The Best of Knut Hamsun. Knut Hamsun

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