No one should say of me that I was backward on that score. The creature was possessed by the devil himself! If it were only a matter of going at it, well.... She sat quite quietly, and still kept her eyes closed; neither of us spoke. I crushed her fiercely to me, pressed her body greedily against my breast, and she spoke never a word. I heard her heart's beat, both hers and mine; they sounded like hurrying hoofbeats. I kissed her. I no longer knew myself. I uttered some nonsense, that she laughed at, whispered pet names into her mouth, caressed her cheek, kissed her many times.... She winds her arms about my neck, quite slowly, tenderly, the breath of her pink quivering nostrils fans me right in the face; she strokes down my shoulders with her left hand, and says, "What a lot of loose hair there is." "Yes," I reply. "What can be the reason that your hair falls out so?" "Don't know." "Ah, of course, because you drink too much, and perhaps ... fie, I won't say it. You ought to be ashamed. No, I wouldn't have believed that of you! To think that you, who are so young, already should lose your hair! Now, do please just tell me what sort of way you really spend your life--I am certain it is dreadful! But only the truth, do you hear; no evasions. Anyway, I shall see by you if you hide anything--there, tell now!" "Yes; but let me kiss you first, then." "Are you mad?... Humph, ... I want to hear what kind of a man you are.... Ah, I am sure it is dreadful." It hurt me that she should believe the worst of me; I was afraid of thrusting her away entirely, and I could not endure the misgivings she had as to my way of life. I would clear myself in her eyes, make myself worthy of her, show her that she was sitting at the side of a person almost angelically disposed. Why, bless me, I could count my falls up to date on my fingers. I related--related all--and I only related truth. I made out nothing any worse than it was; it was not my intention to rouse her compassion. I told her also that I had stolen five shillings one evening. She sat and listened, with open mouth, pale, frightened, her shining eyes completely bewildered. I desired to make it good again, to disperse the sad impression I had made, and I pulled myself up. "Well, it is all over now!" I said; "there can be no talk of such a thing happening again; I am saved now...." But she was much dispirited. "The Lord preserve me!" was all she said, then kept silent. She repeated this at short intervals, and kept silent after each "the Lord preserve me." I began to jest, caught hold of her, tried to tickle her, lifted her up to my breast. I was irritated not a little--indeed, downright hurt. Was I more unworthy in her eyes now, than if I had myself been instrumental in causing the falling out of my hair? Would she have thought more of me if I had made myself out to be a roué?... No nonsense now;... it was just a matter of going at it; and if it was only just a matter of going at it, so, by the living... "No;... what do you want?" she queried, and she added these distressing words, "I can't be sure that you are not insane!" I checked myself involuntarily, and I said: "You don't mean that!" "Indeed, God knows I do! you look so strangely. And the forenoon you followed me--after all, you weren't tipsy that time?" "No; but I wasn't hungry then, either; I had just eaten...." "Yes; but that made it so much the worse." "Would you rather I had been tipsy?" "Yes ... ugh ... I am afraid of you! Lord, can't you let me be now!" I considered a moment. No, I couldn't let her be.... I happened, as if inadvertently, to knock over the light, so that it went out. She made a despairing struggle--gave vent at last to a little whimper. "No, not that! If you like, you may rather kiss me, oh, dear, kind...." I stopped instantly. Her words sounded so terrified, so helpless, I was struck to the heart. She meant to offer me a compensation by giving me leave to kiss her! How charming, how charmingly naïve. I could have fallen down and knelt before her. "But, dear pretty one," I said, completely bewildered, "I don't understand.... I really can't conceive what sort of a game this is...." She rose, lit the candle again with trembling hands. I leant back on the sofa and did nothing. What would happen now? I was in reality very ill at ease. She cast a look over at the clock on the wall, and started. "Ugh, the girl will soon come now!" she said; this was the first thing she said. I took the hint, and rose. She took up her jacket as if to put it on, bethought herself, and let it lie, and went over to the fireplace. So that it should not appear as if she had shown me the door, I said: "Was your father in the army?" and at the same time I prepared to leave. "Yes; he was an officer. How did you know?" "I didn't know; it just came into my head." "That was odd." "Ah, yes; there were some places I came to where I got a kind of presentiment. Ha, ha!--a part of my insanity, eh?" She looked quickly up, but didn't answer. I felt I worried her with my presence, and determined to make short work of it. I went towards the door. Would she not kiss me any more now? not even give me her hand? I stood and waited. "Are you going now, then?" she said, and yet she remained quietly standing over near the fireplace. I did not reply. I stood humbly in confusion, and looked at her without saying anything. Why hadn't she left me in peace, when nothing was to come of it? What was the matter with her now? It didn't seem to put her out that I stood prepared to leave. She was all at once completely lost to me, and I searched for something to say to her in farewell--a weighty, cutting word that would strike her, and perhaps impress her a little. And in the face of my first resolve, hurt as I was, instead of being proud and cold, disturbed and offended, I began right off to talk of trifles. The telling word would not come; I conducted myself in an exceedingly aimless fashion. Why couldn't she just as well tell me plainly and straightly to go my