The Best of Knut Hamsun. Knut Hamsun

without strength; added to that, I was almost instantly aware of the pangs of hunger again.

      "Hold on there!" the policeman shouted after me; "why, you're walking off without your hat, you Juggins! So--h there; now, go on."

      "I indeed thought there was something--something I had forgotten," I stammered, absently. "Thanks, good-night!" and I stumbled away.

      If one only had a little bread to eat; one of those delicious little brown loaves that one could bite into as one walked along the street; and as I went on I thought over the particular sort of brown bread that would be so unspeakably good to munch. I was bitterly hungry; wished myself dead and buried; I got maudlin, and wept.

      There never was any end to my misery. Suddenly I stopped in the street, stamped on the pavement, and cursed loudly. What was it he called me? A "Juggins"? I would just show him what calling me a "Juggins" means. I turned round and ran back. I felt red-hot with anger. Down the street I stumbled, and fell, but I paid no heed to it, jumped up again, and ran on. But by the time I reached the railway station I had become so tired that I did not feel able to proceed all the way to the landing-stage; besides, my anger had cooled down with the run. At length I pulled up and drew breath. Was it not, after all, a matter of perfect indifference to me what such a policeman said? Yes; but one couldn't stand everything. Right enough, I interrupted myself; but he knew no better. And I found this argument satisfactory. I repeated twice to myself, "He knew no better"; and with that I returned again.

      "Good Lord!" thought I, wrathfully, "what things you do take into your head: running about like a madman through the soaking wet streets on dark nights." My hunger was now tormenting me excruciatingly, and gave me no rest. Again and again I swallowed saliva to try and satisfy myself a little; I fancied it helped.

      I had been pinched, too, for food for ever so many weeks before this last period set in, and my strength had diminished considerably of late. When I had been lucky enough to raise five shillings by some manoeuvre or another they only lasted any time with difficulty; not long enough for me to be restored to health before a new hunger period set in and reduced me again. My back and shoulders caused me the worst trouble. I could stop the little gnawing I had in my chest by coughing hard, or bending well forward as I walked, but I had no remedy for back and shoulders. Whatever was the reason that things would not brighten up for me? Was I not just as much entitled to live as any one else? for example, as Bookseller Pascha or Steam Agent Hennechen? Had I not two shoulders like a giant, and two strong hands to work with? and had I not, in sooth, even applied for a place as wood-chopper in Möllergaden in order to earn my daily bread? Was I lazy? Had I not applied for situations, attended lectures, written articles, and worked day and night like a man possessed? Had I not lived like a miser, eaten bread and milk when I had plenty, bread alone when I had little, and starved when I had nothing? Did I live in an hotel? Had I a suite of rooms on the first floor? Why, I am living in a loft over a tinker's workshop, a loft already forsaken by God and man last winter, because the snow blew in. So I could not understand the whole thing; not a bit of it.

      I slouched on, and dwelt upon all this, and there was not as much as a spark of bitterness or malice or envy in my mind.

      I halted at a paint-shop and gazed into the window. I tried to read the labels on a couple of the tins, but it was too dark. Vexed with myself over this new whim, and excited--almost angry at not being able to make out what these tins held,--I rapped twice sharply on the window and went on.

      Up the street I saw a policeman. I quickened my pace, went close up to him, and said, without the slightest provocation, "It is ten o'clock."

      "No, it's two," he answered, amazed.

      "No, it's ten," I persisted; "it is ten o'clock!" and, groaning with anger, I stepped yet a pace or two nearer, clenched my fist, and said, "Listen, do you know what, it's ten o'clock!"

      He stood and considered a while, summed up my appearance, stared aghast at me, and at last said, quite gently, "In any case, it's about time ye were getting home. Would ye like me to go with ye a bit?"

      I was completely disarmed by this man's unexpected friendliness. I felt that tears sprang to my eyes, and I hastened to reply:

      "No, thank you! I have only been out a little too late in a café. Thank you very much all the same!"

      He saluted with his hand to his helmet as I turned away. His friendliness had overwhelmed me, and I cried weakly, because I had not even a little coin to give him.

      I halted, and looked after him as he went slowly on his way. I struck my forehead, and, in measure, as he disappeared from my sight, I cried more violently.

      I railed at myself for my poverty, called myself abusive names, invented furious designations--rich, rough nuggets--in a vein of abuse with which I overwhelmed myself. I kept on at this until I was nearly home. On coming to the door I discovered I had dropped my keys.

      "Oh, of course," I muttered to myself, "why shouldn't I lose my keys? Here I am, living in a yard where there is a stable underneath and a tinker's workshop up above. The door is locked at night, and no one, no one can open it; therefore, why should I not lose my keys?

      "I am as wet as a dog--a little hungry--ah, just ever such a little hungry, and slightly, ay, absurdly tired about my knees; therefore, why should I not lose them?

      "Why, for that matter, had not the whole house flitted out to Aker by the time I came home and wished to enter it?" ... and I laughed to myself, hardened by hunger and exhaustion.

      I could hear the horses stamp in the stables, and I could see my window above, but I could not open the door, and I could not get in.

      It had begun to rain again, and I felt the water soak through to my shoulders. At the Town Hall I was seized by a bright idea. I would ask the policeman to open the door. I applied at once to a constable, and earnestly begged him to accompany me and let me in, if he could.

      Yes, if he could, yes! But he couldn't; he had no key. The police keys were not there; they were kept in the Detective Department.

      What was I to do then?

      Well, I could go to an hotel and get a bed!

      But I really couldn't go to an hotel and get a bed; I had not money, I had been out--in a café ... he knew....

      We stood a while on the Town Hall steps. He considered and examined my personal appearance. The rain fell in torrents outside.

      "Well then, you must go to the guard-house and report yourself as homeless!" said he.

      Homeless? I hadn't thought of that. Yes, by Jove, that was a capital idea; and I thanked the constable on the spot for the suggestion. Could I simply go in and say I was homeless?

      "Just that."...

      * * * * *

      "Your name?" inquired the guard.

      "Tangen--Andreas Tangen!"

      I don't know why I lied; my thoughts fluttered about disconnectedly and inspired me with many singular whims, more than I knew what to do with. I hit upon this out-of-the-way name on the spur of the moment, and blurted it out without any calculation. I lied without any occasion for doing so.

      "Occupation?"

      This was driving me into a corner with a vengeance. Occupation! what was my occupation? I thought first of turning myself into a tinker--but I dared not; firstly, I had given myself a name that was not common to every and any tinker--besides, I wore pince-nez. It suddenly entered my head to be foolhardy. I took a step forward and said firmly, almost solemnly:

      "A journalist."

      The guard gave a start before he wrote it down, whilst I stood as important as a homeless Cabinet Minister before the barrier. It roused no suspicions. The guard understood quite well why I hesitated a little before answering. What did it look like to see a journalist in the night guard-house without a roof over his head?

      "On what paper, Herr Tangen?"

      "Morgenbladet!" said I. "I have been out a little too late this evening, more's the shame!"