way? I queried. Yes, indeed, why not? There was no need of feeling embarrassed about it. Instead of reminding me that the girl would soon come home, she could have simply said as follows: "Now you must run, for I must go and fetch my mother, and I won't have your escort through the street." So it was not that she had been thinking about? Ah, yes; it was that all the same she had thought about; I understood that at once. It did not require much to put me on the right track; only, just the way she had taken up her jacket, and left it down again, had convinced me immediately. As I said before, I had presentiments; and it was not altogether insanity that was at the root of it.... "But, great heavens! do forgive me for that word! It slipped out of my mouth," she cried; but yet she stood quite quietly, and did not come over to me. I was inflexible, and went on. I stood there and prattled, with the painful consciousness that I bored her, that not one of my words went home, and all the same I did not cease. At bottom one might be a fairly sensitive nature, even if one were not insane, I ventured to say. There were natures that fed on trifles, and died just for one hard word's sake; and I implied that I had such a nature. The fact was, that my poverty had in that degree sharpened certain powers in me, so that they caused me unpleasantness. Yes, I assure you honestly, unpleasantness; worse luck! But this had also its advantages. It helped me in certain situations in life. The poor intelligent man is a far nicer observer than the rich intelligent man. The poor man looks about him at every step he takes, listens suspiciously to every word he hears from the people he meets, every step he takes affords in this way a task for his thoughts and feelings--an occupation. He is quick of hearing, and sensitive; he is an experienced man, his soul bears the sears of the fire.... And I talked a long time over these sears my soul had. But the longer I talked, the more troubled she grew. At last she muttered, "My God!" a couple of times in despair, and wrung her hands. I could see well that I tormented her, and I had no wish to torment her--but did it, all the same. At last, being of the opinion that I had succeeded in telling her in rude enough terms the essentials of what I had to say, I was touched by her heart-stricken expression. I cried: "Now I am going, now I am going. Can't you see that I already have my hand on the handle of the door? Good-bye, good-bye," I say. "You might answer me when I say good-bye twice, and stand on the point of going. I don't even ask to meet you again, for it would torment you. But tell me, why didn't you leave me in peace? What had I done to you? I didn't get in your way, now, did I? Why did you turn away from me all at once, as if you didn't know me any longer? You have plucked me now so thoroughly bare, made me even more wretched than I ever was at any time before; but, indeed, I am not insane. You know well, if you think it over, that nothing is the matter with me now. Come over, then, and give me your hand--or give me leave to go to you, will you? I won't do you any harm; I will only kneel before you, only for a minute--kneel down on the floor before you, only for a minute, may I? No, no; there, I am not to do it then, I see. You are getting afraid. I will not, I will not do it; do you hear? Lord, why do you get so terrified. I am standing quite still; I am not moving. I would have knelt down on the carpet for a moment--just there, upon that patch of red, at your feet; but you got frightened--I could see it at once in your eyes that you got frightened; that was why I stood still. I didn't move a step when I asked you might I, did I? I stood just as immovable as I stand now when I point out the place to you where I would have knelt before you, over there on the crimson rose in the carpet. I don't even point with my finger. I don't point at all; I let it be, not to frighten you. I only nod and look over at it, like this! and you know perfectly well which rose I mean, but you won't let me kneel there. You are afraid of me, and dare not come near to me. I cannot conceive how you could have the heart to call me insane. It isn't true; you don't believe it, either, any longer? It was once in the summer, a long time ago, I was mad; I worked too hard, and forgot to go to dine at the right hour, when I had too much to think about. That happened day after day. I ought to have remembered it; but I went on forgetting it--by God in Heaven, it is true! God keep me from ever coming alive from this spot if I lie. There, you can see, you do me an injustice. It was not out of need I did it; I can get credit, much credit, at Ingebret's or Gravesen's. I often, too, had a good deal of money in my pocket, and did not buy food all the same, because I forgot it. Do you hear? You don't say anything; you don't answer; you don't stir a bit from the fire; you just stand and wait for me to go...." She came hurriedly over to me, and stretched out her hand. I looked at her, full of mistrust. Did she do it with any true heartiness, or did she only do it to get rid of me? She wound her arms round my neck; she had tears in her eyes; I only stood and looked at her. She offered her mouth; I couldn't believe in her; it was quite certain she was making a sacrifice as a means of putting an end to all this. She said something; it sounded to me like, "I am fond of you, in spite of all." She said it very lowly and indistinctly; maybe I did not hear aright. She may not have said just those words; but she cast herself impetuously against my breast, clasped both her arms about my neck for a little while, stretched even up a bit on her toes to get a good hold, and stood so for perhaps a whole minute. I was afraid that she was forcing herself to show me this tenderness, and I only said: "What a darling you are now!" More I didn't say. I crushed her in my arms, stepped back, rushed to the door, and went out backwards. She remained in there behind me.